Darren Wearmouth - Second Activation

“Laborer? What else are you not telling me?”

Jack threw the prod in the trunk and slammed it shut. “GA is going to mount a cleanup operation using survivors to do the grunt work.”

“There’s nothing more to it,” I said. “All you need to know is they’re dangerous, probably on Hart Island, and we need to hit them within three days.”

“Can we see Hart Island on our way to the Long Island Expressway?” Jack asked.

“I don’t think so, unless we took a detour. We should get going and find your friends. I want a piece of Genesis Alliance.”

“Food first, guys,” Jack said. “Let’s try a house on the other side of the highway.”

Our growing experience in searching houses, avoiding the corpses, and finding supplies had led to increased operational efficiency. We returned to the car with canned Vienna sausages, cheese-flavored Doritos, bottled water, and Coke. I split the food, and we shared our views on the possibilities of an unaffected enclave in northern England. The general conclusion was, if it existed, we all wanted in, away from the nightmare Genesis Alliance had created elsewhere.

“I saw something yesterday evening that might be connected to all this,” Rick said. “Two jumbo jets flew over my house.”

“What time? Heading to New York?” I said.

I feared that this could be the first tangible piece of evidence that HQ had arrived.

“Around six. I think they were going to Albany. Not sure where else a plane that size could land in the area.”

“Where’s Albany?” Jack asked.

“A hundred and fifty miles north. Do you think it’s Genesis Alliance?”

“They’re sending a force over from the UK. We thought by boat,” I said. “Doesn’t change our plan, but it injects more urgency, not that we needed it.”

“Just how big is Genesis Alliance?” Rick asked.

“Big enough,” Jack said. “Are you with us?”

“Sure, a chance to avenge my brother, family, friend, and all those other folks. I’d be pissed if you didn’t want me to come for the ride.”

He aggressively threw half a hotdog at a nearby car—a pointless gesture, I thought. His mind was probably all over the place. Whose wouldn’t be after finding their brother dead and learning about Genesis Alliance?

Jack eased the car from the grass and back onto the Hutchinson River Parkway. A straight path cut through the middle lane. Cleared for us, courtesy of GA.

The closer we got to the city, the more buildings lined the edge of the highway. Perfect vantage points for concealed shooters or hidden crazies. I pushed the thoughts to the back of my mind. So far we’d come across very few people. I suspected most of those alive, with their senses intact, would be hiding.

There were intermittent signs of recent activity; a chilling warning, spray-painted on a Dell advertising board, advising drivers against entering New York due to toxic spills. Another board had the word ‘Help’ sprayed in red over a Big Mac, and an arrow pointing left.

We didn’t stop for anything. I spotted a person walking across a golf course a few minutes before we reached the Bronx-Whitestone Bridge. He turned and ran in the opposite direction when he noticed our vehicle.

Jack pulled the car to the side of the highway when the bridge came into view, and swore under his breath. An alternative route would be required. I disembarked and advanced up the rise of the bridge to get a better view of the scene.

Something moved ahead. I dropped to one knee and aimed.

A fox ran from an open SUV door, straight past me, and vanished in the wasteland on my left. I peered into the SUV and realized this might be the fox’s regular feeding spot. Most of the left arm and parts of the driver’s face had bone exposed. A green-faced passenger, heavily bloated and missing a nose, sat next to him. His body strained against the seat belt, on the brink of a disgusting explosion.

Near the top of the rise, I saw the true extent of damage only glimpsed from farther away. The bridge’s midsection looked as though it had snapped. Two previously adjoining road sections slumped into the river. A dramatic and unwelcome view.

Rick shielded his eyes from the sun and gasped. “Jesus, GA must have some serious firepower.”

“I don’t get why they did it,” Jack said. “What’s the point?”

“Who knows what goes through their twisted heads?” I said.

I looked east, across the wasteland. A distant bridge also appeared heavily damaged. Closer to us, along the coast, pontoons jutted out from the land around half a mile away, a potential option if we wanted to avoid the claustrophobic confines of Manhattan.

“We could cut through Manhattan, take the tunnel,” Rick said.

“I don’t fancy having a flat tire in a tunnel—seen that kind of thing before,” Jack said.

“It’s got to be a boat; we’ll see anyone coming,” I said.

Rick and Jack loaded our food supplies and cattle prods into the large bag. We hopped over a small wall and hiked across the weed-infested wasteland.

Boats dotted the glinting East River, some at anchor, a few purposelessly drifting, most aground at random points along the shore. Rick led us behind a copse of trees that blanketed the faint eerie sounds of the city. He staggered down to a dark sandy beach and headed for a row of jetties.

He broke into a jog for the closest boat. I’d already pinned him as an excitable chap and planned to brief him about our generally slower and more cautious mode of operation.

Jack and I shouldered our rifles and surveyed the area.

Rick stamped along the first jetty to a secured white cruiser. He spun and raised his arm in a salute. I waved back.

The name Candy Cane stretched along the side of the boat in flamboyant red lettering. Even in my ignorance of boats, I couldn’t help feeling impressed with its sleek contours. Rick climbed to the cockpit and checked the controls.

Jack kicked the cabin doors open and immediately ducked through the door. I followed, gazing around at the luxurious interior. A white-cushioned seating area curved around a solid timber table. On the opposite side, a row of kitchen units ended with a bar in the corner. Through the rear door, a very comfortable-looking double bed with an en-suite shower room. Expensive branded clothes and shoes filled the closets.

The boat made a rumbling noise and vibrated slightly after Rick started the engine. I rushed back out to the sun deck.

Rick stood behind the wheel, elevated a few feet above me. “Where to, boys?”

“Flushing Bay seems about right,” I said. “That’s probably the closest place to reach the Expressway.”

He eased the boat toward the center of the river while Jack and I settled on a comfortable blue leather bench. The boat picked up speed, and we bounced along with a stiff breeze in our faces. A slight smell of burning fuel provided a welcome relief from decomposition and rot. Rick slowed the boat as we cruised past Rikers Island and veered toward Flushing Bay.

I gazed at La Guardia Airport. Deserted and reminiscent of JFK. A few planes were spread around the runway, parked at strange angles. After we chugged deeper into the bay, Jack and I joined Rick in the cockpit. He aimed for a marina with the imposing Citi Field Stadium directly behind it.

“You’re good with boats, Rick—did you have one before the end?” Jack said.

“I worked on a cruiser in a former life, serving drinks to big shots.” He spat the last five words. “It wasn’t all bad; my boss paid for skipper training.”

“How did you end up in a lab? Sounds like you got screwed,” I said.

“It’s a long story. I’ll tell you another day…”