Darren Wearmouth - Second Activation

Jack slowed to navigate around a large truck lying on its side, then suddenly slammed on the brakes.

I jerked forward and thudded against my seatbelt. “What is it?”

He grabbed his rifle from the back seat and aimed forward. “There’s a bloody spike strip on the road.”

I quickly looked around in all directions. Something moved through the trees to our left. “Smells like an ambush. Get the fuck out of here.”

Jack slammed the Jeep into reverse. The engine whined as he weaved backward. I kept my eyes fixed on the thin woodland next to the highway. A figure ran to the opposite shoulder and kept pace.

I wound my window down and tracked the figure’s movement with my rifle.

“What the hell are they doing?” Jack asked.

After meeting Amanda in Bob’s hangar, I wasn’t taking any chances. A rational person surely wouldn’t run after a car on a dark highway. “Stop, so I can take a shot.”

Jack hit the brakes, and our Jeep came to skidding halt. A bearded man, wearing only a pair of jockey shorts, crouched next to an ice truck fifteen yards away from us.

I lowered my window and aimed. “Back off or I shoot.”

He screamed like a banshee, stood, and headed directly toward me, holding something concealed behind his back.

“Shoot him,” Jack said.

“Stay right where you are,” I shouted.

He paused, titled his head, and hissed through clenched teeth. I couldn’t be certain in this light, but it looked like he had several human fingers dangling from a necklace on his bare chest.

I gently squeezed the trigger. If he took a step closer, I would drill a round through his forehead. He changed direction and headed to the front of the Jeep, trudging like a Neanderthal man. A large fire axe dropped by his side and its blade scraped against the road surface.

“What the fuck is wrong with him?” Jack asked. “He’s another Amanda.”

He stood two yards in front of our hood, raised the axe above his head with his right hand, and glared through the windshield with rage in his eyes. He spat at it, and a thick trail of saliva dribbled down the glass in front me.

“Fuck this,” Jack said.

He put the Jeep into drive, and as the man managed to free the axe and drew it back again, pressed the accelerator. We smashed directly into him, and he disappeared with a scream. I felt his body scrape against the underside of the Jeep, and the left rear tire bounced over him. Momentum took us straight over the spikes, and we advanced unsteadily through the debris.

I looked back between the two front seats at the road behind us. The man lay motionless, arms by his side. Our tires quickly deflated, and Jack struggled to control the Jeep. We came to a juddering halt fifty yards away from the trap.

“He’s not getting up anytime soon,” I said.

“What the hell was that about?”

I jumped out and swept the area with my rifle. “Just another poor victim of GA. Every one of these meetings emphasizes why we need to destroy those buggers.”

“Agreed. Let’s get another car, and quick.”

We shouldered our rifles and advanced along the highway in search of another vehicle. After quickly identifying a Chrysler whose only occupant was a corpse hanging out of the driver’s door, I pulled it out and we were on our way again.

Just after three in the morning, we reached the outskirts of Montgomery and merged onto the road toward the house and farm, both of which held strong recent memories for me. Bernie and Jerry. Complete opposites and the wrong one had remained alive.

Jack slowed the car to a crawl as we approached the farm’s entrance. “Which one first?”

“The house. We should set fire to the barn when we’re ready to leave. Don’t want to advertise our location. If Jerry’s around and sees the smoke coming from the direction of his place…”

Jack nodded and accelerated toward the house.

We rumbled along the lane, past the burnt-out silhouettes of two properties. I peered back to Jerry’s farm on our right. No vehicles were parked around the farmhouse, and one of the barn doors hung open.

“So far, so good,” I said.

Jack swung the vehicle onto the crunchy gravel drive of the large white house and flicked on the Chrysler’s main beam. Neither of us said a word at what initially greeted us.

Bernie’s rotting body gently rocked in the breeze, suspended from the porch’s roof by a rope around his neck. His clothes were filthy from his burial. I felt an intense rage bubble inside and clenched my fists.

Jack growled and punched the steering wheel. “Those bastards. Are there any depths they won’t sink to?”

“Jerry’s been here. Who else knew about Bernie and would do this?”

I jumped out of the car and scanned the dark swaying trees that lined the edge of the property. Jerry could be close, and if he was, I wanted him hanging in Bernie’s place.

“He might be at his farm,” Jack said.

“God, I hope so.”

We backed over to the ornate colonial porch. Jack glanced up at Bernie, swallowed hard, and bowed his head. He briefly closed his eyes, and his jaw twitched—something he often did when trying to maintain his composure. If it happened in a bar, that was my cue to get him out of the place, but this was altogether different.

A piece of A4 paper hung from Bernie’s chest, held in place by a hunting knife that had been pushed in right up to the hilt. I leaned forward and ripped the paper down.

“What does it say?” Jack asked, looking over my shoulder.

I crumpled it up in my hands and gritted my teeth. “ ‘You’re both dead men. Jerry.’ ”

Jack crouched and took a deep breath. “Let’s get to his farm. I’m going to gut him like a fish.”

“Seems like a lot of effort just to send a message,” I said and glanced back at the road, conscious that this must have happened in the last few hours.

“He’s ensured that he’s going to be the focus of my effort. When I get my hands on him…”

I wondered if there was a lot more to Ron’s inner circle than just being deluded losers. You’ve got to be one sick bastard to pull a stunt like this.

Jack reached up and grabbed the knife from Bernie’s chest. He slid it out, and I heard a metallic click. I grabbed his shoulder and ripped him back. “Get down.”

I covered my head with my arms, and Jack followed suit. An explosion ripped through the air. Warm parts of Bernie splattered over my legs, back, and arms. My heart raced as I patted myself down for damp patches. I had learned this technique in the Army. With adrenaline pumping, an injury requiring immediate attention might not always be felt.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

Jack grimaced and rose to his feet. He peeled a large flap of skin off the side of his jeans and wiped himself down.

The bottom half of Bernie’s body lay on the porch floor in a mangled mess. His neck still hung in the noose above, but only his chest and one arm were still attached. The house and porch were covered in a mix of shrapnel damage and our former friend.

“Bastards!” Jack shouted at the top of his voice. “I’m coming for you, do you hear me?”

“Jack,” I said, “we need to make sure it’s on our terms. If they’re around, they’ll have heard the explosion. We’ve got to move.”

“I’m not leaving him like that, no way.” He grabbed the rope and cut it above the noose, and we carried Bernie’s remains to the back of the house.

A spade was wedged into the turf next to the site of his exhumation. Jack dropped the parts into the grave. I placed the upper half on top and quickly scraped a thick layer of dirt over the hole.

I looked at my clothes and shuddered. “Quick wash before we go. Then, straight to Jerry’s.”