Second Activation (The Activation Series Book 2)

by Darren Wearmouth

  “How did you end up in a lab? Sounds like you got screwed,” I said.

  “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you another day . . .”

  Although it hadn’t been long since our last meal, entering a dangerous city left the timing of our next unknown. Numerous things could happen that would deprive us of food. Better to get more energy into our systems while we had chance, I thought.

  “Take us in nice and slow, Rick,” I said. “I’m going to prepare us a snack before leaving.”

  I returned to the cabin and heated water on the gas stove to make some chicken-flavored instant noodles. My watch matched the time on the wall clock. Quarter past eleven on Saturday morning. We’d made excellent progress since our escape from Monroe, but I was aware that we’d dropped our guard to make up the ground. Back in Queens, we couldn’t make the same concessions.

  I took a large bowl and three forks back to the cockpit, along with a bottle of sparkling water.

  Rick smiled, the first genuine one since I’d met him. “We docked here when taking clients to see the Mets.”

  “Go for it,” I said.

  I picked up a folded map from a shelf and oriented our docking position in relation to the expressway where we’d last seen Morgan. After that, I ran my finger across to Hart Island.

  Rick expertly guided the cruiser while swooping his fork into the bowl I placed on the dash. He tossed it overboard after finishing and focused on the controls as we crawled to within twenty feet of dry land.

  Jack and I aimed at the surrounding boats in case there were any nasty surprises. Our cruiser gently brushed alongside a vacant jetty. From here, we could spend no more than two days trying to build our army. Any more, and we’d risk facing HQ and a second activation.

  I jumped onto the jetty’s wooden planks and secured our rope to a post.

  “Weapons check before we head off,” Jack said.

  We individually tested our firearms on the sundeck. I glanced across to Rick who showed no signs of nerves. This morning gave him all the motivation he needed to act. Wellins Calcott once wrote, “He that has revenge in his power, and does not use it, is the greater man.” On this occasion, I disagreed.

  I gathered the other two in a huddle and spread the map across the deck “Here’s the plan. We gather everyone we can in the next forty-eight hours, starting with a search of Aldi. After that, we hit Hart Island with everything we’ve got. It might be three days to the activation, but we don’t know what time it’s going off.”

  “And if there’s only three of us?” Rick asked.

  “We come up with a strategy to beat them,” Jack said. “We should scout out Hart Island tonight or tomorrow. Find out their positions.”

  “Tonight,” I said. “Gives us more time to work on it and think about what we need.”

  I shouldered a pack filled with the Coke, water, cookies, and dried fruit.

  Feeling organized for the first time in a week, we headed into Flushing, fed and armed. This time we also had the experience of the past nine days: ignoring the dead, identifying friend or foe, staying away from any black Range Rovers.

  We headed for Citi Field, home of the New York Mets. Jack and I had planned to catch a game last week. It stood solemnly, empty and quiet as garbage drifted around its base. I ignored the temptation to look inside.

  Stadiums had always fascinated me. I’ll never forget walking into my first big game as a child, hearing the roar of the crowd, smelling the enticing waft of junk food, and marveling at thousands of people, tightly packed together, focusing on the same thing.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Jack said.

  “Doubt I’ll ever feel it again.”

  “Van Wyk’s on the other side; it’s straightforward from here,” Rick said.

  I checked the map and confirmed our route from Citi Field, along the road, to the junction of the Long Island Expressway. It seemed sensible to use vehicles for cover and to avoid suburbia.

  We continued past the stadium along Roosevelt Avenue. After crossing a rail track, we dropped onto the expressway, heading south.

  It took thirty minutes of brisk movement to get to the store, weaving between battered vehicles and stepping over bodies and pieces of wreckage. We encountered no immediate signs of life, although a single distant scream momentarily halted our progress.

  The mound of bodies in the Aldi parking lot had increased in size, although not significantly. Around forty fully clothed corpses were piled next to a row of shopping carts, rotting in the midday sun. I ran my hand over the splintered door, remembering the woman slamming her axe against it, in pursuit of Morgan and Harris.

  Jack shoved the door open and entered. I followed into the dimly lit supermarket and lowered my rifle. Most aisles had been cleared, apart from a section of electrical goods. Empty cardboard boxes littered the floor. Although the group wasn’t here, the signs were positive.

  “Must have found a safe place,” Jack said. “Transported the useful stock.”

  “A defendable building with living quarters,” I thought aloud and turned to Rick. “Do you know what might fit the bill?”

  “Could be any number of places. Your guess is as good as mine.”

  I pulled the map out of my back pocket. “We can cover the area between here and the boat. Reassess after we’ve swept Flushing. Let’s get out of here and organize a plan of attack.”

  We filed out into the parking lot. I led us below the expressway and stood next to one of its large concrete supports.

  Something moved to our left. Tapping against the concrete.

  Jack crouched and aimed. A cat scampered across the road. He lowered his rifle and puffed out his cheeks.

  Since I can remember, Jack has loved animals. It would devastate him if he shot one by accident.

  I spread the map against the concrete support and studied it. “Through the park, past the golf center, across to Citi Field. Looks like some big buildings around there.”

  I stuffed the map back in my pocket and headed for the park. An engine rattled in the distance. Not like a car or truck—more like a tractor. The grass below my feet had been recently cut, post-activation, a strange sight in our current environment. Rick ducked behind a tree. Jack and I both followed suit. Surely, it couldn’t be?

  “Hold steady lads,” I said. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  I ducked through a wooded area, maple to ash, until I caught sight of a man navigating a dark-green riding mower on the other side. He trundled along a golf fairway, cigarette in mouth, throwing up shreds of grass behind him. I had to do a double take before sprinting back to Jack and Rick.

  “What the hell is it?” Jack said.

  I leaned against a tree and took a few breaths. “You’re not going to believe this. A bloke’s mowing a golf course.”

  Jack frowned and peered through the trees.

  “Maybe he’s just crazy?” Rick said. “Sticking to what he knew before the world crumbled around him?”

  “No way,” Jack said. “We haven’t seen anyone else do shit like that.”

  “I’ll hold him at gunpoint and ask,” I said. “We haven’t got time to hang around anymore.”

  “What? Are you crazy?” Rick said.

  I ignored Rick and put a round in the chamber. “Jack, cover me in the woods. Rick, move to the end of the tree line and cover the right flank.”

  “If you sense trouble, get down. You drop, I fire,” Jack said.

  “Into positions; I’ll give you two minutes,” I said.

  Jack and Rick weaved between the trees in opposite directions. I waited for the second hand on my watch to complete two revolutions.

  I moved back to the golf course. The mower swept around the far end of the fairway. I knew Jack would choose a good position and hoped Rick had the sense to do the same.

  I broke c
over after the mower turned away. The man continued on his line for fifty yards, before swinging back toward me. I immediately caught his attention. The mower abruptly stopped. He stood over the wheel and took off his earmuffs.

  He seemed to be trying to recognize me and leaned forward, holding his palm over his eyes. I waved my left hand. He plucked a handheld radio from his belt and pressed it against his mouth.

  I jogged over to him with my rifle held by my side, finger on the trigger. He looked around fifty years old, bald, slightly overweight, and he squinted at me.

  “I don’t want any trouble,” he said in a New York accent.

  “Who did you just call?” I said.

  He pointed to a stadium on our left hand side. “Security. You’re not with the company.”

  “Are you Genesis Alliance?”

  “Gene— . . . Who?”

  I prepared to spring the rifle up. “Don’t mess with me. Genesis Alliance. Are you with them?”

  He took off a gardening glove and wiped his brow. “Buddy, I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about. I’m with the company.”

  “What company?”

  “The guy who runs it, Morgan, he calls it ‘the company.’ ”

  “Bad-tempered twat in a cream blazer?”

  “Doesn’t wear one of those, but sounds like you know him. He’s organizing a new society.”

  “Where’s it based?”

  “The stadium. We’re building outward once we get more numbers. For now, it’s cleaning up the immediate area.”

  I looked at the mower and surrounding area, most of it neatly manicured. “He’s got you cutting grass? Strange priority.”

  “Hey, I don’t make up the rules. I’m just happy to be here.”

  He glanced over my shoulder. I spun around. A police cruiser rolled across the grass, suspension rocking against the undulating ground. I gestured a “stay down” signal toward the trees.

  The cruiser eased its way down the fairway and stopped twenty yards from me. Two men exited, both wearing filthy uniforms. One aimed a gun from behind the open passenger door, and the other stepped slowly forward, holding his gun in one arm and a pair of cuffs in the other. Judging by their drill and dress, they were possibly former police officers.

  “What’s your business here, sir?” the closest asked.

  “I’ve come to find Morgan,” I said and moved my hand away from my rifle. “I need to speak with him, urgently.”

  He raised an eyebrow and aimed at my chest. “Oh, really?”

  “Yes, really. Put your gun down. I’ll explain on the way.”

  “You don’t call the shots around here, smart ass. We’re taking you in.”

  “Didn’t I just ask you to do that?”

  His face fell. “Drop your weapon, cross your hands on your head, and step away from the mower.”

  This felt ridiculous. I considered dropping to the floor and letting Jack and Rick take them out. But that was no way to introduce ourselves to Morgan and his company.

  I rolled my eyes, placed my rifle on the ground, and raised my hands. The closest man collected it and shoved me toward the cruiser.

  “Get in the front,” he said. “One move and I’ll blow your brains out.”

  “What’s your problem, mate?” I said.

  “I’m not your mate. Shut the fuck up.”

  He needlessly pressed my head down when I stooped to get into the cruiser. I resisted the urge to break his nose and flopped into the seat. They had radios and some sort of mini laptop between the two front seats; I doubted any were in service until the radio beeped and squelched.

  “Confirm hostile apprehended,” a voice with an English accent said.

  The driver picked up the mic and depressed a button on the side. “Confirmed. We’re coming in.”

  The cruiser bumped over the grass and onto a road. It continued along a pleasant tree-lined street and headed for the Flushing Meadows tennis center. Neither of the two aggressive lawmen spoke to me; one drove, and the other kept poking his gun into the back of my head.

  I mentally thanked Jack for restraint and hoped he and Rick would stay hidden until I could get back to them after negotiating and making this group aware of the upcoming danger.

  The cruiser stopped in front of a large stadium. Its huge angular bowl rose into the sky. Two smaller arenas sat to either side of it, with a number of walled-off areas between, presumably other tennis courts. Two armed guards stood by the main entrance area. They took up alert positions on our arrival. One followed the cruiser with his shotgun barrel. The police officer who had taken my rifle opened the passenger door and reached in to drag me out.

  I pushed his arm out of the way. “Thank you, Officer, but I don’t need your assistance.”

  He grabbed a chunk of my sweater. “Whatever.”

  I shrugged off his grip and got out of the cruiser. He hustled me to the main entrance of Arthur Ashe Stadium and pushed me in the back when we neared the guards. I staggered a couple of paces forward and glared over my shoulder. I could understand how they would have encountered some unsavory characters in the last few days, but I found his behavior a bit trying. We were fellow survivors, and I showed no signs of being a danger.

  “Found this one wandering the golf course,” he said. “He’s a bird; take him down for orientation.”

  One of the guards, a tall thin man with circular spectacles, seemed to relax and opened up a gold-framed glass door.

  “I’m a what?” I asked.

  “I guess you were in the air when the shit hit the fan? That makes you a bird.”

  “And the people on the ground?”

  “Dogs. We get more trouble from them. Unpredictable bunch, need to be quarantined.”

  “Which are you?”

  “None of your business.”

  The police officer passed him my rifle.

  “Thanks, Charlie, we’ll take it from here.”

  He grunted in reply and turned back toward his cruiser.

  “Hey, Charlie,” I said, “be careful. It’s a dangerous world out there.”

  He waved dismissively and climbed back into his cruiser. Seconds later, it pulled away.

  The other guard, a young brown-haired woman in a blue jumpsuit, raised a small yellow walkie-talkie. “We need a mentor down here for orientation.”

  “Roger that” crackled back.

  “This way. You can wait inside,” she said.

  I followed her into the gleaming foyer and gazed at the metal-rimmed, semicircular walnut reception desk. A large emblem of a silver tennis ball with a trailing flame decorated the wall behind it. Pictures of former champions lined the upper wall. Morgan probably had his minions polishing the trophies.

  The woman stood by my side and stared at the pictures. “Are you a tennis fan?”

  “Sports fan. It just feels . . .”

  “Strange? I know. I never imagined living here, but we’re creating something.”

  I’d built up a defensive barrier over the last two weeks, so couldn’t immediately return with a positive comment. Instead, I bowed my head and fidgeted with my sleeve.

  “It’s okay,” she said in a reassuring way. “We’re not the enemy. We need to stick together.”

  “Is Morgan here?”

  “You know him?”

  “We arrived on the same plane and met outside Aldi. He acted like a bit of a jerk.”

  She smiled and stifled a laugh. “We moved from Aldi five days ago. The crazies still eat, and a supermarket is like a big flashing light. Sleeping on a cold vinyl floor was also a pain in the ass. Morgan and the board have been working hard to gather survivors and create a new community here. It’s still early, but . . .”

  “The board?” I said. “We’re all in grave danger. Your community needs to face it down.”


  “We haven’t seen any infected for two days. There are still crazies out there, but their numbers are shrinking. We’re sure of it.”

  “It’s far from over. Something big’s coming this way.”

  “You know what’s gone down?”

  “To a small extent.”

  She looked over my shoulder. I turned to see a familiar face. A short man with greasy brown hair, wearing a black Rolling Stones T-shirt with a large pair of red lips on the front.

  “Harris, right?” I asked.

  “Good memory. See if I can remember yours . . . Bernie?”

  I felt a mix of anger and sadness at the mention of his name. Every time I’d forged a bond since landing, GA had taken it away. Linda and Bernie. Brett, with his family probably still in captivity. And Lea could be lying in a GA pit for all I knew. They made it personal. I had to convince this group to help.

  “The name’s Harry, and I need to speak with Morgan, urgently.”

  He extended his hand. “Morgan isn’t going to be pleased to see you. He blamed you guys for that woman showing up.”

  “I’ve seen the pile of bodies outside Aldi. Is he really that one-eyed and stupid?”

  Harris smiled. “You sound just like him. Come on; I’ll take you up to orientation.”

  I followed him through a series of disorienting blue-carpeted corridors and up a flight of stairs, past framed photographs of past glories. The place was spotless but couldn’t escape the odor from the rest of the city. He led me into a small office, sat behind a sturdy oak desk, and shuffled a pile of papers.

  He nodded at the bench on the other side. “Take a seat.”

  I flopped onto the bench and looked at two folders, one with “Dogs” and one with “Birds” written on the spine in white correction fluid. He put on a pair of half-moon spectacles, picked up a pen, and cleared his throat. “I need to take down some information. It’s part of the process.”

  Irritation rose inside of me. I didn’t want to lose precious time with corporate bullshit. “Harris, when you realize what the hell’s going—”

  He sat back in his chair and sighed. “You haven’t got a choice—I don’t have a choice. If you want to speak with Morgan . . .”