Mercy (The Last Army Book 1) (12 page)

The file cabinets came tumbling down with a metallic clatter, scattering sheets of paper in the air. Splinters shot out from the desks, which were smashed under the torn steel door as the demon stomped inside. It surveyed the room with its four demonic eyes for a split second before paralyzing us with an ear-splitting roar—all of us but the young woman next to me.

She rushed forward, brandishing her shotgun like a spear, a savage scream preceding her attack. Before the demon shut its jaws, she stuck the shotgun’s barrel deep into the monster’s cavernous mouth and pulled the trigger. The back of the monster’s head blew off, a gallon of black blood and crimson brains splattering on the wall behind it. The demon’s eyes darkened as it collapsed on the floor.

“Oh God, it burns!” the woman cried, dropping her shotgun.

The same dark blood that ate away the carpet and the wall behind the monster had splashed on her arms. She held them against her chest, rubbing them frantically as she screamed in agony. I lowered my gun and took a step toward her, but another demon barreled up the stairs. I pulled back, aiming at the battered threshold as the woman kept screaming in front of us.

The demon leapt over the remains of the barricade with such speed that it was little more than a black shadow trailed by two red bands of light. It pounced on the woman with a sickening crunch, snuffing her life out instantly.

I screamed and fired my gun at the glowing demonic eyes. The guards beside me discharged their weapons at the monster as well, the blast of their shots muting my scream. We stepped back as the creature’s dark blood splattered on the carpet, burning holes right through it. The demon crashed back onto the barricade, its flesh torn apart by our barrage. The blood gushing from its wounds stripped the paint off the wrecked steel door lying under its hulking body. A rancid stench rose from the corpse, overpowering the smell of gunpowder in the air.

The four guards firing from the windows rushed up to cover the door while the others reloaded their weapons. I looked down at my gun, its slide pulled back, exposing an empty chamber. I grabbed Karla’s arm, who sat on the floor with her eyes closed, her hands over her ears, and dragged her to the corner where the other people cowered, waiting for the inevitable. I hugged her with my eyes trained on the door, still gripping the empty handgun.

Another monster rushed up the stairs, only to be shot down by the guard’s concentrated fire. With the windows left undefended, demons leapt up to them and poked their monstrous heads inside. They snapped their jaws and growled as they struggled to squeeze their thick horned heads through the tight openings. A short guard tossed aside his rifle, probably out of ammo, and shot his sidearm at the monsters hanging on the windows. One of them lost its grip on the windowsill and fell back to the street, but the rest were only incensed by the pistol rounds tearing through their heavy snouts.

“Shit, I’m out!” he screamed, holstering his gun. None of his companions answered his cry. Another demon charged through the door. They took it down, but half of the guards were down to their sidearms, as well. One of them had picked up the young woman’s shotgun from the floor.

The short man retreated to the corner, his back to the dozens of terrified, defenseless people. He extracted a stylish hunting knife from his boot and looked back at Karla and me, huddled in a tight embrace at the front of the crowd. Karla cried and prayed while I stared at him. He turned his gaze back to the monsters at the windows and hastily crossed himself, the knife wavering in his left hand. I tightened my embrace around my friend. Karla dug her face into my neck, clutching the back of my coat.

“Goodbye, Karla,” I mumbled. She only sobbed in response. I made the sign of the cross and started praying myself.

Long streams of automatic gunfire rang out in the street. The demons hanging from the windows twisted in agony, their dark blood splashing onto the ceiling. They slumped down to the street, their eyes pitch-black. Another demon stumbled through the door, blood pouring through numerous bullet holes. The guards used the last of their ammunition to finish it off. They drew knives or gripped their rifles like clubs as they stepped away from its corpse. Heavy footsteps echoed from beyond the threshold, louder and louder every second.

A soldier emerged from the darkened staircase, dressed in full battle gear, followed by two more. They swept the room, looking through the sights of their assault rifles.

“Everyone all right?” the first soldier through the door asked, lowering his rifle.

“Oh, thank you, Jesus,” one of the guards said and dropped his rifle before sinking to the floor, weeping. All of us followed his example, hugging one another, crying, thanking God, thanking our rescuers, and taking in long breaths of air without fearing they’d be our last. It took almost ten minutes for everyone to finally get a grip on their emotions.

Letting go of Karla, I tuck my pistol inside my peacoat—about half of its black plastic grip sticking out of the pocket—and stumbled to the young woman’s corpse. The other guards had laid her on her back, her hair clumsily brushed out of her face. They’d crossed her arms over her broken chest. Her camouflaged shirt had lots of holes burnt through the fabric from where the demon’s blood had splashed on it. Her smile was gone. A few tears still stuck to her long eyelashes.

“What was her name?” I asked the guards as they crouched to take her body away.

“Laura,” one of them whispered, avoiding looking at me in the face.

Karla walked up to me as the guards disappeared down the stairs, the empty bullet cases at her feet clinking with every unsteady step. Her eyes still looked red from crying. She grabbed my hand. Her skin felt cold. “Promise me you won’t do that again.” She looked down the murky stairs.

“We should try and get some sleep—at least until we’re sure it’s safe to go outside.” I ran the tip of my fingers along my gun’s rough, plastic grip, wondering how I would get more ammo.

Karla took a step towards me, apparently dissatisfied by me answer. Faint gunshots rang out in the distance. She didn’t press the issue.

***

“Wake up, Becca!”

I went for my gun, hidden beneath my black peacoat. I sat up. Everyone who’d spent the night at the bank’s second floor crowded at the windows.

“What, what is it?” I asked.

Karla smiled, tears streaming down her cheeks. “The sun, it’s… it’s back to normal!”

I crawled onto my feet, the room still spinning in my half-awakened state, and staggered to the windows, pushing my way through the people gathered there. The intense light coming from outside blinded me. I squinted and caught a glimpse of a bright blue sky. I held onto the busted windowsill to keep from falling down as my knees buckled.

The endless eclipse was finally over.

Shining with a vengeance after three days of darkness, the sun cast a magical golden glow on the town. Birds chirped in the distance, and a small dog yapped at the people walking on the street. A gentle breeze ran through my hair, kicking up a mild smell of gunpowder. The corpses of the people and demons killed during the night were all gone. Only the banged-up cars and bullet-ridden stores along the street showed evidence of the battle that had taken place.

Karla tapped my arm. “Come on. Let’s go help out.”

I nodded and followed her down the twisting stairs. Every step bore deep scratch marks from the demons that had rushed through to murder us last night.

The shuffling of people outside echoed in the bank’s empty lobby, along with the faint sound of singing coming from far away. I shielded my eyes from the sun as I walked into the street. Clusters of people marched by, most of them families, carrying heavy packs, probably leaving town. I couldn’t blame them. It seemed like the smart thing to do. Of course, if everyone followed their example, pretty soon there’d be nowhere to run. I caressed the sturdy lump of the gun in my pocket.

I’m done running.

“Hey, Karla!”

A familiar voice called from the street—Amy. She ran up to Karla, wearing the same burgundy pullover from the day before. Her long, blond hair was a tangled mess.

“Amy! Oh, thank God you’re okay!” Karla said, and they embraced each other as if they’d been lifelong friends. I remembered their chat during Brother Tim’s sermon and realized it must have gone well. After a few seconds, they finally let go of each other, and Karla looked from me to Amy with an innocent smile on her face.

“Amy… I’m glad you’re—”

Amy cut my greeting short as she lunged at me, tightening her frail arms around my body. I tapped her back with both hands. Heat rose to my cheeks.

“I’m so happy to see you’re all right, Rebecca. I’m sorry for fighting yesterday. It’s just that I was so scared… but not anymore. Brother Tim’s right. We’re being tested, and I believe we’ve proven ourselves worthy.” Amy looked up at the sky and smiled. “It’s a new day, right?”

Karla looked away, sighing. I did my best to smile. My facial muscles twitched from the effort. Brother Tim spoke of a clear sky during his sermon, as well as trials and attacks on the town. Did he know of the demons’ assault?

“Yeah, I guess,” I said. Amy had never been religious—as far as I knew—but her excitement seemed genuine, even if there was a hint of madness in her dark-green eyes. Considering what we’d been through, it hardly surprised me.

“Brother Tim’s giving a sermon over at the football field.” Amy pointed to where the singing came from. “We should all go. Together.”

“Can’t. I’m needed at the clinic,” Karla said, shaking her head.

“Yeah, I can’t either. I’ve got… something I need to do first. Looks like you’ve got lots of company, though.” I nodded in the direction of some of the laundry girls waiting for her a few feet away. They answered with phony smiles.

“Oh, sure, but I really would’ve liked for you guys to come with us. At least you’re staying in town, though. That’s good. You’ve got to have faith.” She patted our arms. “If everyone was like the rest of these
cowards
,” she shouted, looking over her shoulder at one of the fleeing families, “then we’d all be dead by now.”

“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.

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 of 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 you. 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?”