The Survival Chronicles (Book 2): Angel of Mercy

by Nally, Fergal F.

  “I’m glad you said that,” Mercy replied. “What about the radio?”

  Roberts shook his head. “Not working, there’s no power, not out here—”

  “Well that’s that then,” Mercy said. “I’ll take point.” She turned and headed towards the door. Roberts did not object.

  Mercy opened the door and saw a staircase further down the corridor. She used the technique that had kept her alive in New York City: clear one room at a time, leave nothing unchecked, all uncertainty should lie in front, not behind. Her eyes flicked to the window at the end of the corridor.

  And always keep an eye on the exit—

  She was used to clearing rooms by herself, she was a loner. But now Roberts was trailing her, disturbing her concentration. She checked each room and finding them all empty she began climbing the stairs. She reached the last step and stopped, listening at the door. Nothing. The door was solid, not like the ones on the ground floor with glass panel inserts; this was a proper fire door. Mercy placed her hand on its surface and applied pressure, the door opened a crack, a stench hit her like a fist. She closed her eyes, her hand wavered on the wood.

  Turn back, this is trouble—

  But they needed to know, they needed to see what lay ahead and behind. Knowledge was power.

  It’s them, they’re here, shit—

  She’d be stepping into a whole world of trouble if she opened this door. Mercy hesitated. The sound of breaking glass came from downstairs. Roberts put a hand on her shoulder.

  “They’ve found us,” he said, his voice tense.

  Cannibals below, tropes above—

  Mercy pushed the door open, it was dark in the stair well and dark beyond the door. The stench came in nauseating waves. Mercy could smell Roberts’s sweat. He stood behind her, she shifted her rifle to her right hand and touched the wall with her left hand. This was the first floor, she had to find the crow’s nest.

  She turned right and felt a shuttered window, they needed some light. Her fingers found the latch, she opened the shutters a crack. Daylight spilled into the corridor. Mercy gasped, the walls and floor were covered in blood, old and new. Animal and human bones littered the corridor, a wheezing sound came from one of the rooms.

  Mercy met Roberts’s eyes, they heard shouts from the ground floor. Mercy moved down the corridor, her shoulder against the wall. The voices from below were louder, they were searching the rooms one by one. They had seconds to move.

  Mercy’s shoulder reached an opening on the right. The stench from the room was overwhelming. Her foot brushed against something, an explosion of flies burst into the air around her face. She closed her eyes and held her breath, the flies dispersed and she looked down. Intestines littered the floor, her eyes relayed the information to her brain, she looked into the room and saw a deer carcass, its antlers strange in the dim light. A pod of six tropes knelt around the carcass, feeding on its flesh. They were naked, their skin glistening with sweat and blood, their muscles lean and tight, their jaws working on the fresh kill.

  Mercy had no fear, she had an objective. She kept her eyes and her rifle trained on the tropes and crept past the door. Footsteps sounded on the stairs behind. Mercy looked ahead and saw a narrow set of steps leading upwards. She grabbed the rail and pulled herself up. Roberts followed close behind, he slipped on the first step and cursed.

  Move, move, move— Mercy’s mantra returned.

  The fire door burst open behind them bringing men’s voices; shouting, swearing. Trope screams answered in return, gunshots pierced the air followed by more screams. Mercy climbed the steps and did not look back. She reached a hatch, found a handle and twisted. The hatch opened and daylight spilled in. Screams, and more shots issued from below. She climbed through and turned to give Roberts a hand. He followed her and slammed the hatch shut. The crow’s nest was empty except for a water cooler, table and chairs.

  “Quick, help me,” Mercy began dragging the water cooler to cover the hatch. Roberts gave her a hand.

  “Fuck, we gotta get off this roof, like now Dawes,” Roberts said.

  “I’m with you,” Mercy replied.

  A rumble of thunder broke overhead, lightning fractured the sky. Rain drops splattered against the windows.

  “Let’s do it,” Mercy said, placing her hand on the door to the roof.

  The gunshots stopped but the trope screaming continued. Mercy pushed on the roof door, it would not open, she stepped back and kicked the door jamb where the wood was rotten. It splintered loosening the lock, she kicked again and the door burst open. Hissing followed by banging came from the hatch in the floor.

  “Quick, they’re onto us,” Mercy said bolting out onto the sloped roof, she looked around, the wind had picked up again and rain was falling in sheets. The roof tiles were treacherous. Tennis courts lay off to the right, across the road. She saw the islanders’ boat moored at the harbour and made a decision. She climbed over the roof ridge and shimmied down the tiles at the rear of the building. Roberts followed, Mercy was on autopilot, her survival instincts up and running.

  She reached the guttering and looked down, a flat roof lay twelve feet below. She lowered herself over the edge and hung suspended before dropping. The flat roof held, she looked up and backed away as Roberts came after her. Her foot disappeared through the roof felt, a gaping hole appearing around it.

  Roberts landed in front of her a second later, the roof shook. Mercy tried to free her foot but it was stuck. Roberts circled her and reached out, the flat roof sagged, a splintering sound came from underfoot.

  “Here, take my hand,” Roberts said.

  Mercy reached out, then felt something pulling on her foot from below

  Not good, not good Mercy girl— Flynn’s voice switched on inside her head. Mercy pointed the M4 rifle at the roof and squeezed the trigger, emptying the magazine. Whatever was pulling let go and she felt her leg free again. Roberts’s hand clamped onto her shoulder, she steadied herself freeing her leg from the hole.

  “Come on dammit, let’s go,” Roberts said.

  They dropped off the flat roof onto the ground and ran towards the Coastguard pier. Screams erupted from the roof behind them.

  Keep going, keep going, for Flynn, for me— the words flew through Mercy’s mind. She reached the end of the pier and looked around. The moorings were empty, an old upturned row boat lay on the boardwalk.

  “Quick, help me,” Mercy said. She bent and lifted the boat, Roberts joined in. They turned it right side up and dropped it into the water.

  “Get in,” Roberts ordered, he picked up a spade from the ground and handed it to her. Tropes were running towards them from the building. Shots rang out from the islanders’ boat at the nearby pier. Roberts levelled his M4 at the closest tropes and opened up with several controlled bursts. Two fell but kept crawling, others were emerging from the roof and ground floor of the building.

  Mercy climbed down to the row boat using the mooring ladder. “Come on Roberts, get down here.”

  Roberts lowered his M4 to her and climbed down the ladder. He jumped in and fell on his back almost overturning the boat. He recovered and grabbed the M4 pointing it up at the pier.

  “Go, go, go,” he shouted.

  Mercy used the spade to push the boat away from the pier and to paddle away from the marina. Screaming and more gunshots came from above them, two tropes appeared running at full pelt, they threw themselves off the end of the pier towards the boat. Roberts fired his M4 hitting one in the skull, the other in the chest. Both fell into the water beside the boat and sank without a trace.

  Roberts looked at Mercy; he was facing back, she was facing forwards.

  “Reckon we timed that just right,” he said, sitting up, scanning the pier.

  Water rippled at the boat’s stern, a bony hand broke the surface followed by a ravaged trope face. The hand reached up grabbing the side of the boat. Mercy brought the spade up and swung it at the trope’s neck, it connected, partially decapitating the tr
ope. The hand released the side of the boat and melted back into the water.

  Mercy stared at Roberts, her face expressionless. She continued rowing.

  Chapter 6 Airport

  Mercy pointed the boat at the opposite shore of Lake Montauk and kept paddling. An explosion ripped through the islanders’ yacht, yellow flame enveloping it. Two guards threw themselves off the yacht into the water, their clothes on fire. Tropes swarmed onto the pier beside the burning vessel, several jumped into the water after the burning men.

  “Fuck,” Roberts said, staring at the flames. “I’ve seen some things, but that’s off the scale. These tropes are hunting in packs, they know things, do you think they’re remembering stuff? You know like how shit works, like boats and cars—” he stopped.

  “Don’t over analyse Roberts, just go with it. If you think about it too much it takes over, it does things to your head,” Mercy said. The current was dragging their boat out to sea, she fought it and managed to gain on the opposite shore. Twenty minutes later the keel struck sand.

  “Well done, you got us across. You did it. You’ve got what it takes, Dawes. I’m glad you’re on my side. I just hope my unit got our message and will pick us up tomorrow. Let’s get to the airstrip. Who knows? There may be a working radio—” Roberts jumped from the boat onto the sand and reloaded his gun.

  Mercy pulled the boat up the beach then checked her rifle. What happens when the bullets run out? She asked herself for the thousandth time. You just get more and more careful. Then a smaller voice whispered behind the first: Yes, but you’ll eventually become one of them anyway, so why fight it? Why struggle? Why not give up? Mercy shut down the internal dialogue; that way lay self-doubt and pain.

  “Wouldn’t surprise me if those tropes tried to swim across to get us,” Roberts said. A secondary explosion came from the yacht, black smoke belching from the lower deck into the air.

  “Looks as if the islanders were carrying more than food,” Mercy added. “How much ammo you got left Roberts?”

  “Five mags, you?”

  “Three,” Mercy replied.

  “We’d better be careful then.”

  “Yeah, ultra. Let’s not bring the war to this side of the bay,” Mercy said.

  “The virus does what it wants, goes where it wants,” Roberts declared.

  Mercy felt anger bubbling to the surface. “Yeah, well tell me how the Safe Zone works then? How do I know you’re not lying with your Safe Zone, your Colonel Randel and Cobalt Biotech?”

  Roberts looked at the beach, the burning yacht and the sky. He chewed his lip and glared at Mercy. “Listen Dawes, I don’t really know who these guys are. I only know who they tell me they are, but believe me they’re the players now. I got a wife and two kids in the Safe Zone, in Halifax, Nova Scotia. Cobalt Biotech keeps them safe, they’ve got guns, lights and power. They got power Dawes, they got electricity. The lights are still on in the Safe Zone, but it’s an arms race, the virus, it’s gone off grid, it was supposed to burn itself out. So we need to go off grid, that’s where you come in—”

  Mercy shrugged. “Tell me something I don’t know. Cobalt Biotech sounds like a Multinational Corporation or something. Who in hell calls themselves Cobalt Biotech?”

  Roberts frowned. “There are rumours.” He looked uneasy.

  “What rumours?” Mercy asked.

  “Look, I had to choose a side, I’ve got a family. I chose the strongest side, the side that’s going to win.”

  “There are sides?” Mercy asked, disbelief in her voice. “So— what? There are other players in this?”

  “Look, I’ve said enough,” you’ll be debriefed when we get back to base.

  Mercy gritted her teeth, she wanted to reach out and hit Roberts, punch him senseless, extract the truth from him. She was no further forwards, but Roberts was the only way to reach Flynn and the others.

  “Have it your way, let’s get to the airport.” The wind tore at her hair and cut through her like a knife. They needed to find shelter for the night, maybe she could get more out of him later.

  Roberts nodded. “Airport’s a quarter mile that way,” he pointed to the right.

  “Lead on,” Mercy said.

  They set off up the beach and across wasteland to East Lake Drive and walked along the road. Forested park land stretched off on their left, Mercy kept to the centre of the road, M4 at the ready. Fifteen minutes later the trees thinned and a fenced off runway appeared stretching into the distance.

  Roberts pointed to some low buildings to the right of the airstrip. “We should check out those hangers, we might get lucky.”

  Mercy nodded. They moved along the fence and came to a small carpark with an office building. A sign proclaimed: MONTAUK AIRPORT, NEW YORK’S EASTERN MOST AIRPORT. A few rusting cars and a pickup truck stood in a neat row outside the office. Mercy went to the truck and peered in, it was empty. Roberts approached the office, it was fronted by a white picket fence, a red sign declared: ATTENTION: T.S.A. RQUIREMENT, ALL AIRCRAFT MUST BE LOCKED AND SECURED.

  Mercy joined him. “This is the terminal building.” She opened the gate and walked up to the office window peering in. “It’s empty, we could stay here, but it’s too close to the road, the hangars would provide better cover. Want to check them out?”

  Roberts nodded. They walked over to the aircraft hangars. A row of light aircraft lay on one side, grime and green algae obscuring their windows. Wind howled across the exposed tarmac, Mercy shivered, she didn’t even know what month it was; it felt like winter was coming. She reflected; winter was always on the way, something dark, looming on the horizon. She pressed on, following Roberts.

  Stop thinking, nothing makes sense, it never does— Flynn makes sense though, doesn’t he?

  Mercy tried to remember Flynn. It was difficult, his face was almost gone, why had his face gone when he was so alive in her heart? She puzzled over this as she reached the first hangar. Her eyes searched outside looking for signs, she saw nothing.

  What is it all about?

  Roberts had his back to the hangar and signalled her to approach the door. She had had enough of being careful, something told her the hangar was safe, she needed recklessness to feel alive again. She had to break the numbness, do the unexpected for once.

  Damn the consequences—

  Mercy kicked the door open and walked into the hangar. She closed her eyes and listened, smelling the air. Nothing, no tropes. Roberts entered the hangar behind her.

  “What the hell are you doing Dawes?” he asked. “That was stupid, anything could’ve been in here—”

  Mercy opened her eyes and stared at Roberts. He took a step back when he saw the wildness in her eyes. “There’s nothing here but ghosts and aircraft parts, this is a graveyard Roberts, tropes don’t hang around graveyards, nothing to kill, nothing to eat.”

  Roberts lowered his gun. “OK, I’ll take your word for it. It’ll be dark soon, let’s scope this place out, find somewhere secure to bed down. A radio would be a bonus—” He brushed past Mercy and started exploring.

  Mercy walked over to a light aircraft, she looked at its sleek lines in the dim light, it was white with blue markings down one side, a series of numbers on the paintwork. The aircraft looked new, like a toy. Wind rattled the building’s metal roof sending moans and creaking through the air. Perhaps the place was haunted after all? Mercy reached up and opened the aircraft door and stepped up to inspect the cockpit.

  The control panel stretched out before her, complex, impenetrable. The smell of plastic and oil filled her nostrils. She wanted to climb aboard and fly away, she pulled herself into the pilot’s seat and sat down. A pair of headphones lay on the co-pilot’s seat. She put them on and imagined speaking to a real person, anyone— to Flynn. Her hands hovered over the controls in front of her. She flicked the nearest switch and moved her fingers along the row then down.

  A light flickered and static buzzed in her ears. She jumped in surprise; there was juice in the batter
y, the radio was working. She stared at the control panel in shock, then looked over her shoulder through the window, Roberts was poking around the rear of the hangar with his flashlight. She returned her attention to the control panel and noticed the radio handset on the floor. She reached down to retrieve it and saw a dial, without thinking she turned it, listening. Numbers glowed dimly on the digital display as she scrolled through the frequencies.

  Mercy imagined she could hear the storm outside on the radio, weird atmospherics seemed to whisper to her through the radio. But she heard nothing, not a single blip, signal or human voice. She switched to short wave and continued turning the dial, nothing, nothing, nothing. Then a male voice exploded in her ears:

  “This is not an automated message… help is here… Galveston, Texas… we have food and water… can help you. We are fighting back. Do not believe their lies… Come and join us… there is hope… stronger by the day. Working on… fight with us… we will terminate with extreme prejudice all enemies of the lawful United States Government…”

  The signal broke up and disappeared. Mercy pressed the handset transceiver. “Hello, hello? Anyone there? This is Mercy Dawes calling out of Montauk Airport, is anyone there?”

  Static, nothing, emptiness, ghosts. Mercy stared at the radio, its digital display dimmed and died. Her headphones went quiet. Had she imagined it all? She was tired, she was not sure, had it been a trick of the mind? Galveston, Texas? Who were these people? Another piece of the jigsaw, more questions. There are more survivors— she put the handset down and removed the headphones.

  Mercy looked across the hanger, Roberts was walking over to her. She opened the cockpit door and climbed down.

  “Anything?” Roberts asked.

  “Nothing,” she replied.

  “I’ve found an office we can stay in, looks secure enough. No radio though. You ready for something to eat? I’ve got some field rations in my pack, tastes like shit but does the job.”

  Roberts looked tired, she recognised the signs; they had found shelter just in time. Dehydration and lack of sleep were more dangerous than tropes in their own way. Mistakes would be made if they didn’t refuel and rest, mistakes led to death.