Darren Wearmouth - Second Activation

“Over there. A pharmacy. Didn’t I tell you?”

Jack frowned. “You could do it a little less dramatically next time, and not put the shits up me.”

I grabbed my rifle from between the back seats and headed for the pharmacy attached to a general medical building. Jack and Brett covered me as I peered through the glass. An aisle ran along the center, with various hygienic and homeopathic products. Medical kits lined the shelves to the right. Two women in white coats both slumped over the counter at the end.

A two-toned electronic beep and an eye-watering stench greeted me when I pushed open the door. I went straight for the right side and grabbed a green plastic case with a white cross on it. I popped it open and found exactly what I was looking.

I returned outside, sat on the step, rolled up my sleeve, and snapped on a pair of plastic gloves. I rolled off the flimsy crusted bandage, splashed on antiseptic fluid, rubbed sterile cotton across my arm, and clenched my teeth as the stinging sensation intensified. Brett unrolled a fresh, more robust bandage and passed it to me. I wrapped it around my arm, feeling pleased that I had hopefully addressed the problem.

“You wanna quick look around town before we head off?” Jack asked. “See if there’re any gun shops?”

“Do they have them around here?” Brett asked.

“No harm in trying,” I said.

I put my rifle on my shoulder and carried out a quick visual sweep of the area. A hundred yards ahead, a sheet of newspaper danced across the street. Three hundred yards to our left, a flock of birds circled high in the air. Further into town, cars littered the road at atypical angles, mangled and smashed.

“I can pick out a route through the mess,” Jack said. “No point getting split from our supplies or have somebody take the vehicle when our backs are turned.”

“Let’s not hang around here for too long. A quick search, then straight for the highway.” I turned to Brett. “You okay with that?”

“Whatever you say until we get to Hart Island.”

We got back into the Pontiac, and Jack twisted and turned a mile along the main street. He halted when we reached an area with a host of shops on either side of the road. Most had broken windows. A woman in a blue flowery dress slumped through a bookshop window, impaled on a shard of glass that rose out of her back.

Brett gasped and pressed his hand against his chest. “What the fuck?”

Five naked corpses were propped against the wall of a gym. All sitting tightly together. All beheaded. Somebody had written “This is the End” above their bodies on the brick wall in white paint.

I opened my door. “We just need to make sure we don’t join their line. Be on your toes.”

Jack walked over to a bakery. He pushed open the door, and a bell tinkled. “Already looted. Might be some survivors around here.”

“Can’t blame them for that,” I said.

I wandered past a store filled with home decorations and peered through the smashed window at the contents inside. A small ornamental glass clown caught my eye. Similar to one that our grandparents once had above their fireplace. I reached in, picked it up, and dusted it off.

“What have you got there?” Jack asked.

I held it up. “When did you last see one of these?”

Jack shook his head and continued down the street. “Useless piece of junk. Come on.”

I thought for a moment about pre-activation life. Most people I knew, now probably dead, occasionally shopped for these small trinkets to decorate their houses. But for what? They would all be gathering dust in our decaying world. I decided to keep the glass clown. It provided me with memories of cutting my grandparents’ lawn before relaxing on their couch with a glass of sherry. Their clown always smiled at me, no matter how useless. Besides Jack, memories were all I had.

“This one looks more like it,” Brett said.

I joined him at the doorway of a café. Inside, cakes rotted below plastic protective shielding on the counter. Eight tables and their surrounding chairs had been pushed all over the place. White cups and plates lay on the floor, some in pieces, still smeared with food or coffee stains.

“Get yourself inside then,” I said to Brett.

He went straight for the counter. Jack and I followed him inside.

Flies buzzed around a body on the brown tiled floor. The man wore an apron and was missing three fingers on his left hand. One stupid fly tried to escape the café and constantly bashed against the window. An ideal candidate for the Monroe Genesis Alliance team.

I leaped over the counter, grabbed two husklike croissants and tossed them over to Brett.

He froze and they bounced off his chest.

Jack glanced outside. “Something’s coming. Get down.”

I hunched down and aimed my rifle over the top of the counter. Brett knelt behind a fallen circular table.

Jack stood by the edge of the window. “A red pickup truck. Two men inside.”

The brakes squeaked as the vehicle came to a halt close to the café.

“Are they wearing black?” Brett asked.

“No, both civvies. One’s holding a sack; the other’s got a shotgun.”

“Might just be looters,” I said. “Let’s keep our heads down and wait it out.”

I felt my pulse quicken and shuffled across a few feet to give myself a clear shot at the entrance. Brett stared at me and clutched his rifle to his chest.

“Stay where you are,” I said to him. “You know the drill.”

The men, both in jeans and T-shirts, stood ten yards in front of the café in conversation, oblivious to the fact that at least two of us could drop them in a second. The shorter man ran his hands through his greasy black hair. They moved to the left, out of sight. I could hear their muffled voices next door. Judging by their apparent casual attitudes, they were on a familiar excursion and weren’t expecting trouble.

“We don’t want to end up in a close-quarters situation,” Jack said. “It’s too easy for somebody to pull the trigger.”

It would only take us seconds to sprint back to the Pontiac, parked twenty yards to our right.

“Back to the car for cover,” I said. “When they come out, we get them to drop their weapons.”

“You want to recruit them?” Jack asked.

“I want to talk to them. Find out what they know.”

I vaulted over the counter. Jack checked that the coast was clear, and the three of us edged back to our vehicle while aiming at the shop next to the café.

Brett knelt with me behind the hood. Jack aimed around the rear.

Seconds later, the two men casually walked out of the shop. One had his arms wrapped around a full sack; the other followed with a shotgun lazily held over his shoulder.

“Freeze! Drop your weapons,” I shouted.

The man dropped his sack and spun in our direction. A can spilled onto the road and rolled to the curb. The other fumbled with his shotgun and started backing away toward their pickup.

“Who are you? We don’t want any trouble,” Shotgun said.

The other tentatively bent down to pick up the sack while keeping his focus on me.

“Drop your shotgun. We’re not going to shoot,” Jack ordered.

“You can have these supplies—take them,” Sack Man said. He widened the top of the sack, revealing cans and packages. “I’ll leave them on the ground.”

“We just want to talk,” I said.

The other lowered his shotgun. They both glanced at each other. I needed to do something to put everyone at ease and end this standoff.

“Cover me,” I said to Jack and Brett.

I held my rifle above my head and walked toward them.

“We don’t want any trouble, mister,” Sack Man said. “Let us get on our way, and you won’t see us again.”