Darren Wearmouth - Second Activation

“Harris, right?” I asked.

“Good memory. See if I can remember yours… Bernie?”

I felt a mix of anger and sadness at the mention of his name. Every time I’d forged a bond since landing, GA had taken it away. Linda and Bernie. Brett, with his family probably still in captivity. And Lea could be lying in a GA pit for all I knew. They made it personal. I had to convince this group to help.

“The name’s Harry, and I need to speak with Morgan, urgently.”

He extended his hand. “Morgan isn’t going to be pleased to see you. He blamed you guys for that woman showing up.”

“I’ve seen the pile of bodies outside Aldi. Is he really that one-eyed and stupid?”

Harris smiled. “You sound just like him. Come on; I’ll take you up to orientation.”

I followed him through a series of disorienting blue-carpeted corridors and up a flight of stairs, past framed photographs of past glories. The place was spotless but couldn’t escape the odor from the rest of the city. He led me into a small office, sat behind a sturdy oak desk, and shuffled a pile of papers.

He nodded at the bench on the other side. “Take a seat.”

I flopped onto the bench and looked at two folders, one with “Dogs” and one with “Birds” written on the spine in white correction fluid. He put on a pair of half-moon spectacles, picked up a pen, and cleared his throat. “I need to take down some information. It’s part of the process.”

Irritation rose inside of me. I didn’t want to lose precious time with corporate bullshit. “Harris, when you realize what the hell’s going—”

He sat back in his chair and sighed. “You haven’t got a choice— I don’t have a choice. If you want to speak with Morgan…”

“How long’s this going to take?” I asked.

“Not long—just need your details. It goes up to his secretary. I’ll attach an urgent meeting request.”

I couldn’t believe what Harris was saying. After the collapse of civilization and the imminent threat of the second activation and a larger, more deadly force arriving, they had me completing a personnel profile and meeting request. I took a deep breath and nodded.

Harris began with asking my name, age, address, occupation, and skills. He continued with questions about my whereabouts when the event first happened and what I’d done since. As I explained my story, he wrote feverishly and didn’t interrupt. When I finished, he asked for the location of Jack and Rick. I hesitated, thought for a couple of seconds, and gave Bernie’s old address in Elmhurst.

He stood and folded my profile document. “Stay here, please. I think the management team needs to know right away.”

Alone in the office, I stretched my legs and noticed a stadium layout pinned to the wall, covered in scruffy handwriting.

I pulled down a section of the blind to get a view of the land outside. I hoped to spot Jack but didn’t really expect to see him. I guessed he’d wait for a couple of hours and observe the stadium. If I didn’t reappear, his approach might be aggressive. With emotions running high on both sides, it would only take a misinterpreted gesture to start a fight.

Harris poked his head around the door. “They’ve called an urgent board meeting to discuss your story. You need to come with me.”

He strode along the corridor, banged through three sets of swinging metal doors, and climbed another flight of stairs. He pressed his right knuckle against a sturdy set of brown double doors with “Boardroom” stenciled across the top of them.

“You ready for this?” he said. “Just let him think he’s boss, and you’ll be fine.”

I shrugged. “Go for it.”

Harris knocked twice.

“Enter,” a muffled voice called.

He slipped in, closing the door immediately behind him.

Seconds later, the door opened wide. I stepped into a large meeting room, bathed in natural light from the full-length windows at the far end. Four people sat at a long, oval glass table in the center. I recognized Morgan immediately at the head of the table, wearing a pink business shirt. His neatly combed brown hair didn’t look like it had moved a millimeter since I’d first seen him on the plane.

A woman in a cream blouse sat to his right; two men to his left were both dressed in light-blue shirts. They all had a notebook, pen, and glass of water in front of them. Another lady in a purple suit sat at a small desk to the side. She glanced at me and scribbled on a jumbo pad.

Harris took a seat next to her, leaving me facing the group of four. I had to keep my composure in order to rationally explain events.

Morgan steepled his fingers and leaned forward. A clock on the wall ticked around to half past one. I decided to dispense with formalities.

“We’re all in immediate danger,” I said. “I’ve come to—”

“I should kick you out of here right now,” Morgan said in pristine Queen’s English, “but your fantasy story has grabbed my attention. Sit. I’ll introduce you to the management team.”

“Forget the introductions and fantasy. I’m here to discuss reality and survival.”

“I say this to all new arrivals; don’t think you’re anything special.”

“Get on with it, Morgan,” I said, not quite believing how quickly he’d set up his own little corporate empire. “We’ve got important things to talk about.”

“I told you he’s a loose cannon,” he mumbled to his cohorts. “I’m managing director of the company. To my left are our directors of logistics and our head of security.”

Both men nodded at me. The security guy had a look of menace about him. Stockily built, with a shaven head, thin lips, and beady eyes. Uneven stitches crossed a recent slash wound on his stubbled right cheek.

“To my right is our director of human resources.” A Mediterranean-looking lady, beautiful with long brown hair, smiled. Morgan gestured to the side of the room. “You’ve met Harris. That’s my secretary, taking notes.”

Lofty, deluded arrogance, I thought. They were already dishing out fancy titles while the world outside lay in tatters. I wondered if they had already penciled in a team-building event.

“Nice to meet you,” I said, scanning the faces. “Now, can we get on with it?”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Morgan said. “You’ve read his form, so I’ll open up the floor to questions.”

“That’s an amazing story,” Security said in a smooth American accent. “You’ll forgive me for being a little cynical in our current surroundings?”

“I don’t blame you. I’ve been here less than an hour and already feel the same.”

“You know what I mean. Monroe, activations, a force on its way. It’s almost as crazy—”

“Why is it so difficult to believe against the context of events?” I interrupted. “It’s a bizarre thing to lie about.”

“This…”—Morgan looked down at his notes—“Genesis Alliance group, where are they now?”

“A team is already here in New York. Expect more to show up. Bigger and uglier.”

“You say another activation is coming. Will it be like the first event?”

“No—possibly—I don’t really know. I think they want to process the remaining survivors to rebuild civilization. You’ve seen the notes.”

“How do you know they weren’t just another survivor group?” the HR lady inquired.

“The devices. They used a global network to bring us down. Their techy guy, Brett, told me he was recruited well before the activation, to work on comms. They carried out this shit and have a master plan. Their local team screwed up, and HQ is not happy. I think some arrived yesterday at Albany.”

“Do you know how many are coming?” the security guy asked.