Darren Wearmouth - Second Activation

Jack nodded and followed me toward the back door.

I pushed it open and made my way to the kitchen sink. The tap ran, but I resisted the temptation to have a drink, instead washing my face, hair, and arms clean. Jack took my place while I carried out a quick search of the ground floor. I sighed when looking in the dining room. Four dirty plates were still in position around the table—the place where we had eaten breakfast before heading out to Maybrook; it had turned out to be Bernie’s last meal. So much had happened since, that it seemed months rather than days ago.

It also made me think of Lea. If Jerry and GA were prepared to do this to Bernie, I dreaded to think what they would do to her. My hopes lay with Martina saving her bacon, or the technology team, who at least seemed to have a shred of human decency.

I returned to the kitchen, still concerned about the sound of the grenade alerting any nearby patrols. “Ready for Jerry’s? Then we’ll head to the city.”

Jack wiped his face with a blue hand towel, threw it on the kitchen floor, and picked up his rifle. “Wild horses wouldn’t stop me.”

I drove the Chrysler to within two hundred yards of the farm. We hopped over a fence into a neighboring field and cautiously advanced to the back of Jerry’s barn—the same direction as our initial assault after his escape following Bernie’s murder.

Jack edged around to the open door while I provided cover. He slipped into the barn, and quickly returned. “It’s gone.”

“What? The device?”

I brushed him to one side and peered into the gloom. Only a large square imprint in the dirt betrayed the device’s former location. Most of the supplies had been taken; a few empty cans dotted the ground. A high-frequency radio lay smashed to pieces in the center.

“Reckon they’ve taken it to Hart Island?” Jack asked.

“Maybe. I’m starting to think Jerry was in that chopper. How else could he have made it to Orange County before us?”

“Wouldn’t mind searching a camp. Get my hands on a couple of rocket launchers.”

“We might need something like that. Who knows what HQ is turning up with?”

Jack rummaged around the clutter lining the far wall and held up two prods. “Thought they might have taken these.”

“Probably don’t need them if they’ve got a tool like Brett’s.”

Jack pressed a button on the handle. A blue light snapped between the two prongs, momentarily lighting up the barn.

“At least we’ve got something to take to Morgan,” I said. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Not yet. I want to leave him a message.”

He crossed the farmyard to the house, and I tried the door.

“It’s locked, Jack. Do you really want to bother?”

He returned to the barn, came back with a mallet, and passed me his flashlight.

Jack smashed the living-room window and carefully knocked around the edges to remove sharp pieces of glass. I realized trying to stop him would be futile; he was intent on destroying Jerry’s property.

He climbed through the window and glanced back. “You joining the party?”

I shook my head and tossed his flashlight through the window. “I’ll watch from outside. Just get on with it.”

He shined it around the room and headed for a display cabinet. Jack took out framed pictures and threw them all against the wall and smashed Jerry’s small fantasy ornaments with the butt of his rifle. He tipped over the bookshelf, kicked over the couch, picked up a DVD player and threw it at a retro record player. I felt a small amount of satisfaction at seeing Jerry’s property being destroyed. He deserved it, and I hoped it had a therapeutic effect on Jack.

Jack tipped over an armchair, took a lighter out of his pocket, and set fire to it. He encouraged the small licks of fire with paper that he ripped from a large atlas. Once the flames took hold and the fire started to crackle with a healthy rage, he jumped back out of the window.

Jack rubbed his hands together and slung his small pack.

“How did that feel?” I asked.

“Like we’ve given him a virtual punch in the face. That will have to do, for now.”

Picking back along Interstate 84 in the dark used up a lot of energy-sapping concentration; the car took a bit of a battering off the side of other vehicles and loudly banged over debris on the road. Thankfully, it only took an hour to reach the Newburgh-Beacon Bridge, a nice sign of progress. I suggested to Jack that we not enter the more heavily populated areas of New York until daylight. He agreed and I stopped on the bridge at half past four in the morning.

I gazed along the moonlit river in both directions. Looking south, faint orange glows burned against the dark skyline, perhaps the route of a Genesis Alliance advance party. I couldn’t imagine they’d be collecting any prisoners or messing around with siege tactics. I sat down next to Jack against the concrete sidewall.

“I’m getting pig sick of this traveling about with threats around every corner,” Jack said. “I can’t wait to get out onto the open water.”

“You want to sail to England?”

He sighed and rubbed his face. “Wouldn’t be the worst idea in the world. We’ve spent half of our time here, struggling up and down roads, and all we’ve achieved is a black eye each, weight loss, and a couple of dead and missing friends.”

“Keep your chin up. We’ve discovered a lot too and have an opportunity to strike.”

Jack picked up a stone and hurled it across the road. It clanked against a metal railing on the opposite side.

I wondered if Bernie dominated Jack’s thoughts. If we’d stayed in his apartment, the chances were that we might have ended up with a group of survivors in New York. Then again, in a densely populated city area, more killers lurked. Choosing the right answer had proven impossible, but so far I thought we’d made reasonable decisions. We were still alive and could help people in the city.

We sat in contemplative silence for ten minutes, and I closed my eyes. A sound like crashing thunder rumbled in the distance. The clear night sky showed no signs of an imminent storm, so I strained to listen as the sound grew steadily louder.

Jack sat up and peered west. “Whatever that is, it’s coming toward us.”

“Into the car,” I said.

I lay across the front seats, Jack dived in the back. The rumbling sound changed into a bashing of metal. I leaned over the back seat.

Two bright headlights stabbed through the dark. Others followed. The lead vehicle closed in, and the noise intensified. The GA convoy—it had to be.

Jack glanced at me. “Think it’s them?”

“We’ll find out in a minute. Hold your fire unless they see us.”

A large snowplow powered past and smashed a Mustang to the side of the road. It barged aside anything in its path, creating a clear route for the following vehicles.

I raised my rifle to just below the window, ready to thrust it up and fire if required.

Two noisy five-ton trucks came next, common logistical vehicles for armies across the world. I couldn’t see the drivers in the dim light and tried to keep my night vision by focusing away from the dazzling lights. A flatbed followed, with two activation devices strapped to its back, similar in size to the one in Jerry’s barn. Six black Range Rovers brought up the rear.

“How did they get here so quickly?” Jack said.

“Drove nonstop, like us.”

I thought about the implications of what we were seeing. GA was executing its plans for the second activation, and crucially, its members were now ahead of us. Brett had mentioned the technology team needing time to set things up, so the timeline matched the notebook. The countdown had begun.