Second Activation (The Activation Series Book 2)

by Darren Wearmouth

  “Back door, now,” I said.

  “We can take them out,” Jack said.

  “Fuck that. Four against two, and they’ve got a machine gun.”

  I wriggled to the hay bales, crawled over them, and dropped to the far side of the barn. The rusty bolt on the back door required a few twists of encouragement before it opened. Jack landed beside me, and I pushed the door open.

  We sprinted for the trees on our left, keeping our flight obscured from anyone at the front of the property, and threw ourselves down behind them. I shouldered my rifle and checked for any signs of pursuit. Nobody followed, indicating that perhaps the survivors didn’t have time to tell the goons about us before being cut down.

  Using the cover of woodland, we carried on, putting distance between the farm and us, eventually meeting up with a country road that led to Interstate 80.

  Brett’s death had increased my determination to succeed against Genesis Alliance. He was a likeable guy who had been put through hell by these people. I appreciated his brave decision to join our fight, putting him miles out of his competence zone and perhaps placing his family at an even greater risk.

  “That’s our plan for Hart Island—screwed,” Jack said. “With Brett gone, how are we supposed to destroy that thing?”

  “Maybe find Morgan and his group. They might have some ordnance or could help us find some. If GA is right up our asses, I think we need a stronger force.”

  Brett’s reward for having the courage to stand up to GA was a bullet. I vowed to honor his memory and complete the mission we’d started together—and return the compliment to Anthony.

  6

  We struggled to find a usable vehicle in the near vicinity. A group of badly damaged and charred cars cluttered around the intersection. Two were mangled together at the front end after meeting in a head-on collision.

  I jogged along the inside lane and spotted an electric-blue Honda Goldwing motorbike on its side, its rider pinned underneath. I grabbed the handlebars and strained to right the bike. Jack pulled the corpse away by the helmet.

  “So we’re sticking to the highway?” he said.

  “Best way to build up a lead. Straight to New York.”

  He straddled the bike and started the engine. It sounded too loud on the silent highway. Jack had been a weekend biker in England. I’d always thought of motorcycles as death machines, but in our current circumstances, a bike appeared the perfect way of eating distance. With a convoy heading the same way, not to mention the imminent arrival of a larger, more powerful force, we couldn’t hang around.

  I took the pillion, and neither of us bothered with a helmet. What did it matter? I thought; health and safety had died in the activation too.

  “Next stop, Hermitage?” Jack shouted above the whining engine.

  “That’s not even funny.”

  “I think we should go back to Jerry’s barn and burn it down. If we can take out that device, it might leave GA with another hole in their communications.”

  “It’s on the way, so why not?” I said, remembering Bob indicate the location of Hart Island on his map. “If we head into the city from the north, it’ll give us a view of the island.”

  Wind rushed against my face in the brilliant sunshine. I purposefully avoided mentioning Bernie and so did Jack. Riding on a motorbike made any reasonable conversation difficult, but I thought we could both benefit from paying respects to someone who had been an integral part of our initial survival.

  With the time approaching four in the afternoon, we zipped between obstacles at a decent pace. The Newburgh-Beacon Bridge lay just over four hundred miles away in southern New York State. At our current speed, and allowing a short stop in Orange County, we could make it by the early hours of Saturday morning. I earmarked the bridge as a place to stop and get a couple of hours’ sleep before entering the city.

  The bike’s fuel light blinked on just before Bellefonte. At half past nine in the evening, darkness had already descended. I thought it a blessing in disguise because I would feel far safer in a car at night.

  Jack stopped next to a lone Jeep. Two people lay next to the passenger door. Moonlight reflected off their pale green skin, and I cupped my hand over my nose. More importantly, the inside of the vehicle appeared clean. I jumped into the driver’s seat. The keys were still in the ignition, and I gave them a hopeful twist.

  The engine roared into life, and the fuel gauge flipped to three-quarters full. I placed my rifle between the front seats while Jack buckled up. Moonlight allowed us to drive with dipped headlights, and I felt a sense of purpose as the Jeep cruised at fifty miles per hour, curving between lanes.

  We occasionally bumped over stray objects in the road, but I threw my previous caution to the wind. Brett’s death had dealt a severe blow to our plans, but we had to continue. The more I thought about meeting with Morgan’s group, the more it made sense. Without a tech geek in our midst, we probably needed a stronger force to end the local threat. We would certainly need a small organized army to defeat the larger incoming threat.

  Jack seemed to be getting more used to his environment. I thought our new objectives channeled his emotions and helped him come to terms with our situation. Being in a position to do something returned him to his former self, focused and single-minded. When we were simply surviving, he acted irrationally and came close to having meltdowns.

  We stopped for a short break at Bloomsberg, leaned against the hood, and shared a bottle of Gatorade I’d found under the front seat. Something buzzed in the air, and I peered into the clear night sky.

  “Sounds like a chopper,” Jack said.

  I looked back in our direction of travel. A white beam shone on a distant section of highway. “Kill the lights. Into the trees.”

  I crouched behind the trunk and peered between branches. The buzz grew quickly louder.

  “Who do you think it is?” Jack asked.

  “I’d put money on it being GA.”

  Twenty seconds later, a helicopter thumped overhead, perhaps only two hundred feet above the highway. A searchlight shone along the lanes, and I felt a light breeze against my face as the chopper passed. I leaned out and watched it blast along the length of the highway and disappear into the distance.

  “Looks like they’ve found a quicker way to Hart Island,” I said.

  “Some of them, not all. Doesn’t change our plan, though, does it?”

  “No. We can still beat the convoy and take on small numbers with Morgan’s help.”

  He took over the wheel and picked up Interstate 84 at one in the morning. This section of road had been relatively clear on our way to Monroe, and it was doubtful that the density of wrecks had increased in the last few days. My eyelids felt heavy, but I had to remain vigilant for any movement in the shadows around us.

  Jack slowed to navigate around a large truck lying on its side, then suddenly slammed on the brakes.

  I jerked forward and thudded against my seatbelt. “What is it?”

  He grabbed his rifle from the back seat and aimed forward. “There’s a bloody spike strip on the road.”

  I quickly looked around in all directions. Something moved through the trees to our left. “Smells like an ambush. Get the fuck out of here.”

  Jack slammed the Jeep into reverse. The engine whined as he weaved backward. I kept my eyes fixed on the thin woodland next to the highway. A figure ran to the opposite shoulder and kept pace.

  I wound my window down and tracked the figure’s movement with my rifle.

  “What the hell are they doing?” Jack asked.

  After meeting Amanda in Bob’s hangar, I wasn’t taking any chances. A rational person surely wouldn’t run after a car on a dark highway. “Stop, so I can take a shot.”

  Jack hit the brakes, and our Jeep came to skidding halt. A bearded man, wearing only a pair of jockey shorts, crou
ched next to an ice truck fifteen yards away from us.

  I lowered my window and aimed. “Back off or I shoot.”

  He screamed like a banshee, stood, and headed directly toward me, holding something concealed behind his back.

  “Shoot him,” Jack said.

  “Stay right where you are,” I shouted.

  He paused, titled his head, and hissed through clenched teeth. I couldn’t be certain in this light, but it looked like he had several human fingers dangling from a necklace on his bare chest.

  I gently squeezed the trigger. If he took a step closer, I would drill a round through his forehead. He changed direction and headed to the front of the Jeep, trudging like a Neanderthal man. A large fire axe dropped by his side and its blade scraped against the road surface.

  “What the fuck is wrong with him?” Jack asked. “He’s another Amanda.”

  He stood two yards in front of our hood, raised the axe above his head with his right hand, and glared through the windshield with rage in his eyes. He spat at it, and a thick trail of saliva dribbled down the glass in front me.

  “Fuck this,” Jack said.

  He put the Jeep into drive, and as the man managed to free the axe and drew it back again, pressed the accelerator. We smashed directly into him, and he disappeared with a scream. I felt his body scrape against the underside of the Jeep, and the left rear tire bounced over him. Momentum took us straight over the spikes, and we advanced unsteadily through the debris.

  I looked back between the two front seats at the road behind us. The man lay motionless, arms by his side. Our tires quickly deflated, and Jack struggled to control the Jeep. We came to a juddering halt fifty yards away from the trap.

  “He’s not getting up anytime soon,” I said.

  “What the hell was that about?”

  I jumped out and swept the area with my rifle. “Just another poor victim of GA. Every one of these meetings emphasizes why we need to destroy those buggers.”

  “Agreed. Let’s get another car, and quick.”

  We shouldered our rifles and advanced along the highway in search of another vehicle. After quickly identifying a Chrysler whose only occupant was a corpse hanging out of the driver’s door, I pulled it out and we were on our way again.

  Just after three in the morning, we reached the outskirts of Montgomery and merged onto the road toward the house and farm, both of which held strong recent memories for me. Bernie and Jerry. Complete opposites and the wrong one had remained alive.

  Jack slowed the car to a crawl as we approached the farm’s entrance. “Which one first?”

  “The house. We should set fire to the barn when we’re ready to leave. Don’t want to advertise our location. If Jerry’s around and sees the smoke coming from the direction of his place . . .”

  Jack nodded and accelerated toward the house.

  We rumbled along the lane, past the burnt-out silhouettes of two properties. I peered back to Jerry’s farm on our right. No vehicles were parked around the farmhouse, and one of the barn doors hung open.

  “So far, so good,” I said.

  Jack swung the vehicle onto the crunchy gravel drive of the large white house and flicked on the Chrysler’s main beam. Neither of us said a word at what initially greeted us.

  Bernie’s rotting body gently rocked in the breeze, suspended from the porch’s roof by a rope around his neck. His clothes were filthy from his burial. I felt an intense rage bubble inside and clenched my fists.

  Jack growled and punched the steering wheel. “Those bastards. Are there any depths they won’t sink to?”

  “Jerry’s been here. Who else knew about Bernie and would do this?”

  I jumped out of the car and scanned the dark swaying trees that lined the edge of the property. Jerry could be close, and if he was, I wanted him hanging in Bernie’s place.

  “He might be at his farm,” Jack said.

  “God, I hope so.”

  We backed over to the ornate colonial porch. Jack glanced up at Bernie, swallowed hard, and bowed his head. He briefly closed his eyes, and his jaw twitched—something he often did when trying to maintain his composure. If it happened in a bar, that was my cue to get him out of the place, but this was altogether different.

  A piece of A4 paper hung from Bernie’s chest, held in place by a hunting knife that had been pushed in right up to the hilt. I leaned forward and ripped the paper down.

  “What does it say?” Jack asked, looking over my shoulder.

  I crumpled it up in my hands and gritted my teeth. “ ‘You’re both dead men. Jerry.’ ”

  Jack crouched and took a deep breath. “Let’s get to his farm. I’m going to gut him like a fish.”

  “Seems like a lot of effort just to send a message,” I said and glanced back at the road, conscious that this must have happened in the last few hours.

  “He’s ensured that he’s going to be the focus of my effort. When I get my hands on him . . .”

  I wondered if there was a lot more to Ron’s inner circle than just being deluded losers. You’ve got to be one sick bastard to pull a stunt like this.

  Jack reached up and grabbed the knife from Bernie’s chest. He slid it out, and I heard a metallic click. I grabbed his shoulder and ripped him back. “Get down.”

  I covered my head with my arms, and Jack followed suit. An explosion ripped through the air. Warm parts of Bernie splattered over my legs, back, and arms. My heart raced as I patted myself down for damp patches. I had learned this technique in the Army. With adrenaline pumping, an injury requiring immediate attention might not always be felt.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  Jack grimaced and rose to his feet. He peeled a large flap of skin off the side of his jeans and wiped himself down.

  The bottom half of Bernie’s body lay on the porch floor in a mangled mess. His neck still hung in the noose above, but only his chest and one arm were still attached. The house and porch were covered in a mix of shrapnel damage and our former friend.

  “Bastards!” Jack shouted at the top of his voice. “I’m coming for you, do you hear me?”

  “Jack,” I said, “we need to make sure it’s on our terms. If they’re around, they’ll have heard the explosion. We’ve got to move.”

  “I’m not leaving him like that, no way.” He grabbed the rope and cut it above the noose, and we carried Bernie’s remains to the back of the house.

  A spade was wedged into the turf next to the site of his exhumation. Jack dropped the parts into the grave. I placed the upper half on top and quickly scraped a thick layer of dirt over the hole.

  I looked at my clothes and shuddered. “Quick wash before we go. Then, straight to Jerry’s.”

  Jack nodded and followed me toward the back door.

  I pushed it open and made my way to the kitchen sink. The tap ran, but I resisted the temptation to have a drink, instead washing my face, hair, and arms clean. Jack took my place while I carried out a quick search of the ground floor. I sighed when looking in the dining room. Four dirty plates were still in position around the table—the place where we had eaten breakfast before heading out to Maybrook; it had turned out to be Bernie’s last meal. So much had happened since, that it seemed months rather than days ago.

  It also made me think of Lea. If Jerry and GA were prepared to do this to Bernie, I dreaded to think what they would do to her. My hopes lay with Martina saving her bacon, or the technology team, who at least seemed to have a shred of human decency.

  I returned to the kitchen, still concerned about the sound of the grenade alerting any nearby patrols. “Ready for Jerry’s? Then we’ll head to the city.”

  Jack wiped his face with a blue hand towel, threw it on the kitchen floor, and picked up his rifle. “Wild horses wouldn’t stop me.”

  I drove the Chrysler to within two hundred ya
rds of the farm. We hopped over a fence into a neighboring field and cautiously advanced to the back of Jerry’s barn—the same direction as our initial assault after his escape following Bernie’s murder.

  Jack edged around to the open door while I provided cover. He slipped into the barn, and quickly returned. “It’s gone.”

  “What? The device?”

  I brushed him to one side and peered into the gloom. Only a large square imprint in the dirt betrayed the device’s former location. Most of the supplies had been taken; a few empty cans dotted the ground. A high-frequency radio lay smashed to pieces in the center.

  “Reckon they’ve taken it to Hart Island?” Jack asked.

  “Maybe. I’m starting to think Jerry was in that chopper. How else could he have made it to Orange County before us?”

  “Wouldn’t mind searching a camp. Get my hands on a couple of rocket launchers.”

  “We might need something like that. Who knows what HQ is turning up with?”

  Jack rummaged around the clutter lining the far wall and held up two prods. “Thought they might have taken these.”

  “Probably don’t need them if they’ve got a tool like Brett’s.”

  Jack pressed a button on the handle. A blue light snapped between the two prongs, momentarily lighting up the barn.

  “At least we’ve got something to take to Morgan,” I said. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Not yet. I want to leave him a message.”

  He crossed the farmyard to the house, and I tried the door.

  “It’s locked, Jack. Do you really want to bother?”

  He returned to the barn, came back with a mallet, and passed me his flashlight.

  Jack smashed the living-room window and carefully knocked around the edges to remove sharp pieces of glass. I realized trying to stop him would be futile; he was intent on destroying Jerry’s property.

  He climbed through the window and glanced back. “You joining the party?”

  I shook my head and tossed his flashlight through the window. “I’ll watch from outside. Just get on with it.”