Darren Wearmouth - Second Activation

“Well, I’m alive. It could be genetic, right? You two are both okay.”

Jack and I both sat in silence. I certainly didn’t have the heart to tell him that his environment probably saved his bacon.

We proceeded quickly along the GA-cleared route. Rick instructed Jack to take the next exit. For some reason, probably habit, he flicked the indicator on. Ahead, a tangle of cars blocked the exit road.

Rick pointed to the shoulder. “Pull over here; we can go through the trees.”

Jack brought our car to a gentle halt and turned to Rick. “We take things nice and easy. Only fools rush in.”

I visually scanned the surrounding area through my sights. Rick quickly moved past me and headed for the trees.

“How far is it from here?” I asked.

“Two minutes. This way.”

He strode with purpose along a beaten path through the woodland. Jack and I followed, flanking him on either side, rifles at the ready. The path led to a cul-de-sac cramped with Gothic Revival–style houses. Rick froze and glared at the nearest. A body lay at the end of the driveway. He broke into a jog.

I reached forward to grab his arm but clutched thin air. “Slow down. Be careful.”

He ignored me and ran for a DHL van parked at the front of the property. As I closed in, I realized the body was a deliveryman’s. His bright red and yellow jacket hood flapped in the breeze. Rick stood over him and bit his right fist. Dried streaks of blood led a couple of feet to a street drain.

He raced to the open front door and knocked on it. “Hey, it’s Rick—are you here?”

Jack cut across the grass and covered him. “You don’t know what you might find in there. Let us clear the house. We’re armed.”

“He’ll be in the basement. That’s where he keeps his stash.”

We followed him into the house. He rushed through a living area containing a blue couch, a recliner, and a flat screen TV. The place stank of stale cigarette smoke and death. I noticed a trail of purple splashes on the green carpet.

Rick paused above a flight of stairs. “Are you down there?”

Jack looked at me, raised his eyebrows, and motioned toward the carpet. Rick thumped down the stairs. Moments later I heard a cry from the basement.

“Oh God, no… no!”

I clambered down and bumped into Rick after rounding a corner at the bottom of the stairs. Small windows, just below the ceiling, provided enough light to see his brother. He slumped against a chest of drawers and had a deep diagonal slice across his right wrist. A bloodstained bayonet lay by his left hand.

Rick approached, knelt, and held his brother in his arms. The corpse made a strange burping noise. He jumped back and turned to me with tears in his eyes. “I thought he’d be okay. He was one tough son of a…”

I decided to give Rick some space and check out the basement. None of my words would bring him any comfort. What could I say?

Nothing looked immediately useful. To my right, an old computer sat on a desk, and a dusty exercise bike was propped against the wall.

Jack appeared around the corner, took one look at Rick and his brother, and turned away. I imagined finding him in similar circumstances and shuddered.

I sat on the swivel chair in front of the computer and flicked through a newspaper, dated the day before the first activation. Some of the readers’ letters looked strange when viewed in current context. One complained about cyclists in the city; another, about garbage collection. A lady seemed to have a deep grudge against the mayor.

I turned to the sports pages, perhaps for a final touch of the old world, and wondered if I’d seen my last game of football or swung my last club.

A floorboard creaked overhead. Rick glanced up. I put my finger to my lips.

Two seconds later another creak, then another. Somebody was crossing the living area in the direction of the stairs. My heart thumped against my chest, and I shouldered my rifle.

Rick crept over to me. “What are we going to do?”

“Looks like we’ve been followed,” I said. “Presume guilty until proven innocent.”

“Too much of a coincidence,” Jack said. “One rule, Rick. We don’t let anyone get close.”

I looked up as the noises above continued. The door at the top of the stairs groaned open.

“I know you’re down there,” a female shouted. “Come out with your hands up.”

Jack placed his back against the internal wall and leaned around the corner. “How about you come down here with your hands up?”

After a lingering moment, probably shorter than what it seemed, she replied, “There’s three of you; why would I do that?”

“You’ve just explained why you should. Three against one,” I said. We had to establish her faculties. “Why did you follow us?”

“Just one of you come up. I only want to borrow a lawnmower,” she said.

My heart sank. To escape the basement we would probably have to kill her.

“Bollocks,” Jack said. “She’s activated.”

Rick shook his head. “She wants a fucking lawnmower?”

“Activated people don’t have a recognition about the events around them. They act normally until they have a chance to strike.”

“What do you mean ‘activated’?”

“Crazy. You’ve seen them yourself,” I said.

“It’s all so damn weird,” Rick said, and he looked back at his brother. “Do you think he killed the guy upstairs?”

Cupboards and drawers slammed overhead.

“We’ve come across some pretty unpredictable behavior,” Jack said. “We can talk about what they did to the planet after we’ve sorted this situation out.”

“Who are they ? Do you know who did this? You can’t—”

“It can wait for now. Trust me,” I said.

His eyes narrowed and he pointed to the corpse. “No it can’t, not if you have something to do with my brother’s death.”

“Yes, it bloody well can,” I said. “We deal with this, and then we talk.”

A glass object smashed at the bottom of the stairs, followed by a whoosh of flames.

Smoke drifted across the basement ceiling. I grabbed a folded blanket from under the desk, edged to the stairs, and tried to beat the fire, keeping my body out of view. A round smacked into the wall above my arm.

She must have made and tossed down a homemade type of petrol bomb to smoke us out.

“Give me a bunk-up to the window,” Jack said.

“A what?” Rick said.

“Don’t worry about it, Rick,” I said and passed him my rifle. “Keep an eye on the entrance. If she comes down, turn her head into a block of Swiss cheese.”

I immediately knew what Jack had in mind. He made his way to the window, stretched up, twisted the lock, and pushed it open. I clasped my hands together and rested them on my right thigh. Jack hoisted himself on my improvised support and wriggled through the window onto a lawn outside.

I passed him his rifle. “Good luck.”

“If I’m not back in two minutes…”

Crackling flames licked the roof above the stairs. We weren’t engulfed in smoke, but very soon it would be a serious issue. I took my rifle from Rick and stooped by the wall.

Faint footsteps creaked overhead. Jack on his way. I shouted to draw the woman’s attention. “One of us is coming up. Do you promise not to shoot?”

“Come up—” she said.

I heard one more creak before a shot rang out. Something heavy tumbled down the stairs.

I prayed it wasn’t Jack and aimed around the corner.

A woman lay in a strange upside-down position, arms covering her face. Her hair singed in the flames and her jacket caught fire.

Jack shielded his eyes and peered through the thickening smoke. He coughed twice. “She set fire to the couch too. It’s not pretty up here. I’ll come back to the window.”