Darren Wearmouth - Second Activation

“This is it,” Jack said. “Head for those trees.”

I decreased the throttle and gently cruised toward a deserted beach. Trees lined the back of it, partially concealing a row of large residential properties, painted in various light pastel colors. Green seemed a popular choice around here. A set of wooden steps led to a road above.

The boat drifted to a crunching halt several feet away from dry land. I looked over the side at water gently lapping against our hull and could see the bottom of the lake only a yard below the surface.

“You two get out,” I said. “I’m sending this back out. We don’t want to leave any clues.”

Jack strapped on his pack, held his rifle over his head, and swung his legs over the side, splashing into shallow water and wading the short distance to the beach. I passed Brett my rifle, and he clumsily flopped over the side and staggered to shore.

I returned to the cockpit, put the engines in reverse, and turned it one hundred and eighty degrees before thrusting the throttle forward to maximum. I quickly checked the boat’s course—straight to the center of the lake—ran to the stern, and jumped. The cold water took my breath away, and I sank until I kicked for land and solid footing. I hauled myself out of the lake and turned to watch the boat powering to the depths of Lake Erie.

Brett passed me my rifle. “Looks like you could do with a set of dry clothes.”

“Thanks for stating the obvious.” I wiped water from my face and checked to see that my watch still worked. The second hand ticked around, and we’d made it to Ohio minutes before midday.

“Look on the bright side. At least it’s not winter,” Jack said.

I grunted approval and squelched across the beach to the steps. Pretty colonial-style detached houses lined the street above. One, painted brilliant white, with a spacious porch and huge oak in the front garden, had a red Pontiac Torrent in the driveway.

“Looks like it fits the bill,” Brett said.

Jack pulled his rifle into his shoulder and approached the house, aiming at the large ground floor window. My soaked, thick lumberjack shirt restricted my movement. I ripped open the buttons, peeled it off, and dropped it on the road.

Brett covered Jack, who stood at the front door, waiting for me to arrive.

I knelt beside the oak tree. “Go for it.”

Jack twisted the handle and shoved the door open with his shoulder. They both entered. I scanned the immediate area for any danger signs and followed.

Both of them were in a farmhouse-style kitchen, rifling through rustic mahogany cupboards and placing cans and packages on top of a large black range. I left them to it and headed upstairs. Brett seemed to be adapting quickly to our situation and I admired his “have a go” attitude, even though he was even more out of his depth than we were.

My luck held in the master bedroom. In the walk-in closet, I found a solid pair of hiking boots, one size too big, but I compensated with a thick pair of walking socks. Unfashionable light-blue jeans with an elastic waist—but I didn’t give a fuck. I winced while pulling on a purple baggy golf sweater, feeling my arm protest.

Back in the kitchen, Jack opened two cans of Dinty Moore beef stew, placed them on the table, and stuck dessertspoons in both. Brett sat down and immediately tucked in. I grabbed the other while Jack leaned against the counter and attacked a can of tuna.

The stew tasted great, and I looked around the kitchen while chomping the contents of the can. A bunch of car keys hung on a small hook next to the fridge. I finished the can, grabbed the keys, and rattled them. “Fancy a ride in that Pontiac?”

Brett threw his can to one side. “Sounds good to me.”

“No point hanging around,” Jack said. “We packed the food while you were getting changed.”

Going back into more densely populated areas, I knew we would come across more people, possibly still suffering the effects of GA’s technology. So far, Brett didn’t have any answers for us in that regard. I decided we should keep our distance from all people until we could establish their motives.

I placed a car key in the Pontiac’s door and twisted. All internal locks popped up. Jack threw his pack on the back seat and clambered in, and Brett sat next to me. I adjusted the front seat and started the engine.

Brett took a map out of the glove box. He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth while working out a route. “Go along the two toward Cleveland and take the fifty-seven down to Elyria. It’s less than twenty miles. We can easily get on Interstate 80 from there.”

I placed the car into drive and bumped onto the road.

Getting out of town proved slightly awkward. I had to slowly mount curbs and grassed areas to guide the car around blockages in the road. The way ahead cleared slightly as the urban area disappeared from our sides, allowing an increase in speed to around thirty miles per hour until we reached the highway.

State Route 2 didn’t differ from our previous experiences of highways. Multiple crashed vehicles spread across the road, mingled with corpses. Some cars had pulled to the shoulder, where drivers took advantage of injured parties in the wrecks. All hallmarks of the carnage the first activation had brought. Brett silently stared out of the window, shaking his head at regular intervals. I wondered just how much he had seen around Monroe. He’d told me he was part of the cleanup operation, but I guessed it had only been in a limited capacity. The burden he carried must have weighed heavily, knowing that he was part of the “solution” that caused the devastation outside the Pontiac.

Rubbish drifted around hotels and fast-food joints that lined Route 57. Things were starting to change. When we’d fled New York, it had felt alive with killers and survivors; the infrastructure was still fresh and intact. The heightened sense of abandonment around here gave the impression that civilized life had drained from the landscape. It wasn’t obvious at first, but as I paid closer attention to the buildings, the signs became clearer. Not a single window gleamed, corpses were in advanced states of decomposition due to the warm spring sunshine, and the entire area was deathly still.

I thought back to a trip Jack and I had taken to Machu Picchu three years ago. I remembered him asking, “How come they just stopped living here? Why didn’t somebody else move in?”

Back then I had no idea and naïvely accepted it as part of history. I never thought that the same thing would happen to major towns or cities in my own lifetime. To imagine Manchester quietly decaying, covered in weeds and slowly being swallowed by nature, seemed ridiculous, but it was probably happening as we drove toward Elyria.

I wondered if we would still have a human population to walk around and marvel at those city ruins in five hundred years.

“A penny for your thoughts?” Jack said.

“I was just thinking about our trip to Machu Picchu.”

He grimaced as we crunched over a stray detached bumper in the road. “That’s a bit random. I was thinking what we should do if we come across another person like that bloke on the island.”

“We keep our distance and take no chances,” I said.

“Exit here,” Brett said. “We’ll be there in two minutes.”

I swung the car right and headed along Broad Street, which ran through the center of Elyria.

“Stop the car!” Brett suddenly cried.

I thrust my right foot against the brake pedal, and the Pontiac came to a screeching halt. Jack aimed his rifle around the windows.

I glanced to either side of the road. “What’s the problem?”