Darren Wearmouth - Second Activation

Jack and I exchanged glances and nodded. It didn’t need to be stated that we were pleased to see each other alive and to be reunited, although I hoped Jack had his patient head on for what was about to come.

Harris proceeded to interview Jack and Rick with the same set of questions. After five minutes, the director of HR entered the room. She interrupted occasionally, cross-referencing my story with that of the other two. Appearing satisfied, she took the forms, instructing Harris to place us in a bunk suite.

“I almost didn’t believe it,” Harris said after she left the room, “until I spoke to the three of you. My team captured a man dressed in black yesterday, snooping around the practice courts. We interrogated him, and he gave us a similar story about activations. One of the guys lost his shit and shot him.”

“Why didn’t you report it up the chain?” Jack said.

“We passed him off as crazy, but in the back of my mind, I thought there was something to it. Chip will convince Morgan. He’s probably worried that the threat might spread panic.”

“It’s not our intention to destabilize the whole place,” I said. “The shocks can limit activation exposure, but GA won’t stand idly by while you build up a community.”

“It’s a black-and-white decision,” Jack said. “Kill or be killed.”

Harris stood and slung a rifle over his shoulder. “I’ll give you the guided tour. Get you settled in before we head out tonight.”

“We’re heading out?” Rick asked.

“I think they got our message,” I said. “I suggested a reconnaissance tonight and attack tomorrow. We haven’t got any other sensible options.”

Harris led us downstairs to an inner concourse where food outlets, souvenir shops, and bathrooms previously serviced tennis fans.

“The place is split into an inner and an outer ring. This is the boundary,” Harris said, pointing along the concourse. “Our team patrols this area and the immediate vicinity. Two groups of nineteen, each with a team leader, eight-hour shifts.”

“So one team gets sixteen hours off a day?” Jack said.

“We don’t take time off unless we’re sleeping. End up doing stuff like this. I finished my patrol this morning. A couple of us watch the kennels.”

“You’ve got dogs here?”

“I’ll tell you about it later, Jack,” I said.

“Nineteen doesn’t seem like a lot,” Rick said.

“We ring the outer concourse. You can see the men to your left and right. It’s worked so far. More numbers would obviously be great.”

Harris led us in a wide, internal circle around the stadium. Guards stationed evenly around the complex nodded a silent greeting as we passed them.

“Locker room’s through there. Come back when we’ve finished. Logistics will give you some food and equipment.”

Steam wafted out of a pair of open doors, and my mouth watered at the smell of frying onions. “That’s the kitchen, run by logistics too. Food was rough for the first couple of days, but they make a good stew. There’s a hot meal every evening.”

“Who scavenges? Your team?” Rick asked.

“That’s part of the logistics team’s role. They cook, gather food, blankets—general stuff, you know?”

“Sounds like they’ve got a harder job,” Jack said.

Harris raised his eyebrows. “You reckon?”

“Any others about?” I asked.

“We’re over a hundred in total and growing every day. The rest clean, have admin jobs. There are a few kids—”

“Haven’t seen any alive since…” I trailed off, not wanting to mention the incident close to Bernie’s apartment, when Jack had shot a girl who tried to kill us.

“Funny thing,” Harris said. “We found a small group. Didn’t reveal much during orientation.”

After completing a circuit, he led us back up the stairs. “This is the inner ring. At first we designated it a weapon-free zone, until that dog went crazy the other day.”

“What’s with dogs? Someone called Rick one,” Jack said.

“During the activation, if you were on a plane, you’re a bird. Ground: dog,” I said.

Jack frowned. “Eh?”

“Didn’t take them long to start discriminating,” Rick said.

“It’s not like that,” Harris said. “I’m sure you’re smart enough to understand the risks. This way; I’ll get you armed.”

Weapons neatly lay across the carpet of a small meeting room. Three rows of rifles and two of handguns. Our two cattle prods were propped in the corner. Harris picked up an AR-15 and two loaded mags and passed them to me.

“Why not give us ours back?” Jack said.

“We’re trying to standardize the weapons across the security team. Interchangeable—”

“We had AR-15s, Harris,” I said.

“You won’t be complaining then?”

He passed a rifle to Jack and Rick.

“You okay with that, Rick?” Jack asked.

“Sure, I’ll use it to shoot birds,” he said without a hint of a smile.

“I’d leave out the wisecracks if I were you,” Harris said. “They’ll only land you in serious trouble. People have lost their loved ones. You catch them at the wrong time…”

We followed Harris up another flight of stairs to a wider internal corridor. Windows on the outer wall gave an elevated view of our surroundings. The mower continued to buzz around the golf course. A wasted resource, I thought. Clearing the parking lot was a good idea. It provided fewer obstacles for intruders to hide behind.

“There’re ninety luxury suites,” Harris said. “At first we had one each. A couple of days ago, we moved to a sharing system.”

“Morgan didn’t waste time getting this place organized,” I said.

Harris nodded. “There are a couple of camp beds and a couch. No electricity—we boil water on camping stoves; don’t know what might be floating in the supply.”

He led us through a door, revealing a tidy furnished area that wouldn’t have looked out of place as an IKEA showroom. A bulky brown suede couch and two matching armchairs were positioned adjacent to each other on large circular red rug. Thick white duvets covered both bunk beds, partially obscuring dark wood cupboards of a kitchenette.

“Nice place,” Jack said.

“Nice? It’s awesome compared to the last few days,” Rick said.

Jack didn’t waste any time checking out the kitchenette cupboards and drawers. I slid open a glass door and stood in a seated balcony area outside.

The suites ran around the midsection of the stadium; a couple of people sat on the balconies around us. The rest of the place looked neat and tidy, as if I had tickets for the U.S. Open and was one of the first to arrive. A woman swept the green surface surrounding the blue tennis court. She stopped and waved. I returned the friendly gesture.

Harris sat next to me on one of the padded folding seats. “Impressive, huh?”

“Amazing place. Who decided to come here?”

“Morgan. He likes to think big. Yesterday at the parade, he told us that we were the new founding fathers.”

“He holds a parade?”

“Motivational speeches, corporate bullshit.”

“Got to admit, I thought we’d be better off in the country,” I said.

“Same here. Between you and me, I’m not Morgan’s biggest fan. But you’ve got to give him some credit.”

“Are people happy here?”

“Still early days, but yeah, we’ve got a chance. That’s more than I expected last week. Your news, though…”

“Put a monkey wrench in the works?” I finished.

He sighed and checked his watch. “I’ll leave you boys to it. Don’t forget to visit the locker room. You’ll need candles for tonight.”

“Cheers, mate,” I said.

We returned inside. Rick relaxed on the couch with his feet up, flicking through a glossy magazine. Jack stabbed a knife into a can of olives.