Darren Wearmouth - Second Activation

It now seemed strangely natural to be driving on the right-hand side of the road through stationary traffic, weaving and bumping through routes cleared by others since the first activation. We merged onto Queens Boulevard, which had more than just a feeling of déjà vu about it.

I stopped alongside the vehicle we’d taken to the Queensboro Bridge only a week ago. We made our way toward Bernie’s apartment block on foot from here. The neighborhood looked exactly the same. A clutter of two-story houses with wooden façades, mixed with larger apartment blocks, along streets lined with overhead cables. I avoided taking the route that took us past the little girl. Jack didn’t need any extra stress. None of us did.

Bernie’s street had noticeably lost its sheen. Weeds pushed through cracks in the paving; rubbish littered the road surface and drifted around in the light breeze. The smell in Queens had an increasingly suffocating effect. I dreaded to think what it was like in Manhattan.

I carried out a visual check of the immediate vicinity of Bernie’s apartment block before we entered the building. Jack lifted Bernie’s doormat and grabbed the key.

“Was he the fat guy with you last Monday?” Morgan asked.

“Watch your tongue,” Jack snapped.

“GA killed him,” I said. “I’m heading up to the roof first to scan for black Rovers.”

“Good idea,” Jack said and barged past Morgan. “I’m not staying down here on my own with him.”

Morgan puffed his cheeks and spun toward the stairs.

I decided to check the roof first, because we would lose natural light in two hours, around half seven in the evening, damaging any chances of reasonable reconnaissance.

As I passed the fifth floor, an apartment door creaked. I froze on the staircase, turned, and put my finger to my lips.

Jack crept to my side and craned his neck around the corridor. “An open door. Cover me.”

Six apartments were on this floor. I followed him to the closest. He kicked its door fully open and aimed inside. A smear of blood ran from the hall into a living area.

“Stay on guard outside, Morgan,” I said. “We’re going in.”

Two fresh bodies lay on the fake wooden laminate floor, surrounded by dried pools of blood. One had a knife in her limp hand; both had multiple stab wounds.

Empty cans were piled in the corner of the open-plan living area. Bottled water, chocolate, and some fruit-flavored tea bags sat on the kitchen counter. I pulled a black plastic chair from under the glass dining table, rested my right boot on it, and retied my shoelace.

Jack gazed at the corpses and titled his head to one side. “Might have been hiding here last week.”

“Come on, let’s grab the stuff and get to the roof,” I said, not wanting to dwell on their history or fate.

We filled the remaining empty spaces of our packs with water and chocolate.

“What did you find in there?” Morgan asked me.

“Two dead—”

I spun and knelt by the door. The noise of slow, deliberate steps echoed from the staircase. Ascending toward us.

“Think we were followed?” Morgan whispered.

“Maybe,” I said and jerked my rifle to the left. “Get inside.”

After backing into the entrance, I lay in the prone position and closed the door ajar, leaving a crack to observe and aim outside. Jack crouched over me. Morgan paced around the lounge area, rubbing his temples.

“Morgan, keep bloody still,” Jack said over his shoulder.

The footsteps reached our level, and a man, dressed only in a pair of shorts, carried on trudging upward. His bloodstained arms dangled by his sides, and something glinted in his right hand. Possibly a knife. A door slammed on the floor above us.

“You see that, Jack?” I asked.

“Just another madman. We should leave him to it.”

“Was it one of my company?” Morgan asked.

“No idea,” I said. “But I don’t want to find out.”

A faint noise of a door opening sounded overhead.

“Was he armed?” Morgan said.

“Had a knife or something like that.”

Morgan tried to shuffle past Jack and me into the narrow hallway. “I’m not staying in the same building as a lunatic. Get out of my way.”

I grabbed Morgan’s shirt collar. “Wait a minute. He might be coming back down.”

“The rules have changed again,” Jack said. “We take no risks.”

Morgan scowled at me. “I’ll give you five seconds to take your hand off my shirt.”

“Cast your mind back a few hours,” I said. “You know the consequence of not working as a team.”

“What do you know about teamwork?”

Morgan ripped himself away from my grip and strode purposefully toward the staircase. He stopped five yards short and looked down his sights.

Footsteps descended. The man in shorts appeared, carrying a small hacksaw. He seemed in a trance, unaware of our presence.

“Freeze! Put your hands up,” Morgan said.

The man stopped and looked at Morgan as if he’d just told him he’d slaughtered all of his family.

“Hands up or I’ll shoot. You’ve got five seconds.”

“Bloody hell,” Jack said and raised his rifle. “What’s he got us into?”

The man shuffled toward Morgan. “Do you hear the voices?”

“Voices? What voices?”

The man lunged forward and grabbed the muzzle of Morgan’s rifle. They spun as the man fought to gain control of the weapon.

A shot split the air.

The man staggered back. His back thumped against the magnolia-painted wall. He clutched the center of his chest. Blood ran through his fingers and dripped to the gray vinyl floor.

Morgan swung his rifle butt into the side of the man’s head. The man collapsed and groaned, revealing a red patch on the wall behind him. His right leg kicked spasmodically before his body relaxed.

“You’re such a tit!” Jack yelled at Morgan. “Every man and his dog will be coming here now.”

“Really?” he said with a smug look of triumph. “Didn’t you hear other gunshots on our way here? If you’re not prepared to act, I will.”

“You could have just let him go down the stairs,” I said.

“I’m going to find out what he was doing.”

Morgan turned and headed for the staircase. Jack raised his eyebrows and immediately followed. As soon as we locked ourselves in Bernie’s apartment, I needed a serious word with this annoying liability.

On the next level, Morgan made for an open apartment door. He stood to the side of it with his back against the wall and spun to face the entrance with his rifle stretched in front him, a textbook clichéd move. I assumed his clearance training came from the TV. He cupped his nose with his left hand and entered.

“Jesus Christ,” I heard him say.

The filthy living area buzzed with flies. Severed heads lined an eight-row bookcase in lines of five. A stack of seven more leaned against it, like a grisly totem pole. Various bloodstained implements lay around: a bread knife, bolt cutters, and a coil of metal wire. In the kitchen area, three blackened heads hung like ugly lanterns from each rotor blade of the ceiling fan.

Jack covered his mouth and immediately walked out.

“Do you still think we should have kept him alive?” Morgan said.

I shook my head and left the apartment, finding it impossible to comprehend the reason for such a grotesque collection. We’d witnessed some random and strange behavior, but this was the most calculated and horrific yet. I remembered the headless corpses in Elyria. The first activation had really screwed some people’s minds. If this was the real GA plan, its leaders were even more twisted than I’d thought.

“Back to Bernie’s,” Jack said.

“Yep, I’ve lost my appetite for surveillance,” I said.