CICADA: A Stone Age World Novel (32 page)

“I’m out too, boss,” Tom hollered from the roof a few feet away.

“All right, I’m calling it; time for Plan B. Tom, would you do the honors and make sure Shingles hits the horn and gets down safely?” Max peered up to the tower, worried a little because he no longer heard the boom of the Barrett.

“Sure thing, Max.” He hopped down off the roof of the building and jogged to Operations, his sidearm drawn and leading his way.

“Preston, take Lisa and Magdalena with you and go get those in the infirmary. I’m going to make sure there are none just behind us here. I’ll meet you in the designated spot.” Max turned back around and fired off automatic bursts from his AK. Each distinctive discharge felt like home compared to the smoother volley of his M4, which was empty, as were any serious attempts to save the complex.

They would lose Cicada.

Tom was certain something was wrong when he entered Operations, and it wasn’t the lone bloody boot print. It was the silence above. He could no longer hear Shingles firing that beautiful Barrett. Tom was sure Shingles must have bought it at the hands of one of the enemy’s snipers. He was hesitant to go up and check on him, but the need to sound the horn was far more pressing than his reluctance to learn of his friend’s fate. The lives of most of Cicada’s surviving people rested upon Tom’s shoulders. He had to blow the horn. Now.

He bounded up the spiral stairway, three steps at a time, his Glock pointed forward in case it was needed. Tom ascended these steps daily, checking up on this strange dude he called a friend. Their friendship was born from their odd status within this community, as neither were scientists and so not part of that clique. Shingles—Tom never knew his real name—was small and almost misshapen, as if he had had polio as a child. They shared a passion for weapons and shooting. Shingles was by far the best shot he had ever seen, and he knew he wasn’t bad himself. He also had an almost encyclopedic recall of gun facts, as if he were reading directly from one of Jane’s many publications. Often, Tom would bring him lunch and they would share stories—his were combat-related and Shingles’s were weapons details. Mostly, he liked the guy, who was completely unassuming and genuine.

Below the western window, he found Shingles’s crumpled body in a puddle of his own blood, a black slick that had a strange yellow shimmer from the auroral light pouring through the windows. Based on the spray on the wall, he knew someone had taken him at close range, from behind. The boot prints leading away and down the stairs confirmed this. Regardless, there was nothing he could do for his friend and he had a far more important matter than finding the bastard and seeking revenge.

“Goodbye, little buddy,” Tom whispered, and then hopped up onto the floor. He reached into the shadows for the big red button. There was no mistaking it, and in the sunlight it plainly read “Alarm.” He pushed it as he looked out the south window. He blinked once, thinking it was his old eyes playing tricks on him. It wasn’t.

“Oh my God!”

Johnson was the first person to enter the old adobe house, minutes before the horn’s blare. He pulled the warped door closed. Its ancient hinges screeched their disquiet, like some angry animal anxious to get back to its long uninterrupted slumber. Once it was closed, he latched it from the inside to make it more difficult for them to enter.

He was supposed to go to Comms first and make the call to Westerling, but a couple people were already there and his cover was already blown. He didn’t have his phone box either, but it wouldn’t matter because there were only two other places to connect: the utilities closet by the Library and in Research. He wasn’t about to take a chance on either. This was the safest place—well, it would be soon enough.

It was pitch black inside the windowless house, but he knew where to go next, having practiced this many times in similar darkness. His footsteps were heavy on the concrete floor, the only improvement to the house in the last ten years. Then from the blackness, there was a sound of a thick object on rollers being pulled across the concrete. Its echo was hollow, the adobe and wood roof absorbing most of the sound. It sounded once more and then it was silent.

The house again appeared vacant, slumping slightly from a few centuries of gravity and the elements. It awaited the rest of Cicada’s dwindling population.

When Max had emptied his last AK mag, he dropped the gun and switched to his Glock. When the horn finally blared to all of Cicada, he planned on staying only a couple of minutes before he tried to find the stragglers. He looked back several times, hearing the footfalls on the gravel behind him, just to confirm they were friendly. At least the enemy made their presence obvious in their red robes.

He wished he could see to the First House and count the numbers that passed, but the Rec Facility blocked his field of view. He’d give it another minute and call it. Beyond the fence gate there were three shots, maybe less than twenty meters from him. The fence blocked his field of view for the first five feet below it. He watched the gate creak open and a single red-robed head tentatively edged through, looking back and forth. When he assumed there was no one around, he beckoned others in. Max waited as two, then three, then several quietly walked through; he was hidden by elevation. He heard a set of running boots coming from one of his own people and saw the lead robe lift his weapon. Max emptied his Glock, rammed in another magazine and finished them off.

He hopped off the roof, watching to make sure no one else was coming through. Before closing the gate, he peeked outside to see what it looked like and now saw thirty or more shapes approaching the gate. He closed it and then dragged the bodies against it. “Thanks for your help, guys.”

It was time to go.

The Teacher was jubilant as he sashayed into the front gate of their new home, Cicada. It was just as the forked-tongued devil said it would be. The Senator had told him they would resist at first, but he had a plan for this. Francis set up five of their best sharpshooters in the trees at specific points outlined by Westerling. They would supply cover fire for their people, who would go over the walls and through the gate on the north, damaged by the explosives they were given. They should commit one-quarter of their troops to this endeavor and have the remainder wait on the other side of the main gate to the south, which would be opened, letting them in.

But the Teacher didn’t tell his people the plan because he wanted them committed to trying to make it in over the walls or through the damaged gate. This would add to the diversion’s effect. And the diversion worked perfectly as their men and women walked in without any resistance through the main gate; all the gunfire seemed to be concentrated on the other sides and the far end to the north.

When the horn blared, the Teacher was told that meant they were giving up. That they would throw down their arms and wait at some designated spot to be captured.

It reminded him of the air-raid sirens from the movies. It was all so exhilarating.

“Teacher, they seem to be running. I think we’ve won,” one of his female warriors said. She was one of the prettier ones, and one he had spent some evenings with.

“Yes, sister, Cicada is now ours.”

Max stopped at his residence, seeing a large congregation of people at the First House. He wondered why they hadn’t gone in but saw Tom arrive and knew he would figure it out. He needed to take care of a few matters at home first.

The door was still open and most of the guns picked clean: good, less for the enemy. He closed the door, wanting to not be interrupted for the next couple minutes. He hurried to the Toy Room and shoved the last remaining mags of .223 and 9mm into his vest and added one more grenade. Then he secured the door.

Now for a few personal items and a present for the home’s newest occupant
.

He grabbed his SOC Gear Long Range rucksack, already filled with his bug-out gear and hydration water bladder, and lumbered to his bedroom. His injuries were catching up to him, the adrenaline starting to fade. On his bedside table, he snatched his last Frankenstein flashlight and slid it into his sack on the floor.

He pulled out his clothes hamper, a wicker basket he bought in Mexico some years ago. He lifted the top off, walked over to the bed and peeled back the sheet and covers, unused in over a year even after the last three days. He dumped the basket’s contents onto the bed and pulled the fabric over the now very angry rattler. Max grabbed some clothes from the closet and tossed them on the bed to provide cover to the moving lump underneath.

“I think that’s a nice housewarming gift.”

He slung his sack around his shoulder, lumbered into the living room and stared at his Decision Shelf, feeling surprisingly clear-headed after so little sleep and so much stress on his body. But his injuries were taking their toll and he was completely exhausted. Yet he felt sure of this decision. He reached up, grabbed what he wanted, and without hesitation thrust it into his sack.

One final consideration
, he thought. He examined the three pictures on the entry foyer wall. Originally, he was going to take them all. After all, there were no other pictures of his grandfather or Fatima. But they were in the past. He reasoned they should stay with the house. He closed his bag, put it around both shoulders and fastened the clasp, already rearranging his weapons. He was ready.

Before exiting his residence for perhaps the last time, he looked at this place he so rarely used. It wasn’t really his home because it was empty of people that he so stridently kept out of it and therefore out of his life. He didn’t know any of them as well as the Kings, but he felt a duty to protect them all. He realized just then that he couldn’t protect everybody; he could only do what he could do and, with God’s help, many of them might survive this thing.

Looking up to the heavens he said, “If it is your will, O Lord.”

He shut the door but left it unlocked, not wanting to keep its new occupants from receiving all of the benefits of living here. A sly smile filled his face. It was probably the first time he had really smiled in the three days he had been there.