Darren Wearmouth - Second Activation

I decided to let both Jack and Brett sleep for as long as possible. Dawn broke just before six in the morning, and they both must have gotten at least two hours. I glanced back at Jack and wondered about his recent actions and temperament.

He stirred in his sleep and raised his arm, like he was weakly fighting off an invisible fly. I hoped he would keep cool with whatever happened now in our bid to trash the local GA operation. The action at Ron’s house had shown that when Jack was cornered, he struck back. I needed to channel him in the right way.

In the growing light, only the occasional bird swooping up and down gave any sign of life. The coastline curved ahead of us to the right, and I spotted a small group of islands to our port side.

I angled the boat toward a large island with a prominent landmark, a huge Doric column with a viewing platform at the top, stretching over three hundred feet into the sky. I followed the island’s rocky coastline, looking for a suitable place to dock. Jack must have felt a slight variation in course as the water rocked the boat in the stronger current. He yawned, stretched on the bench, and looked around.

“Wasn’t the coast to our right?” he said.

“Yeah, but I found an island—might give us a chance for a break and a fuel stop.”

He joined me by the wheel and rubbed his eyes. “How long have I been asleep?”

“Couple of hours. I’m thinking we dock the boat somewhere secluded and scavenge for fuel and food.”

“Or find a bigger boat. It’s the safest I’ve felt since landing,” Jack said.

The coastline began to turn inward in the direction of the huge monument. Jack and I both stared at the structure, gleaming white in the early morning sunshine and surrounded by lush grass. It looked like an inviting place to go ashore.

Our chatter woke Brett. He joined us at the front of the boat and started at the sight of the monument. “What’s that?”

“No idea,” I said. “But we’re going to find out.”

I eased down the throttle and approached the rocky shore. Jack shouldered his rifle and scanned the area through the sights. The boat’s hull scraped over a rock, and he gripped the side to maintain balance. Brett dropped over the side into waist-high water, gasped, and pulled the boat toward the shore, using the uneven lake bed as leverage. The hull juddered over several more rocks, but we were close enough to dry land.

Jack slung on his pack and splashed into a foot of water. He ran over to a small copse of trees and dropped to one knee, taking up a covering position. I threw Brett his rifle, and he joined Jack, awkwardly hunching into the same position and held his rifle forward, away from his shoulder. I gave him full marks for trying.

I secured the boat’s rope to a concrete bollard and visually swept the area of manicured grass surrounding the monument.

“I doubt GA will follow us here,” Jack said.

“They haven’t got the manpower to search these islands and get Hart Island working at the same time, if they want to do it in three days,” Brett said.

His statement reminded me that we couldn’t hang around and lose our advantage. I looked toward the distant coastline of the mainland. “I’ve a feeling Anthony and Jerry won’t give up that easily. That monument has a platform at the top. We can have a quick look before heading off.”

“What’s the plan?” Jack asked.

“Grab fuel and supplies and hit the mainland.”

Moving slowly across the grass, I aimed left. A starling burst out of a tree and flew away. Boats gently rocked in their moorings on the other side of the thin section of island, and the rising sun reflected off the lake. Above the monument’s grand entrance, a plaque read: “Perry’s Monument—South Bass Island.” A twisted male corpse lay face down on the grass next to the open entrance.

Jack crouched and glanced to his right. “There’re a couple of places through the trees. Try them first for food and drink?”

I spun back toward our boat after hearing a distant cry of anguish. “You two hear that?”

Brett fumbled with his rifle and aimed at the trees, close to where we’d docked. Something or someone wailed.

“It could be an animal,” Jack said.

“Sounded more human to me,” Brett said.

Jack nodded and we slowly made our way toward a group of cedar trees, rifles ready to fire.

“The one on the right, by the base of the trunk,” Jack said.

A shoulder and leg poked out. Somebody sat with his or her back against it.

“Put your hands up and show yourself,” I shouted.

An arm jerked out. Fingers spread and trembling.

“Show yourself, now. Don’t make us come over there,” Jack said.

The figure slowly rose, and a man with a thick mustache, greasy black hair, and bloodstained cream shirt and trousers turned to face us. He clenched his teeth and stared at me with wild, piercing eyes. He mumbled something and staggered toward us as if drunk, clasping a carving knife in his right hand.

“That’s far enough—drop the knife,” I said.

The man let out a choking sound and jabbed the knife at his own throat. He paused, shook his head, and forced the knife out in front of him with both hands. It looked like he was battling an invisible force.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Jack called.

The man’s concentration on the knife broke, and he gazed up. “I’ve… I’ve killed her. I’m trying to stop me. I can’t.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” I replied and glanced across to Brett. “Do you know what’s up with him?”

Brett shook his head. “I dunno. Is he pissed out of his head?”

The man started tottering away, taking short footsteps, and waved us forward. “Come, come—I’ll show you. Come.”

I looked at Jack and frowned.

He moved forward and aimed at the man’s back. “Just keep a safe distance; he’s gone mad.”

We followed him, keeping several yards behind. He waddled along a path, whispering unrecognizable gobbledygook, past a couple of Victorian houses, and turned into a driveway, all the while holding the knife and shaking it as if he had two dice in his hands. I detected a faint smell of alcohol.

“Here, here,” he said, pointing at an open garage.

The bloated body of a middle-aged woman lay on the concrete floor, surrounded by a purple stain. Her throat had been slit, and she had slash wounds on her exposed arms.

The man stepped toward me and tilted his head. “That’s her—that’s my wife. He made me do it—it was him.”

I edged back. “Stop right where you are.”

“Who made you do it?” Jack said.

The man stared into space. “The voice: kill one, kill one, kill one, kill one, kill—”

I turned to Brett. “He’s still activated. We need to get out of here.”

“I don’t think so, mate. He might have heard it from someone else.”

“Are you sure?” Jack asked. “I don’t like the way he can’t control the knife.”

I wasn’t convinced either. He rambled like a madman. What else could it be?

“I killed her?” the man asked.

The stains on his clothing suggested he’d killed something. As he’d led us to the body, it seemed reasonable to assume that he’d killed his wife. I looked over my sights, into his eyes. “Probably, but it’s not your fault. We know—”

He shook the knife even more violently and stooped over the blade. The point missed his eye by a whisker. “Me? I did it?”

“Calm down for minute,” Jack said. “There’s been some crazy shit happening.”

The man maniacally smiled through gritted teeth. His jerks became increasingly frantic. “Thank you.”

“Wait!” Brett said.

He thrust the knife straight underneath his own chin. His eyes bulged and he sank to his knees, gargling and coughing blood down the front of his shirt.