Mercy (The Last Army Book 1)

by Freeter, John

  “You’re right… yeah,” I said, surprised that we actually agreed on something. I’d had very few good things to say about the town’s guards before last night’s demonic attack, what with their sending heathens away, but now… well, they had saved my life.

  “So, I’ll see you guys later.” Amy walked away with her new friends.

  “What have you got to do?” Karla asked, looking at Amy’s back as she strolled down the street toward the football field.

  “Walk you to the clinic, I guess,” I said. Karla shook her head but smiled.

  ***

  The walk to the clinic was brief, but I still had to take off my coat. The summer heat had returned with the sun’s intense light. Once we got there, we found a note taped to the door, notifying all medical assistants to report to the gym where we’d been sleeping. The reason behind the move became obvious as we retraced the path we'd taken during the previous night’s escape.

  We ran into a few pairs of young volunteers on the road, working their way west toward the outskirts of town. Some of them were hauling a barrel of water in a hand truck; others were mopping the road. They were washing blood off the pavement.

  “Oh my God,” Karla said, staring at the dried bloodstains on the road. “Come on, let’s hurry.” We quickened our pace. I realized that the small clinics scattered around town wouldn’t be able to manage the aftermath of last night’s attack. I had a feeling the gym had been turned into a temporary hospital.

  On our way there, we found a handful of soldiers and policemen patrolling the streets, as well some of the town’s surviving militia. They dragged their feet as they walked along the sidewalk, weapons hanging heavily on their shoulders. More volunteers were collecting empty bullet cases off the ground, the brass clinking in plastic bags. Other teams entered the houses with smashed doors and windows, dragging wheelbarrows. They exited with the wheelbarrows full, white sheets draped over their contents. The white sheets turned red as blood seeped through. Karla crossed herself every time one of them rolled by. There was no sign of the demons responsible for all of it yet.

  “Excuse me. What happened to those monsters?” I asked a woman walking by with a bag full of bullet cases. She brushed a handful of curly brown hair off her face. Her hands belonged to a thirty-something woman, but her face seemed at least twenty years older than that.

  “They burned up,” she said, her face expressionless.

  She began to leave, but Karla held up a hand to stop her. “You incinerated them?”

  “No. As soon as the sun came up, those things just burst into flames. A second later, there was nothing left of them but ashes.” The woman walked away, shaking her head and mumbling to herself.

  Karla looked at me, her eyebrows arched, as if expecting a comment. I only shrugged, my capacity for surprise exhausted. We resumed our march to the gym in silence, preparing ourselves for what we’d find there.

  Chapter 20

  Entering the gym felt like opening the door of an oven in which a slab of rancid meat marinated in disinfectant was slowly being cooked. My eyes watered immediately. I coughed for a few seconds until I got my urge to throw up under control. The tables at which we had eaten our meals had been covered with blankets and turned into improvised beds. Many of the wounded lay on thin gym mats spread on the floor. A few of the agonized victims had friends or family members next to them, holding their hands and cheering them up, but most of the two or three hundred wounded people crammed inside the gym suffered alone.

  “Are you okay, Becca?” Karla asked in a severe tone, frowning.

  “Yeah. Yeah, sure, Lala. I’ll see you later.” I tried to hide the disgust from my face.

  “Okay, see you.” She marched over to Dr. Johnson, who checked on one of the patients at a corner of the gym.

  Looking around, I noticed different colored clothespins stuck to each patient. Those with black or green pins were being ignored, while the doctors and assistants focused on the red-or yellow-pinned patients.

  “Excuse me.” A well-built, middle-aged man gently tapped my arm.

  I moved out of the way, and he walked past me, followed by another man who pushed a wheelbarrow up to a female black-pinned patient. After a short talk with one of the doctors, the two men they loaded the woman’s limp body onto the wheelbarrow.

  Oh, Jesus.

  I stumbled out of the gym, hands shaking, trying not to think of all the black pins stuck onto lifeless corpses still waiting to be carted out from the newly set-up hospital. I sat on the curb for a while, waiting for the sun’s warmth to melt away the chills running through my body as I decided what to do next. Running to the lake to do some washing up seemed a bit meaningless in light of the tragedy unfolding behind me.

  These idiots should’ve been teaching us how to use a gun, not how to do the laundry.

  And with that thought, an idea started taking shape in my mind. I figured that after last night, with the heavy casualties the town’s militia got during the fighting, they would be seeking out volunteers. Sure, I was just a refugee with no training and no ammo left on my pitiful handgun, but I doubted many locals would be eager to sign up now that they’d actually seen what those monsters were capable of. Hell, I wasn’t absolutely sure I really wanted to go through with my plan. Karla certainly wouldn’t approve.

  I was still deep in thought when the men who’d entered the hospital with their wheelbarrow rolled past me. Although they’d covered their cargo with a green-striped blanket, a woman’s slender fingers poked from beneath it, almost brushing the ground as the wheelbarrow rolled along the road. I could make out the outline of at least one other body under the blanket—a much smaller body. The body of a child.

  Screw it. I’m going for it.

  I crossed myself for luck as I stood up. After taking a deep breath, I set out to find the militia’s HQ.

  ***

  The merciless afternoon sun made me miss the eclipse. My lips felt dry, and the reflection of the sun’s rays on the concrete road bothered my eyes. I tried opening a few water faucets on my way through the town’s residential streets, but it soon became clear that nothing would ever be so convenient again.

  I wandered around town for almost two hours, asking people for the whereabouts of the militia’s headquarters. After I got my share of patronizing smiles from the locals and confused stares from my fellow refugees, one of the town’s guards—a grey-haired man wearing blood-splattered jeans and an equally stained flannel shirt—finally directed me to the yacht club by the cove at the southern end of town.

  Twenty minutes later, I walked along the shore, the sparkling Atlantic Ocean spreading out to the horizon. I looked at the assortment of wrecked boats, rubbish, and debris strewn along my way and wondered what would’ve happened if the island hadn't been protected by the thin strip of land near the coast. Even with that buffer, the waves that hit the town after the earthquake must’ve been strong to toss midsized boats more than fifty feet inland, right onto the street.

  I came across a shorefront house with its door open and headed inside to get more precise directions to the yacht club. I stood at the threshold for a second, while my eyes adjusted to the shady interior. Two older women sitting on a finely upholstered couch rolled bandages from old sheets in the spacious living room with the help of about a dozen children, none of them over ten years old. I gave the doorframe two sharp knocks. The women looked up from their work. One of them, wearing a smartly cut white blouse and black slacks, waved me inside.

  “Come in, dear. Don’t be shy. What did you need?” She carefully enunciated every word.

  I stepped inside and looked around the room. Despite all the obvious signs of wealth—tasteful paintings, rich silk curtains, and even a sparkling chandelier—the living room seemed pretty barren. There was a clearing on the carpeted floor where the kids busied themselves rolling up fabric strips. A couple of plastic crates and cardboard boxes filled with toys tucked in a corner of the room caught my eye, as well as a pile o
f pillows and blankets decorated with cartoonish patterns. The children seemed to be a pretty diverse bunch, like a Benetton ad come to life. It all looked kind of cute, until it hit me that those children probably wouldn’t see their parents anytime soon.

  “Well, what do you want?” the other old lady asked. She was draped in a long violet summer dress. Instead of looking at me in the face, she stared at the coat bundled up under my arm as though she knew I had a gun tucked inside it.

  “Uh… yeah. Do you know where the militia headquarters might be?”

  Both women laughed, shaking their heads. The blood rose to my face. I was tired and thirsty and certainly didn’t need their dismissive attitude, but I only exhaled a long stream of air through my nostrils.

  “There’s no militia, dear. This isn’t Ohio. You probably mean the security volunteers over at the yacht club,” the white-bloused woman said.

  “Well, they are a sort of militia,” the other woman said, looking up to the ceiling.

  “I guess so. It just sounds so vulgar, though, doesn’t it? What do you want with them, anyway?” the white-bloused woman asked.

  I thought of coming up with some lie to get out of there quickly, but the headache I’d gotten from my thirst and frustration clouded my thoughts.

  “I want to volunteer,” I said in a raspy voice. The women looked at each other for a second, lips pursed.

  The white-bloused woman finally turned to me. “Don’t be silly, child. You’re going to get yourself hurt. If you don’t have anything better to do, why don’t you help us around here? You can—”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Why don’t you spare me your crap and just tell me what I want to know, okay?”

  The room fell silent. Everyone just stared at me for a couple of seconds until a young boy started giggling.

  The white-bloused woman got up and strode to the telephone in a corner of the living room. For a second I thought she’d call the police or something—even though both the telephone and the police were things of the past—but she picked up a notepad beside the useless phone and scribbled something in it. She ripped the page off.

  “Here you go.” The woman handed me the slip of paper. She’d hastily drawn a map from her house to the yacht club, just a few blocks to the east.

  “Oh. Thank you very much.” I stuck it in my pocket. “Listen, I’m sorry for what I said. It’s just that these last few days have been very hard for me, you know?”

  “Yes, I’m sure it’s been hard… for you. Now I’ll have to ask you to leave. You’re bothering the children.”

  ***

  I looked from the map the old lady had scribbled on the paper slip to the large, two-story building in front of me. The golden plaque on the short brick wall outside identified it as New Jerusalem’s yacht club, so I knew I was at the right place.

  I walked up to the entrance. A lovely trimmed garden of sculptured hedges and trees surrounded the red-tiled driveway. Waves crashed against the shore behind the club. It had a few broken windows here and there, as well as some bits of the decorative façade missing, but the building itself looked pretty solid. The front door was unlocked, so I just strolled inside. I scanned the area, looking for anyone who could help me, but despite a few empty bottles, dirty plates, and discarded snack bags on the tables of a large dining area, the place seemed deserted.

  “Hello?” My gaze went from the chocolate-colored furniture around me to the shattered floor-to-ceiling windows and their impressive ocean view. There wasn’t a cloud in the canvas of infinite blue outside.

  So beautiful.

  A series of heavy footsteps came from behind me. Startled, I turned around and saw a hefty middle-aged man coming down the wide, wooden stairs. He hadn’t shaved in a while, and his face was covered in the same thick black hair as his arms and chest. Judging by the stench of sweat and stale beer that hit me when he came closer, he probably hadn’t showered, either. He had a gun holstered at his side and a white armband pinned to his maroon polo shirt, so he definitely was a member of the town’s guard.

  “Just what do you think you’re doing here?” he asked, squinting at me.

  “I’m not really sure anymore,” I mumbled, thinking out loud.

  “What was that?”

  “Umm… I was told this was the headquarters of the… armed volunteers?” I asked, stepping forward.

  “Yeah, that’s right. Most of our people are patrolling the town or looking for supplies to treat the wounded, though. Of course, some of them decided to stay home and look after their families or left town altogether.” The man dropped his gaze to the wooden floor. “Or they’re dead.”

  “I’m sorry for that,” I said. The man nodded, his brow scrunched. “Actually that’s why I’m here. I figured you’d need a few extra volunteers.”

  The man’s frown slowly turned into a scoffing smile. “Sorry, but you need to provide your own equipment. People might be willing to lend a gun to a friend or neighbor, but to a perfect stranger, well…”

  “Oh, I have a gun.” I extracted it from within my coat. “I’d need some more ammo, though, since I shot what I had last night.” The man stared at my gun but soon shook his head.

  “I wouldn’t count on anyone parting with their ammunition, kid; it’s not like you can order more online, is it? Tell you what, though. Since you’re willing to help out, I could… trade you for some ammo.” He leered at my chest.

  “Excuse me?” I placed my free hand over my breasts. My necklace jingled.

  “You give me that necklace, and I’ll give you some ammo. That’s silver, isn’t it?” He pointed at my necklace.

  I considered for an instant taking his deal, but I couldn’t bring myself to remove it from my neck. More than a betrayal of my faith, trading it for a handful of bullets would be a betrayal of my parents, who’d given it to me for my first communion. The necklace was the only thing I had that linked me to them.

  “You know, if I had bought it at the mall, I’d trade you in a heartbeat, but I got this from my parents. I think I’d rather keep it.” I clutched the small silver cross.

  The man caressed the hair at the back of his head and looked past me, out the window. He bit his lip and lost himself in thought for a moment.

  “I understand. You’re one of the refugees, aren’t you?” he said. I nodded, still not letting go of my necklace. “How about you give me the necklace, and I’ll keep it safe for you. If you go out there with the younger volunteers, looking for supplies, and you find something valuable, then I’ll trade your necklace back. Hey, I’ll even throw in a holster, so you don’t shoot yourself, keeping that gun in your pocket.”

  He leaned back, sticking out his belly, a broad smile on his face as if he were Santa Claus’s sex-offender younger brother. His offer did seem attractive, though. My parents would’ve understood.

  “I don’t know, Mr.…”

  “Forcellati, but just call me Henry; I’m not that old.”

  “Well, Henry… to be honest, I don’t know much about guns. Maybe if you gave me some pointers as well, I guess I could consider a trade.” I looked from my gun to Mr. Forcellati. “This thing’s a bit of a nightmare to shoot. I never imagined the trigger would be so stiff.”

  “A nightmare? Here, let me see that gun. Maybe there’s something wrong with it.” He extended his hand toward it.

  I hesitated again. The urge to excuse myself and run out of there made my stomach churn. Still, if I wanted to join the militia, this seemed like my best chance. I gave him my gun. He fiddled with it for a minute and then stared at me with a creepy smile on his face, raising a single eyebrow.

  “This gun isn’t yours. It’s a police gun, isn’t it?”

  “A what? I don’t know, I mean… no, I just… why do you say it’s a police gun?” My fingers dug deep into the coat bundled in my hands. The gun technically belonged to one of his fellow guardsmen after all. Mr. Forcellati laughed and gave the gun back to me.

  “Don’t worry, I’m not judging y
ou. I’m guessing that whoever owned this gun probably won’t need it anymore. I can tell it’s a police gun because it’s got at least a twelve-pound trigger pull, rather than the standard five pounds. I’m actually surprised you were able to fire the gun at all.”

  “Well, that makes sense, I guess. Do you think you could fix it for me?”

  “Sure, no problem. Just follow me to my place. I’ve got a workshop of sorts in my basement.” He pointed with his thumb toward the exit. Mr. Forcellati bared a few crooked smokers’ teeth with his smile.

  This my parents wouldn’t have understood. When I started taking the subway on my own, my mother would always warn me not to talk to strangers. She didn’t add that I shouldn't follow them to their homes, but that was implied. Of course, she probably wouldn’t have agreed with me joining a militia in their struggles against the legions of hell either, so, well… I followed the nice man to his basement.

  Chapter 21

  “Come on, Becky. Don’t look so surprised. I’m sure you’ve seen one before.” Mr. Forcellati's broad smile made his pride clear.

  “Well, yeah, but never in real life, and I’ve never actually handled one before. I can’t get over how heavy it is. I mean, you could use it as a club if only it was a little longer.”

  “Now you’re just hurting my feelings. It’s not like I’m trying to compensate for something, you know?”

  Creepy…

  For a second, I feared Mr. Forcellati would follow up his comment with a wink, but fortunately, he turned to his workbench and kept working on my gun. I ran the tip of my fingers across the solid stainless steel frame of Mr. Forcellati's revolver, polished to a mirror finish. Caressing the stylized “500” etched near the grip of the legendary S&W model 500 revolver made me think of my dad’s action movies, in which various badasses fired it one-handed as if it were a BB gun. Pulling that stunt off with the heavy piece of steel in my hands would've shattered my wrist.