CICADA: A Stone Age World Novel (27 page)

It was like that with people. They all had it in them to commit horrendous acts. But without the law to keep them in check, most would take and kill for themselves. He wasn’t about to let that happen here.

A very pretty woman entered, looked around, and then approached him.

“Hello, Mr. Richards, we’ve never met. I’m Dr. Melanie Reid; Dr. Carrington Reid is my husband. I’m helping him on a vital project for Mr. Westerling. He sent me for these things.” She slid him the piece of paper she had written up in Carrington’s handwriting.

Richards read the note twice and then looked at her. This one was very curious. He knew people pretty well, and he could sense she was hiding something, but he wasn’t sure yet what it was. “Come with me,” he said, holding onto the note and standing by the door that buzzed open. “I’m sorry, but I will have to pat you down, Mrs.—”

“It’s Doctor Reid, sir. And you are not touching me, you understand.” She stepped through the door and walked right up to his face. “I know for a fact you don’t pat my husband down. You are not going to get your jollies feeling me up, buddy. Now, I’m running late. Are you going to show me where this shit is that my husband needs, or do we have to talk to Mr. Westerling?” She remained unmoveable like a statue, hands on her hips.

Poor SOB
, he thought of Dr. Carrington. He knew who ruled this household. Smirking, he turned and said, “Very well, follow me then.”

“What about him, Doc, will he come out of it?” Westerling asked Thornton, who was changing a couple of the bandages on his face.

The doctor looked back at Bill King, now lying flat on the floor unconscious. “He has a concussion, but it’s not too bad, couple of broken bones, and some superficial wounds. Like you, he should heal in a few weeks.”

“I don’t care if he heals—he’ll be dead by tomorrow. I just want to make sure he can talk if I need him to.”

Doctor Thornton regarded him for a moment, wondering how he was ever talked into serving this narcissist whose hunger for power was greater than anyone he had ever met—and after the collapse of society outside their walls, greater than he probably ever would meet. He knew Westerling meant what he said; the senator never filtered his words around the doc. It was as if Westerling believed that doctor-patient privilege had no boundaries, even post-apocalypse. He had no doubt Westerling would kill this man, who was just an innocent pawn in some real-life chess game, where every person, including him, was one of the chess pieces. In spite of the relative safety he enjoyed, he regretted his decision to be here, every day.

“Are we done, Doc?”

“Yeah, we’re done.” He collected his supplies and packed up his bag.

“Aren’t you going to tell me to take it easy, and all that doctorly kind of stuff?”

“No, do whatever you want. I’m sure I’ll be patching you up again soon enough.” Thornton walked out.

Black pawn fixes black king, prepares to be moved again on the board at the whim of black king
, he thought as he tried to leave.

Reynolds almost knocked Thornton to the floor, crashing into him in the doorway. He was frantic. “Sir, some of the invaders are on top of the wall.”

BOOM
.

Operations’ walls shuddered around them and the floor rumbled, like in a small dull earthquake.

“They’ve killed some of our people near the northern gate,” croaked an out-of-breath Reynolds.

White pawn takes black pawn.

“Well then, fire everything we have at them there. Where are our soldiers?” Westerling asked.

Black knight takes white pawn
.

“They’re keeping them off the other walls. And the invaders keep picking off every soldier who has tried to help at our northern gate.”

White pawn takes black knight
.

“Look, their attack is at the north gate. Focus most of our men and weapons there. Put nonessential personnel on the other gates. Give them a gun and tell them to fire at anyone who moves. Grab the scientists if you have to. Reynolds, we have to hit them hard, now.” He looked over to the entry as another guard brushed by Thornton, still standing there. The guard tentatively walked in, carefully holding two bottles of the forty-year-old bourbon and a box of Cohibas.

“Put them over there.” He motioned to a table against the wall near where Bill King was having a nightmare about falling.

Black king orders black pawn around
.

“Thank God. Now we can be civilized during our battles.”

Black king takes a drink.

“I need more C4,” John called out to a runner, who took off to report to one of his generals. “Get two more on the wall and our .50 up there,” he yelled to Peter, who signaled and two more red robes shinnied up the ropes they set up on the wall.

John stepped back and looked at the gate. This one was pretty strong. The blasts shook part of it loose from the wall, but it was held in place by the other door. Two more blasts at the other door and the middle should bring it down.

He quickly drew his sight on a head that bobbed along the top of the wall running toward the gate and fired two shots.

“Keep our cover fire, there and there,” John pointed to either side of the gate. “Soon, they’ll figure out our game, so we need to blast the gate while we have the advantage.”

“Wouldn’t it be better if we waited for Teacher and the other soldiers?” said a woman. Only her eyes were visible from within the oversized robe she wore.

John stuck his face up to hers and said loud enough that she could hear it above the gunfire and commotion, “If you don’t leave this battlefield right now, I will shoot you myself.”

As the woman left, the tail of her robe trailing like some macbre wedding train, the runner returned with the C4 and grenades.

John whistled to one of his red-robed people on the gate, a signal for “get busy shooting fish in a barrel.” The man looked down and John tossed up the grenades one at a time. He smiled at the irony of this. The leader of Bios-2 made a deal with the Teacher to leave and not bother Bios-2, giving him explosives and three .50 calibers. Now, they were using those weapons on Bios-2. He would have a good chuckle when their compound fell.

John looked up to make sure that only friendlies were on the wall and he set up the next blast.

Another explosion sounded, smaller than the previous one and without any corresponding earthquakes.

Westerling exhaled a large puff and waited for the next report from Reynolds. He had a sinking feeling in his gut and it wasn’t the bourbon. He remembered this feeling during his first congressional election. All his people were telling him that he was up in the polls, but the exit data coming in from several locations said that his competitor was capturing the minority and female vote. Considering that district was composed of a large minority population and a majority of the voters were female, his gut told him that he would lose. He could feel the shift in his political winds. His people continued to reassure him not to worry, he would carry the night. He lost by two points.

He could sense the winds had changed once again. He took another healthy sip of bourbon and then signaled one of the guards to come over.

“Grab one other guard, go get my daughter and granddaughter and take them to the bunker. Get it prepared and don’t let anyone in but you four. Are we clear?”

The guard nervously but decisively nodded. “Yes sir, I’ll protect your family with my life.”

“Great, go now.”

Boom
.

The building shook again.

They stopped first in a vast room of various building materials, all categorized, sorted and resting in their appropriate places. Of course, the metal conduit she was looking for was at the back of the room and Richards was taking his sweet time getting there. She wanted to get in and get out, not sure how much time she had before Bios-2’s security looked for her here. It was hard enough for her to remain composed when each time they turned a corner, Richards would shoot his skeptical gaze back at her to make sure she was still there since her footfalls were nearly silent.

From what she had memorized from Carrington’s drawings—
he would never draw another one again
… She fought back tears.
Concentrate, Mel!
It was near impossible because everything reminded her of Carrington, and she had not allowed herself a moment to grieve. She needed to stay at the anger stage until she escaped this madhouse.

“Is this what you’re looking for?” They were looking at an area of one-to-two-inch-wide metal conduit pipes stacked in shelves based on length. It was like going to one of those big-box home improvement stores, with everything laid out for you and their not-so-eager staff pointing you in the direction you wanted, while other consumers battled for your helper’s attention. Those days no longer existed.

She glanced at the shelves and then of those nearby, and then saw it. “No, that’s what he wants,” she pointed to a lower shelf with two-foot lengths of one-foot-diameter pipe.

Richards didn’t respond or budge, indicating that he wasn’t intending on helping her pick up the item.
Yep, just like the big-box stores
.

It must have weighed thirty pounds or more and was bulky, difficult to carry. Richards was already impatiently waiting at the end of the aisle; that was his way of saying that he wanted to move along so they could pick up the final item and he could be done with her.

She tried to figure out how to lug the damned thing around, first trying under her armpit—
too heavy
; then in front of her—
too difficult to walk
; then behind her head, straddling her shoulders—
just right
. Now she marched onward, head bent forward, wondering how she would explain the clock to him.

She should have just written it down on the sign-in sheet. Instead, she listed “Broken black pocket watch in Misc. Area,” knowing from Carr’s instructions that this was in front of where the clock and its internal bomb were hidden. Since the clock was already “repaired,” she thought listing it would be suspicious, whereas the pocket watch would be somewhat easy to explain. She just didn’t expect him to be watching her every move, and now how would she explain wanting this?

“So, what do you need the pocket watch for?” he asked.

Shit
!

“Look, if we’re going to have a conversation, maybe you can help me out here. This damn thing is heavy.” She grunted to exaggerate her efforts.

He said nothing, not changing his stride either. She could have sworn he was snickering, just a little.

When they had walked what felt like miles, they finally reached a section that was actually labeled
Misc. Area
.

Richards once again halted at the end corner of the aisle she needed, intending to stand vigil at his post. Melanie wasn’t paying attention, letting her mind wander about Carrington, gazing at the floor just ahead of her, until suddenly he was there. The surprise caused her to jump and her forward inertia, pushed by the extra thirty pounds behind her head, caused her to tilt off balance. Two things happened at once: she felt she might fall over and had to counter-weight by spinning herself around a hundred-eighty degrees. She also felt the gun, which must have worked itself free of her waistband in the commotion, slide down her pant leg. It proceeded to pop out and skid along the floor until it came to rest at his feet.

In the long moment that followed, they both stared at the gun, considering its many implications. And they both reacted at the same time.

Richards glanced at her from behind a mask of surprise and reached for his sidearm.

Melanie did another half spin, grabbed one end of the heavy metal conduit and swung like a slugger attempting to knock it out of the ballpark.
Homerun!

She was surprised how light it felt, how it connected exactly where she was aiming. Before he had even drawn his weapon, she heard the
bonk
and felt the spray of his blood. Both he and the metal pipe hit the floor to the thunderous applause of the thumping in her ears.