Second Activation (The Activation Series Book 2)

by Darren Wearmouth

  “We’ve come across some pretty unpredictable behavior,” Jack said. “We can talk about what they did to the planet after we’ve sorted this situation out.”

  “Who are they? Do you know who did this? You can’t—”

  “It can wait for now. Trust me,” I said.

  His eyes narrowed and he pointed to the corpse. “No it can’t, not if you have something to do with my brother’s death.”

  “Yes, it bloody well can,” I said. “We deal with this, and then we talk.”

  A glass object smashed at the bottom of the stairs, followed by a whoosh of flames.

  Smoke drifted across the basement ceiling. I grabbed a folded blanket from under the desk, edged to the stairs, and tried to beat the fire, keeping my body out of view. A round smacked into the wall above my arm.

  She must have made and tossed down a homemade type of petrol bomb to smoke us out.

  “Give me a bunk-up to the window,” Jack said.

  “A what?” Rick said.

  “Don’t worry about it, Rick,” I said and passed him my rifle. “Keep an eye on the entrance. If she comes down, turn her head into a block of Swiss cheese.”

  I immediately knew what Jack had in mind. He made his way to the window, stretched up, twisted the lock, and pushed it open. I clasped my hands together and rested them on my right thigh. Jack hoisted himself on my improvised support and wriggled through the window onto a lawn outside.

  I passed him his rifle. “Good luck.”

  “If I’m not back in two minutes . . .”

  Crackling flames licked the roof above the stairs. We weren’t engulfed in smoke, but very soon it would be a serious issue. I took my rifle from Rick and stooped by the wall.

  Faint footsteps creaked overhead. Jack on his way. I shouted to draw the woman’s attention. “One of us is coming up. Do you promise not to shoot?”

  “Come up—” she said.

  I heard one more creak before a shot rang out. Something heavy tumbled down the stairs.

  I prayed it wasn’t Jack and aimed around the corner.

  A woman lay in a strange upside-down position, arms covering her face. Her hair singed in the flames and her jacket caught fire.

  Jack shielded his eyes and peered through the thickening smoke. He coughed twice. “She set fire to the couch too. It’s not pretty up here. I’ll come back to the window.”

  Rick looked down at my rifle. “How many people have you killed?”

  “Only ones that want to kill me,” I said.

  “Do you know when it might all end?”

  “A techy guy gave us some info that might just—”

  Jack ducked by window. “Hurry up. We’re gonna be seen from miles around.”

  “Where are the weapons, Rick?” I said.

  “This way.” He led me to a large wooden chest next to the fridge. “He keeps his guns in here.”

  I slid the chest to the center of the basement. Smoke thickened around me, and I squatted to breathe fresher air.

  Rick knelt by his brother and fumbled with his belt.

  “Got any tools down here? We need a bar, a hammer,” I said and pulled my sweater over my mouth and nose. The back of my throat stung, and my eyes streamed. I suppressed a cough and rattled the chunky brass padlock.

  He threw me a bunch of keys. “It’s the small one.”

  I clicked open the lock and swung open the chest, revealing a small host of weapons and boxes of ammunition. I reached for a hunting rifle. Rick threw out an arm and held me back.

  “What’s wrong? We’ll choke down here,” I said.

  “It’s like we’re looting my dead brother’s house . . .”

  “Not being funny, Rick, but—” I coughed five times in quick succession. “You need to make a decision. Now.”

  He lowered his arm. “Get what you need.”

  I thought about giving him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder but didn’t want to waste any time. I grabbed a Remington hunting rifle complete with telescopic sight.

  “Hurry the fuck up,” Jack said.

  Rick squinted and blinked. We probably had a minute before being overcome. He slid a magazine into the grip of a Glock.

  “We’ll sort the weapons outside,” I said. “Just grab it for now.”

  He passed me seven boxes of rounds, which I threw through the window. He tossed out a Colt revolver and a Glock.

  It felt like my lungs were about to burst. “Let’s get out of here.”

  He scrambled over and crouched by his brother for a few moments. I pulled the chair over to the window, grabbed the frame, and hauled myself out. I rolled on grass away from the billowing smoke pouring out of the window and gratefully gulped clean air.

  “Rick, come on, you’ll die down there,” Jack said.

  Rick threw a black bag and two hunting knives out. Jack grabbed his arm, assisting him to safety. He flopped on the grass next to me and leaned back on his elbows. None of this could have been easy for him.

  Jack stuffed guns and ammo into the bag and slung it over his shoulder. I grabbed the Remington in my left hand and peered up at black smoke, pumping into the clear blue sky.

  “Back to the car before any others show up,” I said.

  We jogged to the highway, although my tight chest hindered my pace. I jumped into the back, letting the others take the front. Jack punched the accelerator and headed in the direction of New York City.

  “That rifle’s a decent score,” Jack said. “Could have done with it in Ohio.”

  Rick stabbed his finger at Jack. “Hey, that’s my bro’s stuff—have some respect.”

  I acknowledged him with a raised hand but kept my eyes firmly on the road ahead. We would soon be in an urban jungle with threats everywhere; sentimentality would only lead to mistakes. I realized my thoughts had a hint of callousness, but our time for remembrance would come if we remained focused on our immediate objectives.

  “Do you know the way to the Long Island Expressway in Queens?” I asked.

  “Is that where the other guys are?” Rick said. “If the highway stays like this, maybe twenty minutes.”

  “It’s where they were. We need to stop, check weapons, and get ourselves ready.”

  “Take the next exit. I know a good spot.”

  Under Rick’s direction, Jack took us through a small housing development, under the highway, and toward the edge of a tree-lined reservoir. He parked on the grass on the side of the road.

  We sat silently for a few moments, surveying all around. I lowered my window and listened for any suspicious sounds in close proximity. A large white bird flapped over the reservoir.

  “Let’s do it here. Stay alert,” I said.

  I popped open the trunk and pulled out the black bag. Jack checked the hunting rifle over with an air of efficiency. Rick had kept hold of the Glock after leaving the house, and gave it a once-over. I placed rounds into the Colt’s cylinder and threw it back in the trunk before topping up my rifle mag.

  “I get a feeling there’s something you’re not telling me,” Rick said. “What was it you said back at my bro’s? Something about a techy guy?”

  “Do you know where Hart Island is from here?” I asked.

  “Sure, it’s close. What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Some of the people who caused this mess are probably there,” Jack said.

  Rick’s eyes widened. “Seriously? Let’s go. I’m in the mood to kick some ass.”

  I shook my head. “We can’t just rock up, all guns blazing. There’re too many of them.”

  “We get the others from New York to help us, right?”

  “We’ll see,” Jack said. “First, they need to be alive; second, they have to believe us.”

  “Who are these fuckers in Hart Island?” Rick said.

 
“They’re a group called Genesis Alliance,” I said. “They used a network of devices to send something called an activation. There’s another one coming on Tuesday.”

  “Will it turn us into psychos?”

  “No,” Jack said. “We’ve been neutralized and can help you too.”

  Rick folded his arms and glowered at Jack. “How do you know all of this?”

  “We met a member of their techy team. They killed him yesterday afternoon after he decided to help us. All we’ve got to do is zap you several times on the head with a cattle prod.”

  “For the sake of full disclosure,” I said, “we tried it on an old guy in Ohio, and he dropped dead.”

  “A cattle prod shouldn’t kill you, man. We used to play around with them as kids.”

  “Just warning you. If you do it, it’s at your own risk.”

  “What choice have I got? I don’t want to end up like my . . .” he looked away.

  “Are you one hundred percent sure?” I asked.

  Rick placed his Glock on the grass and turned back to me with a steely resolve in his eyes. “I’m ready—go for it.”

  I retrieved a prod from the trunk and passed it to Jack. Rick seemed very trusting, although if I were in his shoes, I’d also take the gamble if it meant avoiding a second activation. Any survivor wanting to make it in this world had to adapt to strange choices. If I thought deeply enough about killers, I might come to the conclusion that we were murdering innocent people. Getting wrapped around the axle about the morals of our predicament would only damage our chances of seeing this thing through.

  Jack circled Rick and held the prod toward the back of his head. “Ready?”

  He took a deep breath. “They told you it would work, right?”

  “We’d have to be some kind of weird perverts if we were lying,” I said.

  “Do it.”

  Jack pressed the button. The prod let out an electric snap.

  Rick lurched forward and grabbed the back of his head. “Argh, you mother—”

  “Can you handle a few more?” Jack asked.

  “Do I need to?”

  “Apparently,” I said.

  He stood upright and tensed his arms by his side in anticipation. Jack zapped five more times. Rick took it like a man. I was glad Brett had been able to use his strange device on me.

  “What happens if it doesn’t work?” he said.

  “It’ll work, don’t worry,” I said, completely unsure of my words. “Even if it doesn’t, you won’t die; you’ll end up heading to Genesis Alliance to be turned into a laborer.”

  “Laborer? What else are you not telling me?”

  Jack threw the prod in the trunk and slammed it shut. “GA is going to mount a cleanup operation using survivors to do the grunt work.”

  “There’s nothing more to it,” I said. “All you need to know is they’re dangerous, probably on Hart Island, and we need to hit them within three days.”

  “Can we see Hart Island on our way to the Long Island Expressway?” Jack asked.

  “I don’t think so, unless we took a detour. We should get going and find your friends. I want a piece of Genesis Alliance.”

  “Food first, guys,” Jack said. “Let’s try a house on the other side of the highway.”

  Our growing experience in searching houses, avoiding the corpses, and finding supplies had led to increased operational efficiency. We returned to the car with canned Vienna sausages, cheese-flavored Doritos, bottled water, and Coke. I split the food, and we shared our views on the possibilities of an unaffected enclave in northern England. The general conclusion was, if it existed, we all wanted in, away from the nightmare Genesis Alliance had created elsewhere.

  “I saw something yesterday evening that might be connected to all this,” Rick said. “Two jumbo jets flew over my house.”

  “What time? Heading to New York?” I said.

  I feared that this could be the first tangible piece of evidence that HQ had arrived.

  “Around six. I think they were going to Albany. Not sure where else a plane that size could land in the area.”

  “Where’s Albany?” Jack asked.

  “A hundred and fifty miles north. Do you think it’s Genesis Alliance?”

  “They’re sending a force over from the UK. We thought by boat,” I said. “Doesn’t change our plan, but it injects more urgency, not that we needed it.”

  “Just how big is Genesis Alliance?” Rick asked.

  “Big enough,” Jack said. “Are you with us?”

  “Sure, a chance to avenge my brother, family, friend, and all those other folks. I’d be pissed if you didn’t want me to come for the ride.”

  He aggressively threw half a hotdog at a nearby car—a pointless gesture, I thought. His mind was probably all over the place. Whose wouldn’t be after finding their brother dead and learning about Genesis Alliance?

  Jack eased the car from the grass and back onto the Hutchinson River Parkway. A straight path cut through the middle lane. Cleared for us, courtesy of GA.

  The closer we got to the city, the more buildings lined the edge of the highway. Perfect vantage points for concealed shooters or hidden crazies. I pushed the thoughts to the back of my mind. So far we’d come across very few people. I suspected most of those alive, with their senses intact, would be hiding.

  There were intermittent signs of recent activity; a chilling warning, spray-painted on a Dell advertising board, advising drivers against entering New York due to toxic spills. Another board had the word ‘Help’ sprayed in red over a Big Mac, and an arrow pointing left.

  We didn’t stop for anything. I spotted a person walking across a golf course a few minutes before we reached the Bronx-Whitestone Bridge. He turned and ran in the opposite direction when he noticed our vehicle.

  Jack pulled the car to the side of the highway when the bridge came into view, and swore under his breath. An alternative route would be required. I disembarked and advanced up the rise of the bridge to get a better view of the scene.

  Something moved ahead. I dropped to one knee and aimed.

  A fox ran from an open SUV door, straight past me, and vanished in the wasteland on my left. I peered into the SUV and realized this might be the fox’s regular feeding spot. Most of the left arm and parts of the driver’s face had bone exposed. A green-faced passenger, heavily bloated and missing a nose, sat next to him. His body strained against the seat belt, on the brink of a disgusting explosion.

  Near the top of the rise, I saw the true extent of damage only glimpsed from farther away. The bridge’s midsection looked as though it had snapped. Two previously adjoining road sections slumped into the river. A dramatic and unwelcome view.

  Rick shielded his eyes from the sun and gasped. “Jesus, GA must have some serious firepower.”

  “I don’t get why they did it,” Jack said. “What’s the point?”

  “Who knows what goes through their twisted heads?” I said.

  I looked east, across the wasteland. A distant bridge also appeared heavily damaged. Closer to us, along the coast, pontoons jutted out from the land around half a mile away, a potential option if we wanted to avoid the claustrophobic confines of Manhattan.

  7

  We could cut through Manhattan, take the tunnel,” Rick said.

  “I don’t fancy having a flat tire in a tunnel—seen that kind of thing before,” Jack said.

  “It’s got to be a boat; we’ll see anyone coming,” I said.

  Rick and Jack loaded our food supplies and cattle prods into the large bag. We hopped over a small wall and hiked across the weed-infested wasteland.

  Boats dotted the glinting East River, some at anchor, a few purposelessly drifting, most aground at random points along the shore. Rick led us behind a copse of trees that blanketed the faint eerie sounds of the city. He
staggered down to a dark sandy beach and headed for a row of jetties.

  He broke into a jog for the closest boat. I’d already pinned him as an excitable chap and planned to brief him about our generally slower and more cautious mode of operation.

  Jack and I shouldered our rifles and surveyed the area.

  Rick stamped along the first jetty to a secured white cruiser. He spun and raised his arm in a salute. I waved back.

  The name Candy Cane stretched along the side of the boat in flamboyant red lettering. Even in my ignorance of boats, I couldn’t help feeling impressed with its sleek contours. Rick climbed to the cockpit and checked the controls.

  Jack kicked the cabin doors open and immediately ducked through the door. I followed, gazing around at the luxurious interior. A white-cushioned seating area curved around a solid timber table. On the opposite side, a row of kitchen units ended with a bar in the corner. Through the rear door, a very comfortable-looking double bed with an en-suite shower room. Expensive branded clothes and shoes filled the closets.

  The boat made a rumbling noise and vibrated slightly after Rick started the engine. I rushed back out to the sun deck.

  Rick stood behind the wheel, elevated a few feet above me. “Where to, boys?”

  “Flushing Bay seems about right,” I said. “That’s probably the closest place to reach the Expressway.”

  He eased the boat toward the center of the river while Jack and I settled on a comfortable blue leather bench. The boat picked up speed, and we bounced along with a stiff breeze in our faces. A slight smell of burning fuel provided a welcome relief from decomposition and rot. Rick slowed the boat as we cruised past Rikers Island and veered toward Flushing Bay.

  I gazed at La Guardia Airport. Deserted and reminiscent of JFK. A few planes were spread around the runway, parked at strange angles. After we chugged deeper into the bay, Jack and I joined Rick in the cockpit. He aimed for a marina with the imposing Citi Field Stadium directly behind it.

  “You’re good with boats, Rick—did you have one before the end?” Jack said.

  “I worked on a cruiser in a former life, serving drinks to big shots.” He spat the last five words. “It wasn’t all bad; my boss paid for skipper training.”