Mercy crawled further into the canteen, away from the door. She stood up and ran the length of the room looking up at the ceiling.
There has to be a way up to the roof; a hatch, a ladder, a fire escape out the back?
She reached a kitchen area at the rear of the canteen and spotted a collection of fire extinguishers beside a row of full length lockers and an emergency exit.
Try out back, there might be a way up—
Mercy pressed the panic bar and pushed the doors open, stumbling out into a narrow alley behind the canteen. A score of tropes occupied the space outside. Mercy looked right, more tropes were spilling around the corner. She poked her head around the door and looked left. An NSA militia man was emerging from the next building, wearing a silver fire suit and protective headgear. Two red cylinders were clearly visible on his back, in his hand he carried a long, gun-like device. His eyes locked onto Mercy and he raised the dripping nozzle.
Flame thrower—
Mercy flung herself back, through the doorway into the canteen.
Shit—
The walkway erupted in flames behind her. She scrabbled along the floor beside the lockers. Flames licked in through the open emergency doors at head height, blistering the ceiling paintwork. The tropes inside the canteen staggered towards the emergency doors.
Shit, shit, shit—
Mercy reached up, her hand landing on a wall mounted fire extinguisher. A flat, waist-high box caught her eye.
Fire blanket—
The words registered in her brain. She pulled the blanket from its housing and wrapped herself in it. A jet of flame burst through the emergency doors into the canteen igniting the lurching tropes.
My god, think—
Mercy crawled along the row of lockers, tugging at the handles.
Please, please, plea—
The fifth locker opened and she piled inside, slamming the door shut. She crouched low and pulled the fire blanket over her head and body.
The silver suited man stepped through the smoking emergency doors and unleashed another jet of fire into the handful of flaming tropes inside. The long blast of white hot flame burned flesh from bone, incinerating the undead in their tracks.
The jet of flame stopped and the flamethrower man surveyed the scene of devastation before him. Acrid smoke filled the air. The man started humming to himself. Sweat poured down Mercy’s face as she hid, crouched inside the locker.
He’s… he’s humming. Humming… the sick bastard—
Smoke seeped through the locker’s vents. Mercy felt her throat constrict.
Don’t cough—
Chapter 31
Overkill
What’s he doing—?
Mercy brought a hand to her mouth and stifled her cough. She was hot, her clothes were damp with sweat, more smoke entered through the locker’s vents. She held her breath and stood up, her legs shaking. She looked through the vents and saw the flamethrower man, his back to her. She brought up her Glock 17, its suppressor scraped against the locker door.
Shit—
The man swung around, the nozzle of his flamethrower dripping liquid.
Oh—
Mercy squeezed the Glock’s trigger twice and the pistol kicked in her hand. Her 9mm rounds punched through the locker door and found their mark as the flamethrower man squeezed his trigger. Mercy dropped down, turning away from the locker door. She pulled the fire blanket over her head and body. A wall of flame burst from the flamethrower’s nozzle bathing the lockers in liquid fire.
Mercy tried to scream but the breath was sucked from her lungs, her consciousness wavered. She fell back against the glowing locker door. It swung open depositing her on the floor, she gasped and blinked, clinging to the fire blanket. The smell of burning flesh filled her senses, she rolled onto her side and saw the silver suited man on the floor, the flamethrower gun at his side.
Mercy stood up, dropped the fire blanket and went to the downed militia man. She stared, disbelieving, at the bullet holes in his visor and chest.
Solid hits. Thank Christ his fuel tanks didn’t explode—
She looked at the charred remains of the tropes on the floor.
There’s still the sniper on the roof. Flynn and the others outside… shit, if he sees them. I need to nail the bastard—
Mercy’s eyes went to another door, on the far side of the canteen.
Hello. Didn’t clock that one before. Maybe there’s roof access out there—?
She stepped around the dead militia man, crossing the room to the side door. She opened it a crack and peered out onto a narrow lane running between the canteen and the next building.
OK, let’s just have a look—
A diesel engine roared in the lane and Mercy ducked back inside. She craned her neck to see through the narrow gap in the door. An armoured vehicle passed the door and stopped a few yards away, its engine idling. She drew near to the gap and peered through.
Shit, an MRAP with a turret gun. They’re going to blast the horde. They could hit my guys outside—
The turret hatch opened and a militia man appeared. He started speed loading the .50 caliber M2 Browning machine gun.
No, not if I can help it—
Mercy stepped through the door, crept down the lane and squeezed herself between the building and the MRAP. She pulled a fragmentation grenade from her webbing and jumped up on the vehicle’s rear wheel. The gunner swung around and shouted in surprise.
Mercy pulled the pin and threw the grenade into the turret hatch then rolled off to the side. The gunner howled in fear and tried to pull himself free. The grenade went off inside the vehicle and he screamed, falling back into the smoking interior. Mercy looked down the lane into the square. Tropes were shuffling towards the vehicle, attracted by the explosion.
Shit, grenades are trope magnets. Get the hell out of here—
Mercy stood and turned to retrace her steps to the side door. A heavy weight landed across her shoulders, pressing her down.
What the—?
She focused on her arms and hands, trying to figure out what was slowing her down.
It’s
