Darren Wearmouth - Second Activation

I liked his style. He reached through, unfastened the window, and jumped inside the house.

“You take upstairs. I’ll search down here,” I said.

“No worries.” He shouldered his rifle and crept to a large open entrance.

I began with the cabinets behind a long leather couch. This had clearly been a boat lovers’ place, with related maritime ornaments and pictures on the glass shelves. I wracked my brains, trying to think where they might store keys. I usually put them on the kitchen counter or in my jacket pocket.

“There’s a safe here,” Brett shouted. I ran up a varnished wooden staircase with an ornate banister and found him sitting on a queen-sized bed, fiddling with a metal box. “It’s okay—I can open it.”

I lowered my rifle and watched him place his ear close to the safe’s door and spin the dial. “I think you’ve been watching too many films, Brett.”

“I just need a drill.”

“A drill, seriously? Where are we going to find a fucking drill?” He looked slightly hurt and threw the box to one side. I sat on the bed next to him. “Sorry about that. It’s been a long day.”

The temptation to lie down and rest almost overwhelmed me.

Brett stood and picked up his rifle. “Let’s try next door. I’m not giving up that easily.”

Outside, I waved Jack over and we moved along the lake until we reached the next house with a dock. A smaller craft gently rocked at the end of it, but more importantly, it looked fast, like a speedboat.

Brett stayed by the boat and kept watch. I shouldered my rifle and covered Jack as he swung into the house. Two bodies lay on the ground in the front hallway, twisted miserable figures with pasted rotting death masks. I couldn’t afford to linger and moved around the bodies into the dining room. After checking the cupboards without success, I heard Jack’s gleefully whispered, “Yes!” Meeting me in the hallway, he held up the keys and a pair of binoculars.

I patted his back. “They’ll come in handy—good score. Where did you find them?”

“Keys on a hook in the kitchen. The binoculars were on a hat rack in the hall.”

We thudded back along the dock. Brett looked over in expectation. Jack rattled the keys and jumped behind the wheel. I untethered a thick, knotted rope from the mooring and hopped aboard before kicking us away. The boat gently floated free. Jack twisted the key in the ignition. The engine spluttered a few times but failed to start.

“Let me check that the fuel line’s connected,” Brett said.

I leaned by his side and watched him remove the upper casing, check the line, and prime the pump. He looked over his shoulder. “Give it another whirl.”

The engine spluttered again, then coughed into life. I felt a rush of excitement over hitting open water and making swift progress away from any chasing goons.

Jack pushed the throttle and we plowed away from the pontoon. I turned to get a view of the lakeside receding in the distance. Lights shone from the highway behind Luna Pier. A beam flashed across the water and positioned on us.

Automatic gunfire rattled in the distance. Brett and I ducked, although our fiberglass hull wouldn’t stop an accurate round. He shot me a nervous glance. “Holy shit, Harry. They’ve found us.”

I guessed they were around seven hundred meters away and gaining distance every second. “Don’t worry from this range.”

Jack increased the throttle, and the boat rhythmically bounced across the surface, leaving a frothing white wake across the black water. We probably weren’t identifiable from this range as their quarry, but we were a sign of life.

A window on the side of the boat exploded inward and glass shattered across the small deck. A single loud crack echoed in the distance.

“Shit, that sounded like a high-powered rifle,” I said. “Keep your heads down.”

As we headed south, more bursts of fire followed. I could just about identify the muzzle flashes sparking around the distant vehicle lights. A couple of tracer rounds whizzed overhead, but we took no more hits and powered around a headland, out of sight.

I joined Jack at the front of the boat. “Great call on the boat. They can’t have been far behind.”

“Let’s hope they don’t arrange a welcoming party when we get back to dry land.”

“They don’t know it’s us. We can’t be the only people left alive around here.”

“Bit of a coincidence, though?” Brett said.

“Unless they get a boat, we’ll outstrip them by miles, and they won’t know our docking point.”

I could understand his paranoia, but our current situation felt relatively safe compared to Bernie’s apartment in Queens, a dark highway, or the pit of bodies that I couldn’t stop thinking about.

Jack kept the boat a couple hundred yards from shore, and we cut through the water at speed. I breathed in fresh air as wind rushed against my face. A surge of positivity ran through me. For now we had escaped, and I was sure we were ahead of the game.

“We should have killed Anthony when we had the chance,” Jack said. “I can’t see him backing off any time soon.”

“Fuck him. We’ve a clear focus now. Hart Island. We’ll collect Morgan and his gang if they’re still alive, and end this thing.”

“Who’s Morgan?” Brett asked.

“He leads a survivor group in New York,” Jack said. “We can gather extra manpower for an assault.”

“There’s only two GA on the island,” Brett said. “If we get there first, I’m sure you can deal with them. I don’t think we should waste time finding people we don’t need.”

Jack glanced across to me and frowned. I knew he wouldn’t like Brett trying to dictate proceedings. But Brett had crucial information, and we were all in this mission together. The local team was heading to Hart Island, and more ominously, larger forces were on their way, and would possibly sweep all of us away if they caught us.

“Brett’s right,” I said. “We waste no time and get there first. After that, we’ll round up Morgan’s group, if they’re still around, and work out how we deal with the rest of GA.”

The clouds broke overhead as we continued toward Ohio. Bright moonlight provided good visibility of buildings lining the shore and small islands on the lake. For the first time in days, I felt free from the threat of a surprise attack from around any corner.

I sat next to Brett on the plastic-covered foam bench and leaned forward with my head in my hands, feeling a sudden release of tension. I groggily looked up at Jack, who sat in the control chair, slumped forward resting on his elbows until a wave jerked him upright.

For the next twenty minutes, Brett and I had a nostalgic chat about sport and our former lives. It turned out we both loved football and had been in the same stadium on a few occasions, supporting opposite teams. We even liked the same pubs in London, like the Sherlock Holmes on Northumberland Avenue and The Ship Tavern near Lincoln’s Inn Fields. I’d warmed to him since our first meeting on Otter Creek Road and felt pleased we had him on-board.

Brett joined Jack at the front of the boat. I yawned and rested my head on the bench.

Jack shoved me awake. I blinked to focus on our surroundings. The boat gently rocked on the water. Brett lay snoozing on the opposite bench.

I sat up and groaned. “Where are we?”

“I’ve taken us south for the last hour. We might be hitting Ohio soon.”

“How about fuel?”

“I think we’ll be okay if the gauge is right.”

I stood and headed for the wheel. “Get your head down. I’ll take over.”

Jack nudged past me and collapsed onto the bench. His body entirely relaxed.

I increased the throttle, felt the bite of blades in the water, and we lurched forward. A compass close to the steering wheel showed our heading, and I adjusted the direction to south.