Darren Wearmouth - Second Activation

Brett dug the binoculars out of the top of Jack’s pack and planted them against his face. He leaned forward.

“Guys, you better come and look at this. We might have company.” He handed Jack the binoculars. “A boat. Over there.”

Jack pressed them to his eyes and twisted the focus. I searched the water and located a gray speck, heading south.

“It’s not heading in our direction. Do you reckon it’s GA?” Jack asked.

“Traveling by boat’s a good idea for a survivor,” I said. “Although we’ve no idea how GA are spread around the country. Maybe it’s the group who shot at us.”

“It has to be them, surely,” Brett said.

I wasn’t ready to believe it yet. My general rule had always been to expect the best, but plan for the worst. If the boat diverted here, we would easily have time to set up an ambush. I hoped it would merrily stay on its current course.

Jack lowered his binoculars. “I think we’re good. It’s not coming here.”

The boat traveled at speed across the water, sweeping between the island and mainland in a southerly direction. I switched my focus to the southwest and inspected the marina for a larger craft for us to use.

I nudged Jack and pointed down to an impressive looking Viking 65 Sports Cruiser. Sleek and white, with a thick blue band running around the hull. “Have a look at the second house, the one with a long dock. Can you see it?”

“Pretty nice boat. I’m sure Brett can get it going.”

“Might have all kinds of stuff—” Brett said.

Jack ducked down behind the edge of the wall and gripped his rifle. “Holy shit.”

Brett crouched and shot nervous glances at Jack and me. I quickly looked around the quiet marina before kneeling. “What did you see?”

“There’s someone in that boat. They stared right at me.”

“Give them to me,” I said, taking the binoculars.

If we’d already been seen, there seemed little point in hiding. I focused on the windows of the boat. A curtain twitched, followed by the noise of an engine spluttering into life.

A man ran to the back of the boat, released the mooring rope, and vanished back inside.

“Whoever it is, they’re out of here,” I said.

White water bubbled behind the boat, and it edged forward. Brett peered down. “Why didn’t he talk to us? We’re not the bad guys around here.”

“He probably saw our rifles. What would you do if you were him?”

“Fair point. For all he knows, we’re the new occupying force.”

“I suppose we are, in a way,” Jack said. “He’s probably about as trusting as us.”

Jack and I had been part of an occupying force during our time in the Army. Although the circumstances were vastly different, this man’s behavior didn’t surprise me. Even when freeing people from the oppression of local warlords or brutal regimes, we were seen as aggressors and not to be trusted. Despite the fact that we meant no harm and wanted to improve their infrastructure, the bottom line was that we were generally despised. As odd as it sounds, no matter how bad things get, the only change that can be readily accepted by a lot of people is from within, whether that is personal or regional.

The boat noisily plowed out of the bay and picked up speed as it headed in a southeasterly direction.

Jack spun to his right and looked through his binoculars. “For fuck’s sake.”

I immediately knew his concern. The boat we had previously seen. This person had broken cover and would be easily spotted in open water by anyone observant—or a group on a hunt.

We watched for a few more minutes as the boat made its bid for a smaller island.

“It’s turning,” Brett said.

Jack kicked the wall. “Bollocks.”

I could see with my naked eyes. The other boat headed directly to intercept the smaller craft, which slowed when the skipper probably realized he was being stalked.

The first boat, long and gray, rapidly closed in.

“Can you see who’s aboard?” I asked Jack, who continued to observe through the binoculars.

“I think there’s one… no, two. Dressed in black.”

“I think it’s safe to assume it’s GA.” I tracked them through my sights, but had no chance of hitting them from a mile away. “Let’s just hope they don’t come here.”

Jack stuffed the binoculars in his pack. “He could lead them right to us. We need to move.”

“We’re in a good position here,” Brett said. “I think we should wait.”

Jack glared across to Brett and clicked the straps on the pack. The silver boat pulled alongside the other. Figures on both stood on the rear decks and appeared to be talking as the vessels gently rocked on the lake.

The man from the island slumped off the side of his boat as the sound of three shots reported across the water.

The two crewmen ran to their cockpit, and the silver boat turned in the direction of our island. White water sprayed around its bow as it powered toward the marina.

“Downstairs, now,” I said.

We scrambled down the spiral staircase. I realized that trying to escape on a boat would only expose us. The last thing I wanted was a shootout on the lake.

I reached the entrance and paused for breath. Brett and Jack staggered out shortly after. I gave a crisp indication to a group of trees to the left of the marina. “That’s where we set up an ambush. As soon as they’re in range…”

“We shoot the bastards,” Jack said.

The marina curved around a small bay. Landings jutted out at regular intervals, with a few small boats tethered. Woodland surrounded the area, interspersed with single-story buildings, mostly boatsheds and shops. I chose the thick copse because of the overall view. We crouched behind two large oaks and waited. My pulse quickened as the faint engine noise grew gradually louder.

“You remember how to use that thing?” I asked Brett and motioned my head toward his rifle.

“Yeah, but don’t expect Billy Sing.”

“Who?” Jack said.

“Famous Aussie sniper from Gallipoli.” He groaned and looked through his sights. “Forget about it.”

Footsteps pattered behind me. I spun around and aimed my rifle.

An Alsatian bounded toward me. It stopped a few feet short and barked. Jack approached it, and the dog sat down. He knelt and held out his hand. The dog raised its paw.

“I’m Jack—what’s your name, boy?”

The dog rested its front paws on Jack’s thighs and licked his hand. I grabbed a can of Spam out of our pack and opened it with the hunting knife.

I turned my back to the dog, chopped the processed meat into small chunks, and threw them in a wide area between the trees. “That should keep her distracted long enough for us to find another place. We can’t have barking when those goons show up.”

The dog bounded to the closest cluster of chunks and wolfed them down.

Jack stood and brushed pine needles from his knees. “There’s a similar spot on the other side of the marina.”

The dog sniffed around the woodland carpet for more. We took the opportunity to move and sprinted eighty yards, across grass, past two small wooden boathouses, and took up fresh positions in a copse on the other side of the marina. From here we could still see across the bay and hear an approaching engine.

Jack shuffled around the trunk and pointed his rifle toward the lake. “We need to let them get close. No firefights—just take them straight out.”

A silver boat cruised around the corner at the opposite side of the marina, slowed, and came to a stop by the farthest empty landing.

Two men, both with GA standard issue AR-15s, hopped onto the wooden boards. One protected his eyes from the sun and looked at the monument. The other secured their boat with a thick rope. They prowled along the marina, aiming at the monument and edging closer. One paused, took a radio out of his breast pocket, and held it to his mouth.