Dark Water: The Chronicles of Mercy Read online

  Dark Water

  The Chronicles of Mercy

  G.P. MOSS

  Dark Water

  The Chronicles of Mercy

  by

  G.P. Moss

  Copyright 2017 G.P. Moss. All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  www.facebook.com/TheChroniclesofMercy

  The devil whispered in my ear,

  “You’re not strong enough to

  withstand the storm.”

  Today

  I whispered in the devil’s ear,

  “I am the storm.”

  -Unknown-

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  I’ll be an orphan soon.

  “I’m sorry, darling.” She coughs a rasping breath, her mouth bone-dry. She refuses water – swallowing hurts.

  “Find…Alex.”

  I bite down hard on my lip, the coppery taste of blood foul, as Mum battles to say her final words. Stroking a frail shoulder, my cheek propping her limp head, I kiss long, damp hair, inhaling the scent of smoke, sweat and a hint of ancient rose oil.

  A dried, yellow-orange leaf, veins ready to snap, drifts on the faintest current, bringing its message that this is the end of my summer heart.

  I’m an orphan now.

  My leaden, sorrow-stricken mind tells me to bury her. She insisted on a pyre.

  This is my morning.

  I don’t watch for long. As soon as the flames are twice my height, I walk away before the heat scorches my eyelashes. Mum’s gone. The tearing pain in my chest threatens to crush my soul but I can’t stay here to grieve – I promised I’d go.

  *

  My tough, rubber-soled boots trample fine grey dust and ashes, giving way to brown-black clogged mud as my strides lengthen. Any pockets of disease shouldn’t hurt me but vicious plague-dogs will. Hellhounds, monsters that only slightly resemble their canine roots, are foul-smelling, usually huge, with large, dirty-cream frothing mouths. Their razor-sharp, pointed fangs, hardened, spike-like dark fur and piercing, crimson eyes, complete a picture of monstrous terror.

  They will kill me. Sense me. They hate me. It’s nothing personal - they hate everyone. We don’t see many in the valley now, mainly thanks to Johnny, and others who, when the need arises, show them a madness to mirror their own. They’re still around though. Somewhere. The first word I learnt was Hounds! – the one syllable, life-saving shout.

  I thank the water before taking a short swig. Gratitude helps, it always has. It’s why I’m here. Alive. Small sips. The water’s a huge problem – we’ve a responsibility to be kind to it.

  Focus on the walk, get used to the compass but don’t trust it. Trust nothing. Nobody.

  I hear my name from across the weedy, sun-baked scrub.

  “Mercy, you left anything for me?” says Johnny, tipsy on something as usual.

  “Nah,” I shout. “We traded, remember? Nothing left, sorry.”

  It’s a joke between us though I’m not in the mood for laughing. He never takes anything. Giving is all he knows. I hurry on – I don’t have time for chatter – only to focus. Some folk, like Johnny, remember different times. He likes his grog, it’s a better companion than reality for him. Me? I know no different. He’s part of the reason I’m still alive though. Johnny will do his own grieving, in his own way. Wandering thoughts will get me nowhere - I pull them back to the walk.

  The load on my back feels weighty but bearable. The sack’s good, a Condor lifted on our travels - roughed up to make it look…scruffy. A joke, right? Everything’s like that here, so Mum said anyway. To me, it’s always been this way. Mum’s gone, put that thought away. Keep looking. Everywhere. The dark grey tactical trousers resist much of the dust as my legs get used to the new rhythm. It’s no march but it’s focussed - back straight and head level.

  A fiery sun pops in and out so my eyes don’t open too wide. Wide enough though. I’m in a large valley, home for the last seventeen years. I’m leaving this natural dip so at some point I need to climb away from the shelter the steep hills provide. This is the middle of the country and I’m no more than sixty miles from the sea. In a straight line that is, with no mess ups.

  I need to find someone. I’d already promised Mum and it’s a good enough reason to finally do something on my own. I lack confidence, I know. I move on adrenalin but I don’t want to burn out. I can’t. I touch the tags on the worn, black leather rope around my neck. They belonged to Dad, brought back from battle in the Far East by his friend. His friend’s name is Alex Nowak and he’s special, apparently. He can help me. If he’s alive and if I can find him, he’s special. If not, I don’t know what I’ll do.

  It’s time to leave here. It’s a responsibility I didn’t ask for but I just must. I’ve never met Alex, although he’s met me, once, long ago. I never met Dad, either. With the tags came a message – ‘Missing-In-Action – Presumed Dead.’ I hope Dad’s friend can help me. Right now, I’m grateful for the thought that he can. I was brought up to be thankful but it’s not to be confused with weakness. It’s in my heart and brain and it’s kept me alive. Johnny is too - he may like to get a little drunk but he’s the most grateful person I know.

  I’m hot. Sweat runs, sticking to my back and chest but I keep moving. I notice more inclines now. I’ve walked a whole day - it’s still autumn so there’s more light left. At some stage, I know I’ll need to rest for a few hours at night, to restore my body. My goal is five days to the coast - not the sixty-mile route. I’m heading in a diagonal, south-east direction. I’m almost rid of the valley now. It’s been death-quiet, apart from the odd animal-shape in the dusty distance. No snarling though - no snarling’s good. I move fast and don’t draw attention. There may be others out there but I don’t see them - they could be all long dead.

  Chapter Two

  I sleep for a few hours in a solid brick shed by a rusted railway track - I can hardly believe this small building’s intact but I’m grateful. There aren’t any trains. Ever. If there are spores here, they shouldn’t bother me – I’m immune to them now. I hope. I
pray. As usual. I was taught to pray…specifically. Don’t whinge. Don’t you dare. If one leg’s cut be thankful for the good one. I brush my shirt down. Olive, technical cotton, practical and light. Dries quickly. If there’s a need for me to wade through water, I’ll have to change it, alter its state. It isn’t easy but I can do it. Usually.

  I cut my long, straight, chestnut hair, slicing it short with a rubber-grip bowie. Less to itch, less to dry. I finger the smooth plaits, much darker than Mum’s, before letting them drop onto a cracked pine bench. Hauling the sack to my back, I remove the warning string and tin, gingerly opening the shed door.

  Strong orange sunlight dazzles me. Lifting my hand to shield stinging eyes, I hear sudden growls, smell reeking, rotten breath. They’re close – I know it’s them. I release the sword from its scabbard as my heart beats so fast I fear it’ll explode.

  My mouth’s dry. Sand-dry. I’m scared and swing in wild panic as two sweating, snarling shapes leap in tandem. An arc of forged steel slices one through the neck, felling it, a heavy thud dispersing dust clouds as it crashes to the gravel ground. I spin and swing in a straight line as the second beast hits the blade full on. It falls heavy, too. Two black-brown Hellhounds lay still. I shake so bad it scares me and I cry. Stop it. I feel my neck. They wanted to chew my neck off.

  I look around, listening for further danger. Setting a fire, I burn the Hounds to keep the scent of the dead off the air. My chest tightens, hurting from the stress. Let it go, Mercy. Forget it, move on.

  My heart beats a crazy rhythm but I’m calming down, at least in my mind. Everywhere ahead is high. I check the compass, sun, compass. I adjust my course a few degrees to the left, climbing steadily. Once on the plateau, walking should be straight, fast, easy. Nothing’s easy. Nothing good, that is. I notice something. About me. There’s a spring in my step. I hate killing - even diseased monsters out for my neck. But I survived a day, survived an attack. I chew some jerk, savouring its fruity, chalky taste. I’m thankful.

  Passing the last crude wooden warnings at the south-east valley boundary, I smile. Johnny put them up, several years past. Death head signs that said one thing – ‘Plague Land’. When Mum, Johnny, and a few others, thanked and prayed enough for waters to begin to turn and cleanse, they were afraid. Of people. And disease. Airborne, waterborne - it needn’t matter what. Still afraid, of a mix of hells, unleashed and conquering.

  People turned nasty - not just angry but destructive in a way which prevented humankind recovering. Houses that survived the earthquakes were destroyed. Shops, already barely hanging onto their foundations, smashed until there was nothing left. They killed each other. Mothers and Fathers. Kids. That’s why we needed signs, Johnny explained to me once. They may be evil, destructive killers but they could still read, so he said. They all killed each other. Or they read Johnny’s boards. They kept away or they died. Mum was a good, spiritual lady. Usually. Other times she returned with flecks of blood in her straw-blonde hair.

  I’m on a ridge. Wide, stepped and steep on one side. On the other, death if I fall. First couple of hundred yards, it’s a conveyer of grey-white shale. My feet slip then stubbornly grip. Higher up it starts to get easier. I climb. I listen. I watch. Back there I left relative safety. This is new. Ahead is either empty land or a new hell. After an hour or so I’m near the top. Taking the last turn, I see the plateau.

  Descending, my boots slide. Stop. Slide again.

  There’s vegetation. It’s dry, cracking and snapping when touched. A large, grey-white boulder sits in front of me. I crouch behind it, noticing stone reflected in water. Not much more than a shallow pool really but it’s there. I intone, pray, cleanse. I never got sick. Not bad, like Mum. It’s why I left, to try and help others, like Mum wanted me to. The responsibility of it. I’m frightened, but I’m ready. I think.

  My feet hit cracked black rock. It’s asphalt. The road stretches out, for miles. It’s smashed, littered with the burnt husks of cars and trucks. There’s woodland to the right. It looks brown, unhealthy. I head towards it. I won’t go in. I’m not that crazy. I see a ditch. My first goal is to find water, quickly. A source to feed. I’m fast, focussed. Thankful. It’s a wide stream. I listen. Watch. Breathing steadily, I pray, intone, thank. My right arm is immersed in the coolness. I know when it’s enough. I just know. I’m sick for a few seconds. I need to go. Exposed and weakened, I grab some more jerk, and chew. I’m okay. Time to get these legs moving.

  I smell the canteen. The water’s safe. I sip before clipping the bottle to the sack. Out here they can swing on the carabiners but I need to be smart. I’m in the open. Stonewashed buildings streaked black and grey sit squat and menacing further up to the left. They look like valley factories but they’re wrecks. I skirt them quickly. I was told this would likely be farmland. The land to the left is stubble but shapes are shapes. It’s the right way. Compass, sun, compass. South-east. I need to stay on course, not waste time on diversions.

  There needs to be water. Rivers, streams, anything to heal and nourish. This place is still dirty. The mid-morning sun hurts my head. I take the cap from the sack. Oil-stained embroidered letters sit squarely across the front. It’s an old rail hat. There’s lots of stuff I know. Mum schooled me. On paper or in the dust. Mum’s gone. I bite my lip, mopping the blood with my tongue.

  I keep the pace fast. The caked-dry mud is hard but the boots take it. I’m watchful. Up ahead to ninety degrees each side, I get a good view of the landscape. Broken, skeletal wells lay on their side – some are still whole but most are smashed to pieces. Moving my head gives me wider vision but I try to use peripheral. The clear blue sky looks innocent enough. It looks clean. Who knows. Airborne particles, maybe - I don’t know. Nothing grows here. What I started in the stream won’t reach this side. Anyway, it can take time.

  At a right swing, the corner of my eye detects movement, shapes. There. Gone again. More than one. More like three, or four. More adrenalin. I try to breathe better, like at the stream.

  The factory buildings are in disrepair. Massive understatement - they’re a complete mess. Even from several hundred yards I see there’s nothing going on there. Nothing factory-like anyhow. I’m nervous. The pit of my stomach feels heavy. It’s not healthy here. I don’t need violence, not from people - please. I want to cry. I want Mum. She’s gone and worrying won’t help.

  I finger the scabbard. I never fought people before. If I drop the sword there’s the bowie, tight in a sheath on my right leg. My throwing side. I’ve only hit fence posts with it up until now. Prepare, Mercy. Maybe it was nothing. It was something. A loud shriek startles me as a black flash dives through the air. A bird. Large and ink-black.

  I move further away from the hulking brick shapes. They’re now a source of pure horror. Metal on metal, banging and crashing, jolts me back. Now I know. And they know I know. I turn fully. Incoherent shouts from shapes that become human. Problem is, they’re not. These terrors are inhuman – people who’ve turned into the evil killers that Johnny and others spent years battling in the valley.

  My mouth has dried wood-hard. Eyes stinging with salt, my legs feel rock-heavy as they demand more blood be pumped in. There’s weight on my back but I hardly notice now. Fear drives my arms like pistons as I run to save my life. I’m fast, but not fast enough. I use every bit of every piece of my strong body to outrun them.

  I chance a glance back. They’re gaining. Horrible, scrunched up faces, twisted with rage. Four of them. I know I’ll kill one, maybe two, if I’m lucky. Running saps my strength. My heart will burst. I stop, unprepared to meet my fate. Releasing the two-foot blade, they show no fear – I’m scared enough for everyone.

  Dead-straw scrub makes movement slow. I raise the sword, beginning the curve of a deadly arc. A six-foot man-animal launches at me. He smacks the ground hard minus his ugly head, rough black long hair fanning out in a sticky pool. As the arc follows through I slip. They’re on me. Mauling. Drooling, shrieking and spitting foul white phlegm. My
head takes a kick as one tears at my shirt.

  The one at my shirt falls. Something’s in his head. The others turn. Thud. Thud. All three are down. Small, thick, black rods protrude from their stinking bodies. I’m confused but okay. I raise myself to see a girl. Like me. Holding a matt-black, short metal crossbow, topped with a strange-looking box, she stands there. Grinning.

  Chapter Three

  “Hi,” she says.

  “Hi. Thank you.” It’s a woefully inadequate thing to say but I’m in shock. “I’m Mercy, Mercy Anne Browne.”

  The tall girl stands there, all smiles and sunshine, light sweat beads glistening on her high forehead.

  “Happy to meet you, Mercy. I’m Storm.”

  “Yes, you are. Look at these - only a Storm could do this,” I say, incredulously.

  “I’ve been following you, Mercy, and by the way these aren’t the first I’ve dispatched to mother hell on your behalf. Two others, by the shed, while you slept a princess dream. We need to burn these Subs.”

  “Subs?” I query.

  “Sub-humans. Their behaviour’s worse than a Hellhound. Much worse.”

  “I know,” I say.

  “Yes, you do.” She’s laughing - I’m still shaking but her humour’s infectious.

  We pile the Subs into an untidy heap of hate, briefly watching them burn before we turn away, putrid smoke contaminating the already suspect air.

  “Why would you follow me?”

  “Come on, we’ll walk as I talk.”

  I seem to have gained a new travelling companion – I hope she stays, but I need to know why.

  “You have a valuable gift. I’m from north of your valley. Thanks to you and your mum, our land recovered well, and continues to. Your streams flowed to ours. Your cleansing and our gratitude, and care, saw our water recover. I know, people like us - there’s hardly anyone left. Your old Johnny, you know he used to wander. A lot.”

  I nod in recognition of this resourceful man, letting her continue.