Roberts was examining the bodies on the ground. Mercy joined him. “This is messed up, ain’t it?” he said, his voice dead. “Only reason I went for it was… they were bunched up, easy target. But look, they’re only kids, oldest is about thirteen,” Roberts sighed.
“Yeah, but you didn’t know that and anyway you can’t negotiate with six automatic rifles pointed at your head, it’s always going to end up bad for someone. For all we know they could be linked to the cannibals, although it looks as if they were doing their own thing. Listen, there could be others, we’ve got to clear this place and see if there’s any juice in the radio.” Mercy reached out, took a bottle of water from the nearest pallet and opened it, she took a long drink.
“OK, agreed, let’s do a sweep and find the radio, we should get back to the roof ASAP,” Roberts answered.
Mercy nodded. “You take the right, I’ll take the left.” She picked up a torch from one of the bodies, reloaded her M4 and struck out across the hangar. She counted seven rows of pallets, all stacked with food and supplies. She wondered how long the children had been there. An open door lay on her left, she shone the torch into the room and saw a desk and chair and, in the corner, a radio set.
She licked her lips and checked behind her, no sign of Roberts. She went into the room and sat down in front of the radio, she remembered the solar panels on the roof.
Maybe—
She flicked the power switch, a dim light lit up the dials. Her heart leapt, she grabbed the handset and turned the frequency dial. Static hissed from the speakers, she turned the dial, listening, scanning the airwaves. Without warning, a male voice burst out of the speakers.
“Extraction team to alpha one, extraction team to ground. Acknowledge, over.”
Mercy gripped the handset bringing it to her mouth. Her eyes strayed to the power gauge which was in the red, she closed her eyes and concentrated. She had to make contact with the helicopter. “Extraction team this is Mercy Dawes on the ground. I’m with your man, Roberts. We’re at Montauk airfield, repeat, we’re at Montauk airfield. Ready for extraction, repeat, ready for extraction. Location, we’re in the hangar with the radio mast and will be on the roof in five minutes—”
Mercy opened her eyes and watched as the power needle drifted to zero and the static died. “No, no, nooooo—” she groaned, hitting the radio in frustration. She stared at it for a few seconds expecting it to burst into life again. Reality dawned; they had to make it to the roof.
Mercy left the radio room and returned the way she had come. She saw the stairs leading to the gantry and froze. The six bodies were gone, the floor was blood stained.
Shit, shit, shit. Not good, definitely not good— those kids must’ve been carriers. We’ve got a couple of minutes or a couple of hours before they turn—
Mercy remembered discussing carriers with the Angels; the Angels had discovered the effect early on; some of their own who died in accidents had turned into tropes, they had not been bitten. Sometimes it took minutes, sometimes days, each case was different, unpredictable. No one knew who the carriers were. She looked around.
Where the hell is Roberts? I can’t call him, they’ll come for me. Bug out, bug out. Roberts will have to look after himself—
Mercy swung her rifle around searching the shadows. She imagined the bodies twitching in a dark corner, the virus activated and multiplying, taking over its host’s central nervous system. She reached the stairs and backed up the steps keeping her eyes trained on the hangar floor, then she remembered the kid on the gantry. She swore and turned, moving sideways up the stairs. She reached the gantry and walked along it sweeping her gun and flashlight from side to side. The body was gone.
Shit—
Mercy saw the open roof hatch in the distance. Sweat trickled between her shoulder blades. A noise came from below, a skittering sound, then a scream, followed by others. Mercy glanced down and saw movement in the shadows. She ran towards the hatch and reached the ladder. The gantry vibrated behind her. Mercy grabbed the ladder and hauled herself up. She was close to the hatch when a blur on her right made her pull away, a twisted face snapped at her, its body hanging from the gantry’s support frame.
Time slowed, Mercy released a hand from the ladder enabling her to duck under the trope’s attack. The trope’s momentum placed it just in front of her. Without thinking she grabbed it by the hair and smashed its head against the ladder then pushed it away. The trope lost its grip and fell twenty feet to the gantry below crashing on top of another figure.
Mercy threw herself up the ladder and clambered through the hatch. Roberts stood on the roof, he was shaking and looked pale.
“Jesus, you made it. Did you see those fuckers?” he said, pointing his gun at her. “Are you bit?” he asked, stepping away.
Screaming tore through the air from the hatch. “No, I’m good. Help me close this—” Mercy bent down, threw the hatch shut and stood on it.
Roberts snapped his head up. “You hear that?”
“Roberts, help me out here,” Mercy looked at the latch hasp. “Jam something through the lock, quick.”
Frantic banging shook the hatch. She could feel the blows through her boots. Roberts ignored her and started fumbling with his pack. Mercy swore and looked around, a length of old cable lay within reach. She lay on the hatch, grabbed the cable then fed it through the lock’s hasp tying it off.
She became aware of a distant noise and looked up, Roberts held a canister in his hand. He pulled the pin and threw the canister a short distance away, red smoke billowed from the canister. He pulled a flare from his pack, twisted its base and pointed it skywards, it flashed and a bright light exploded into the sky. He began yelling and waving, his eyes bulging, his face twisted.
Mercy turned around and saw the helicopter. It was the most beautiful thing she had seen in a long time.
Something unfamiliar welled up inside her.
Hope.
Chapter 8 Portland
Red smoke swirled around the hangar roof as the Sikorsky S-61R helicopter approached. Mercy blinked and crouched against the downdraft.
Roberts grabbed Mercy’s arm. “You go first, I’ve got this.”
Mercy looked up, the helicopter was directly overhead, she could see the winchman lowering a rescue seat. She felt the furious banging of the tropes through the hatch. Dents were appearing in its surface, she felt calm and detached. She nodded.
The rescue seat landed close to Mercy. Roberts transferred his weight to the hatch. Mercy stepped off and stared at the Sikorsky, the words NEW STATE ARMY were painted on its underside along with a flag she did not recognise. Her eyes narrowed, further along the fuselage she saw the words US COASTGUARD partially covered with white paint.
It’s all in the detail—
Mercy grabbed the cable and climbed onto the rescue seat, the helicopter hovered fifty feet above. She closed her eyes and held on, the engine noise was deafening and she shook in the downdraft. The winch kicked in and she was lifted through the air. She blinked, glancing at the roof below, movement in the trees next to the airstrip caught her eye. Dozens of tropes were clinging to the airport fence trying to break through. A few of the tropes had managed to scale the fence, they were running towards the hangar.
Roberts looked at her, a hand held over his eyes. Mercy frowned as she saw the first trope emerge from the fire escape onto the flat roof.
She screamed at Roberts, pointing. “Behind you, behind you.”
His expression changed, he swung around bringing his M4 to bear, he opened fire cutting the trope in half. The lower half of its body fell off the roof but its torso remained and crawled towards Roberts. Two more tropes hauled themselves over the roof edge. The rescue seat rotated, Mercy lost sight of Roberts for a second, his weapon fell silent, she turned and saw him pulling his revolver out, the M4 discarded. The two tropes were almost on him, their teeth snapping, their eyes full of blood lust.
Without warning a loud burst of gunfire erupted fro
m the Sikorsky and the two tropes disappeared in a mist of shredded flesh. Roberts threw himself away from the tropes, his feet leaving the hatch. Hands grabbed Mercy and hauled her into the helicopter, a crewman put a safety harness around her waist and clipped her to an internal safety line. Someone wrapped her in a foil blanket. Another crew member was firing an M16 at the roof.
“Where the hell are they coming from?”
“Get the lift down to him Connors, do it now.”
“Suppressive fire on the hatch, get those bastards.”
“Roberts is on, lifting now.”
“Did any of those fuckers get near him?”
“Negative skipper, wasted them before they could reach him.”
“Are you sure soldier?”
“That’s affirmative captain.”
“Roberts secured skipper.”
“Right, let’s haul ass.”
Mercy looked on, shivering, as the crew brought Roberts on board the helicopter. He was dazed but looked uninjured. They checked his face and exposed flesh for any bites. Once satisfied they strapped him onto the safety line and wrapped him in a foil blanket. They closed the side door and the Sikorsky banked away from the airfield heading north out to sea.
A crew member with the name CONNORS on his jacket, handed Mercy a mug of steaming coffee. Even in the cold air, with the noise and grime, it smelt wonderful. She looked at the mug and its contents and concentrated on it, she brought it to her lips and took a mouthful. She tasted the sugar and milk and closed her eyes savouring the caffeine rush. Connors tapped her on the shoulder and handed her a piece of chocolate. She noticed an old scar on his neck.
Just like Flynn’s scar.
Mercy closed her eyes again and bit into the chocolate. She thought of Flynn. His face, his eyes, his touch. That kiss, the morning the Preacher had died. Images flashed through her mind, Flynn by her side, holding her. Time was the most precious thing in the world. They hadn’t had enough time. Words came to her from outside. Words she processed and noted, but they did not take her from Flynn.
“What happened back there buddy?”
Roberts replied, “We were overrun at the lighthouse, our scouts picked up a large group of tropes leaving Huntington a few weeks back, a few thousand strong. The tropes split up, some headed east to Calverton, then Riverhead. They were feeding, I guess there wasn’t enough food there so they came east, until they reached us at Camp Hero. The CO sent me and my men to the lighthouse to await extraction but then the storm hit and the tropes arrived.”
“Yeah, I heard Camp Hero was overrun. Poor bastards. How many were in your unit?”
“Thirty guys.”
“And it’s just you, and that girl? Jesus—”
Silence.
“How long to base?” Roberts asked.
“Change of plan Roberts. Range of this bird is 600 miles, we’re headed to Portland to refuel then our orders are to take you to Sable Island for debrief and assessment.”
A pause.
“Sable Island? That sucks, I was hoping to get to Halifax. I’ve been in the field for three months. Three fucking months,” Roberts said.
“I know how you feel buddy, I’ve been running missions all along the east coast for the last four months. If you ask me something big is coming. We’ve been seeing a lot of trope activity in the north east, they’re leaving the cities in numbers, thousands of them. And they’re fast, not like the early days, and daylight doesn’t bother them anymore. It’s fucked up.”
“Well, Colonel Randel will figure it out.”
Mercy kept her eyes shut feigning sleep, she absorbed the information.
After a long pause Roberts’s voice broke the silence. “Have you heard anything about down south?”
“Hey, they don’t tell us much. But I heard Galveston is clear and some other places down there. They got people too, planes and even warships. I think the Colonel has sent an envoy but I don’t hold out much hope. You’d think that with the tropes and dead coming back they’d want to join forces with us, not fight against us.”
“Some folks just don’t see reason, they want to cling to the past, they can’t see the future. Look at history, people always resist change, the human race is so predictable,” Roberts replied to the crewman.
“Yeah, well, whatever. They say a woman’s in charge down there. She’s organising a Republic or something. If you ask me, she’s asking for trouble, Cobalt Biotech won’t put up with that shit.”
“Still nothing from overseas?”
“Some signals from China, Russia and Europe but they got their own problems. World’s a different place now my friend.”
The conversation stopped. Fatigue crept in, Mercy drifted off to sleep and oblivion.
Mercy jerked awake, she felt pressure on her shoulder.
“Hey, Dawes. Wake up, time to stretch your legs, get the circulation going,” Roberts said.
She opened her eyes, she’d been out cold. Had there been something in the coffee? She hadn’t slept that well in… forever. Her legs felt stiff, her head muzzy.
“Water, you got any water?” she asked, blinking at Roberts, her throat was parched. Rain pelted the tarmac outside the helicopter, the sky was grey, the rain was grey.
Roberts handed her his canteen. She took a drink. “Where are we?”
“Portland, Maine, we’ve a thirty minute stopover to refuel. Come on let’s get you something to eat.” Roberts jumped out of the Sikorsky onto the ground and held his hand out to her.
Mercy stared at his face, he looked tired. She frowned, there was something else; he had aged, there was a hunted look in his eyes. She had seen it before. She took his hand. “You OK Roberts? You look like shit.”
“I feel like shit, guess all that time out there is catching up with me,” he answered. “Come on, follow me, there’s hot food over here.”
Mercy jumped down from the helicopter and looked up. “Not another hangar, I’ve had enough of hangars.” She reached for her pistol. “Hey, where’s my gun?”
Roberts made an attempt at a smile but it came out as a grimace. “You won’t need any weapons where we’re going.”
“Where’s that then?” Mercy asked, following him. Three uniformed ground crew were attending to the helicopter, their fuel truck nearby. Armed men stood in a ring around the Sikorsky.
“We’re on our way to the Safe Zone, well, 300 klicks offshore from the Safe Zone to be precise,” Roberts replied.
Mercy looked at him, her face blank.
“I’ll tell you about it inside, come on,” Roberts said.
They made their way into the hangar, she saw the helicopter crew sitting at a mess table, plates of steaming food in front of them. More armed NSA men stood at the hangar doors, watching them.
“Why all the firepower? Isn’t this place secure?” Mercy asked.
Roberts brought her over to a side area, a cook stood behind a field kitchen, he was serving two men. Mercy looked at the food on offer; beef stew, carrots and rice. Her mouth watered, she could not remember the last time she had eaten a hot meal.
Roberts handed her a plate. “No place is secure on the mainland, you know that, right? But here’s secure enough at the moment, this is an important refuelling station for the NSA—”
Mercy gave him a look.
“It’s a busy place, two hundred men are stationed here.” He held his plate out to the cook. “Do you remember before the Fall? There used to be people who’d only eat vegetables… vegetarians. Now what the hell was that all about?”
Mercy held her plate out and watched as the cook dished up the hot food for her. She nodded her thanks. Roberts brought her over to the table and they sat a little way from the pilot and crew who were eating and examining maps.
“So what did you mean, offshore?” Mercy said.
Roberts already had a mouthful of food, he chewed and swallowed. “God this is good, been having field rations the last few weeks; cheese in a tube, how wrong is that?”
&nbs
p; Mercy took a forkful of stew and closed her eyes. Her mouth swam with the taste and texture of the food. She swallowed and felt a pain niggle in her stomach.
What the hell’s that?
Roberts paused in his eating. “I thought they’d take us to Halifax straight away but seems as if we’re going off shore first. Sable Island; holding area, quarantine. Who knows? Maybe your friends are there.”
Mercy looked at Roberts. “Really?”
“No, I don’t know. I guess it’s possible though—”
They finished their meal.
“Is it just me or is it hot?” Roberts said, unbuttoning his jacket. “Listen they’ve got showers here and fresh clothes,” he looked at his watch. “I reckon if we’re quick we can make it.”
Mercy’s eyes brightened up. “Lead on.”
Roberts called over a guard and instructed him to show Mercy to the showers. “You got fifteen minutes, make it quick,” Roberts shouted over his shoulder.
Mercy followed the guard and glanced back to see Roberts speaking to a uniformed man at the table. The man looked in her direction and caught her eye, he nodded. Mercy did not respond. The guard took her to the shower block and gave her a bundle of fresh clothes. The water was hot and for a few minutes she lost herself in the heat and steam scrubbing the dirt and sweat from her skin.
Her mind was reeling with questions. Sable Island, was Flynn there? What about Vince, Tawny, Dakota, Rites, Rose and Stevie? She would see it through, she had no choice, she would play the game. She finished her shower and put on the fresh shirt, trousers and woollen jumper. The guard handed her a hooded, fur lined parka.
“You’ll need that where you’re going,” he said, his eyes cold.
Mercy looked at him and took the coat. He was about eighteen or nineteen, his face was hard, distant. The NSA uniform he wore was too big for him, his breath stank, his nails were dirty, his boots unpolished. He was fresh from the field, she saw bloodstains on his collar; trope blood was impossible to wash out. He had seen action, she guessed it was recent.
The Survival Chronicles (Book 2): Angel of Mercy Page 6