Darren Wearmouth - Second Activation

He seemed to be trying to recognize me and leaned forward, holding his palm over his eyes. I waved my left hand. He plucked a handheld radio from his belt and pressed it against his mouth.

I jogged over to him with my rifle held by my side, finger on the trigger. He looked around fifty years old, bald, slightly overweight, and he squinted at me.

“I don’t want any trouble,” he said in a New York accent.

“Who did you just call?” I said.

He pointed to a stadium on our left hand side. “Security. You’re not with the company.”

“Are you Genesis Alliance?”

“Gene—… Who?”

I prepared to spring the rifle up. “Don’t mess with me. Genesis Alliance. Are you with them?”

He took off a gardening glove and wiped his brow. “Buddy, I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about. I’m with the company.”

“What company?”

“The guy who runs it, Morgan, he calls it ‘the company.’ ”

“Bad-tempered twat in a cream blazer?”

“Doesn’t wear one of those, but sounds like you know him. He’s organizing a new society.”

“Where’s it based?”

“The stadium. We’re building outward once we get more numbers. For now, it’s cleaning up the immediate area.”

I looked at the mower and surrounding area, most of it neatly manicured. “He’s got you cutting grass? Strange priority.”

“Hey, I don’t make up the rules. I’m just happy to be here.”

He glanced over my shoulder. I spun around. A police cruiser rolled across the grass, suspension rocking against the undulating ground. I gestured a “stay down” signal toward the trees.

The cruiser eased its way down the fairway and stopped twenty yards from me. Two men exited, both wearing filthy uniforms. One aimed a gun from behind the open passenger door, and the other stepped slowly forward, holding his gun in one arm and a pair of cuffs in the other. Judging by their drill and dress, they were possibly former police officers.

“What’s your business here, sir?” the closest asked.

“I’ve come to find Morgan,” I said and moved my hand away from my rifle. “I need to speak with him, urgently.”

He raised an eyebrow and aimed at my chest. “Oh, really?”

“Yes, really. Put your gun down. I’ll explain on the way.”

“You don’t call the shots around here, smart ass. We’re taking you in.”

“Didn’t I just ask you to do that?”

His face fell. “Drop your weapon, cross your hands on your head, and step away from the mower.”

This felt ridiculous. I considered dropping to the floor and letting Jack and Rick take them out. But that was no way to introduce ourselves to Morgan and his company .

I rolled my eyes, placed my rifle on the ground, and raised my hands. The closest man collected it and shoved me toward the cruiser.

“Get in the front,” he said. “One move and I’ll blow your brains out.”

“What’s your problem, mate?” I said.

“I’m not your mate. Shut the fuck up.”

He needlessly pressed my head down when I stooped to get into the cruiser. I resisted the urge to break his nose and flopped into the seat. They had radios and some sort of mini laptop between the two front seats; I doubted any were in service until the radio beeped and squelched.

“Confirm hostile apprehended,” a voice with an English accent said.

The driver picked up the mic and depressed a button on the side. “Confirmed. We’re coming in.”

The cruiser bumped over the grass and onto a road. It continued along a pleasant tree-lined street and headed for the Flushing Meadows tennis center. Neither of the two aggressive lawmen spoke to me; one drove, and the other kept poking his gun into the back of my head.

I mentally thanked Jack for restraint and hoped he and Rick would stay hidden until I could get back to them after negotiating and making this group aware of the upcoming danger.

The cruiser stopped in front of a large stadium. Its huge angular bowl rose into the sky. Two smaller arenas sat to either side of it, with a number of walled-off areas between, presumably other tennis courts. Two armed guards stood by the main entrance area. They took up alert positions on our arrival. One followed the cruiser with his shotgun barrel. The police officer who had taken my rifle opened the passenger door and reached in to drag me out.

I pushed his arm out of the way. “Thank you, Officer, but I don’t need your assistance.”

He grabbed a chunk of my sweater. “Whatever.”

I shrugged off his grip and got out of the cruiser. He hustled me to the main entrance of Arthur Ashe Stadium and pushed me in the back when we neared the guards. I staggered a couple of paces forward and glared over my shoulder. I could understand how they would have encountered some unsavory characters in the last few days, but I found his behavior a bit trying. We were fellow survivors, and I showed no signs of being a danger.

“Found this one wandering the golf course,” he said. “He’s a bird; take him down for orientation.”

One of the guards, a tall thin man with circular spectacles, seemed to relax and opened up a gold-framed glass door.

“I’m a what ?” I asked.

“I guess you were in the air when the shit hit the fan? That makes you a bird.”

“And the people on the ground?”

“Dogs. We get more trouble from them. Unpredictable bunch, need to be quarantined.”

“Which are you?”

“None of your business.”

The police officer passed him my rifle.

“Thanks, Charlie, we’ll take it from here.”

He grunted in reply and turned back toward his cruiser.

“Hey, Charlie,” I said, “be careful. It’s a dangerous world out there.”

He waved dismissively and climbed back into his cruiser. Seconds later, it pulled away.

The other guard, a young brown-haired woman in a blue jumpsuit, raised a small yellow walkie-talkie. “We need a mentor down here for orientation.”

“Roger that” crackled back.

“This way. You can wait inside,” she said.

I followed her into the gleaming foyer and gazed at the metal-rimmed, semicircular walnut reception desk. A large emblem of a silver tennis ball with a trailing flame decorated the wall behind it. Pictures of former champions lined the upper wall. Morgan probably had his minions polishing the trophies.

The woman stood by my side and stared at the pictures. “Are you a tennis fan?”

“Sports fan. It just feels…”

“Strange? I know. I never imagined living here, but we’re creating something.”

I’d built up a defensive barrier over the last two weeks, so couldn’t immediately return with a positive comment. Instead, I bowed my head and fidgeted with my sleeve.

“It’s okay,” she said in a reassuring way. “We’re not the enemy. We need to stick together.”

“Is Morgan here?”

“You know him?”

“We arrived on the same plane and met outside Aldi. He acted like a bit of a jerk.”

She smiled and stifled a laugh. “We moved from Aldi five days ago. The crazies still eat, and a supermarket is like a big flashing light. Sleeping on a cold vinyl floor was also a pain in the ass. Morgan and the board have been working hard to gather survivors and create a new community here. It’s still early, but…”

“The board?” I said. “We’re all in grave danger. Your community needs to face it down.”

“We haven’t seen any infected for two days. There are still crazies out there, but their numbers are shrinking. We’re sure of it.”

“It’s far from over. Something big’s coming this way.”

“You know what’s gone down?”

“To a small extent.”

She looked over my shoulder. I turned to see a familiar face. A short man with greasy brown hair, wearing a black Rolling Stones T-shirt with a large pair of red lips on the front.