by M. L. Banner
Max had left a fairly detailed map on the day of the event, according to the date/time stamp. Its route took them through Tucson, Arizona, then New Mexico, and into Colorado where they would find Cicada.
When they were all packed up, they locked the warehouse and said their goodbyes to the burnt-out shell of a house where they had spent so many happy days building memories. They jumped into the Blazer, with Bill behind the wheel, Sally riding shotgun, Lisa in the back with Maria to help with Ana and because her Spanish was better, and finally Miguel on the other side. Lisa and Miguel would man the windows and if needed shoot whatever blocked their way. Bill and Sally also were armed and ready to do the same.
The truck was packed tight, with three times the amount of supplies they thought they would need for the journey, which they figured would take about two to three days depending on road conditions. Besides the obvious food, water, and ammo, they also packed extra cans of gas, enough for two trips to Cicada. Yet with everything packed, they didn’t even dent what was stored in Max’s warehouse.
They went through a checklist and decided it was time to go, before they attracted more undue attention. There was only one thing left to do before they headed out of town.
~~~
The Family Church of Christ was a nondescript building among other nondescript buildings in its neighborhood. It had a commercial-sized parking lot, although it was not paved, and there was a sign, donated by the Pelican Bar after a Mark Mulligan concert and fundraiser. The sign’s bright lights had illuminated the building, and some would say half the neighborhood. But that was before the Event. Prior to this, the church held one service on Sundays and the rest of the time undertook mission work serving the community, especially orphans and the hungry around them. The sign no longer called people for service, although many more came than ever did before the Event. And on all other days, there was a line of starving people hoping for a handout.
Bill pulled up and everybody in line stopped talking to stare at the impossible: a vehicle operating after Los Diablos Verdes. Bill parked next to what was probably the pastor’s car, the layers of dust attested to it being unused since the Event, and turned off the Blazer.
“I’m giving you only two minutes,” he said as he turned around from the driver’s seat and faced Lisa, “before we come in with guns drawn. You got it?” He looked at his wife, making sure she knew he was serious. He handed her the key Max had given him, attached to the lanyard.
“Okay, I’ll be quick,” she said as she scooted out of the truck and slammed the door behind her.
“Guns drawn, let everyone see we mean business,” he said as he watched his wife slip past some people and through the door.
She saw the minister almost immediately, among a throng of people, and walked briskly up to him. “Hello, Pastor John, I don’t know if you remember me…”
“Lisa and Bill King, of course.” His smile was warm and infectious. “How could I forget your generous food donation.” Several heads lifted up, people trying to hear what came next.
She grabbed his arm and led him to a quiet area of the room. No one could see her hand him the key and lanyard with a hand-drawn map and directions. She whispered into his ear, still holding his arm firmly. His demeanor changed almost instantly; he pressed his head to hers, tears glistening on his face, and then hugged her. He looked at her again and kissed her cheek. “You are a saint,” his lips said to those who could read them. “Peace be with you,” she said, and walked out. Less than a minute later, the Kings and Fernandezes left the parking lot and drove out of town.
Pastor John wiped the moisture from his eyes, stood up tall, and called out, “I need ten strong men to help me get some supplies.”
51.
I Do
Laramie, Wyoming
It was by far the biggest wedding ceremony witnessed by this part of Wyoming in a long time, and every member of Fort Laramie who wasn’t dead or in the infirmary showed up for it. Even those few townies who grumbled that they had been lied to about the bride and groom’s marital status showed up. Carrington thought it was just the few men who were jealous of him taking one of the only available women in the town. Everyone else was excited that the town’s two heroes had found love.
The sheriff performed the service, which was his first and probably the funniest anyone had ever witnessed. Folks who had often quoted The Princess Bride wedding scene would now imitate this one instead, with the drawl so strong it could trip a bull. The crowd favorite—“Do yew take this wohman to be yehr lawfully wedded whyf?”—would be repeated for years.
During their first (rather long) kiss as husband and wife, everyone cheered, even the grumblers. They didn’t want their friends to go, but they understood why. The Carringtons had an important job to do at Cicada. The locals were just thankful to them for saving their town and for having had the chance to know them.
They fixed up Carrington’s recumbent tricycle with new tires and completely degreased the chain and gears. They added a small trailer filled with more than enough supplies, even though the journey to Colorado shouldn’t be a long one. The hardest job for the town was putting together the official marriage certificate, which Carrington figured would be required for their entry into Cicada. The problem was that for the past several years, all legal certificates had been printed by computer. After they found some old blank stock stored in a warehouse, they had to go from house to house looking for a typewriter and ribbon that worked to fill out the form. Bob Smucker, the town manager, arranged to borrow a local romance author’s vintage Underwood. Somehow that was fitting. After typing it up, Bob and Tex signed it to make it official.
Carrington and Melanie mounted their trike, him first and then her on his lap. It was designed for one, but they found if she crossed her legs around the handle bars, parked her feet behind the wheel and then leaned back against his chest, it worked great.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Don’t forget to yell if you lose your balance.”
“Don’t forget, I rode a crashing Russian escape capsule to earth.”
“There’s no doubt who is the smarter of us. Let’s go before I say something else stupid.”
“Forward, James.”
“Bye,” a disharmonious chorus of voices serenaded them.
“Bye,” they answered back and waved.
As they drove away, someone let loose of a series of tin cans tied to the back of the trailer, just below the newly hand-painted license plate that read “CARR & MEL.” They pulled through the north gate smiling like the newlyweds they were, the cans clanking away, causing such a racket that a couple of dogs in the neighborhood starting barking. They stopped, still in full view of several who were watching them at the gate. Melanie got off, yanked both cords and their attached cans and tossed them into the trailer, got back on the trike and settled in again. Carrington waved without looking back as he pedaled away. At the top of the Highway 130 bridge, they disappeared from Laramie’s lives forever.
52.
Going to a New Home
Wright Ranch, Illinois
They ended up staying one extra day to complete all the preparations for travel. The following morning, they all said goodbye to Robert and Emma Simpson, knowing that they would never see them again. The Simpsons would most likely be dead long before the others arrived in New Mexico. Wilber spent time with them providing more instructions on the location of supplies and what they could do to minimize the effects of the coming radiation. He dug out two old Geiger counters from a metal storage shed, sealed in their original wood boxes. One he left with the Simpsons. The other they would take on their journey, hoping to bypass any potential radiation threat as their planned path west would bring them near a couple other nuclear power plants . He crafted steel cages around each, providing protection against the daily CME attacks.
Robert and Emma thanked him and begged him and the others to go before the radiation moved i
n, when it would be too late for all of them. He obliged, grabbing Darla and Steve who had spent an extra few minutes at the graves of their family members. Their waterworks of anguish had long since dried up, replaced with regrets and self-loathing over not having done a better job of protecting their loved ones.
The travelers readied themselves for their journey, taking stock of their supplies and making sure everything was secure. Each pulled a cart filled with nearly two hundred pounds of food and water, medical supplies, tents or canopies, sleeping bags, etc. Much of that weight was water. Wilber had built the carts, each one essentially an up-ended shopping cart about five feet high and three feet wide with a big handlebar on the back so that it could be rolled on its two large wheels. He borrowed the idea from all the roll-aboard bags, except these were much bigger, much sturdier, and had much larger wheels. Wilber and Steve then designed an ingenious strap system, setting a padded harness for each shoulder that fastened across the chest. This way each person could pull a heavy load many miles without tiring from the weight. They also wore military vests with two full spare magazines for their rifles and loaded pistols (one per person) plus two more magazines for each pistol. All carried their rifles, slung to their chests, at the ready. Darla was the only exception. Her rifle was attached to the cart in a special sling. On her back, she carried her spear gun, which had already helped her out of one jam.
They looked once more at the house and headed down the road, one long step at a time, hoping to reach their destination before the onset of winter.
53.
Together
Rocky Point, Mexico
They pulled onto the long sandy road away from the beach. This would take them to Highway 37, then through Rocky Point and then to the US about fifty miles later. Everyone was apprehensive, but happy just the same. They were together, this family of theirs, and they were headed to a place that offered hope in a world that had little.
At the intersection of Highway 37, just before they turned west was a Jeep pointed in their direction and parked in the middle of the road. A man had his back to them and his head under the hood. Since they probably had the only functioning vehicle in Rocky Point, this was way too suspicious.
Bill slowed down. “Everyone get your weapons ready. Miguel, open your window and take aim at that man. Look around, this is probably a trap.”
The man, at least acting like he was trying to fix his Jeep, stopped what he was doing. Now alerted to their approaching vehicle, he turned around abruptly. Thankfully there were no weapons in his hands. The man’s fury gray face wore a wide grin instantly recognized by everyone in the Blazer.
He started to run toward the Blazer, and Bill hit the brakes, and slid to a stop.
“It’s Señor Max!” Miguel announced, and all knew it was true.
Bill opened the door and embraced his friend, with a hug and laughter, and everyone else followed. There they were hugging their friend in the middle of a road that no one else would drive on.
Afterward, when Max told them that his ranch was ruined, he was overjoyed when Bill told him they were headed to Cicada.
And so they all traveled north, to this mysterious place known as Cicada, not knowing what lay before them. It didn't matter. They were together. They would take care of each other, no matter what happened.
Part III
“I turned to speak to God about the world’s despair;
But to make bad matters worse, I found God wasn’t there.”
Robert Frost
“My desolation does begin to make a better life.”
William Shakespeare
Thompson Journal Entry
September 2, 1991
Cicada could be humanity’s last hope
When our world ends, and I believe it will soon, the surviving remnants of humanity will need a place of hope, where the best minds work together to find solutions to what ended the world. This is what my great-grandfather envisioned with his concept of Cicada. Unfortunately, he never brought it to fruition. I intend to pick up where he left off.
To make Cicada work, and because we don’t know the type of apocalypse that will ultimately befall us, we have to find the best minds in each scientific field, whose prescient work may provide early warning signs to that end. It is then my hope that these same scientists will also find the solutions to counter whatever apocalyptic calamity has ended our world, so as to help humanity rebuild the broken one with one even better.
To find these scientists, I decided that we would run tests to attract the brightest minds, to pursue those who are the top in their individual fields of study. Besides giving them funding for the work they are already doing, we will offer an insurance plan: a free ticket for them and their immediate family on the only ark available when the world ends.
To bring this vision to reality, I will build the Cicada complex on the same 900 acres of land south of Boulder, Colorado, that my great-grandfather Russell Thompson set aside for this. It will be completely unknown to the world, until the apocalypse, and then it will be known as a utopia or place of salvation.
54.
Breaking Ground
20 Years B.E. (Before Event)
South of Boulder, Colorado
Maxwell J. Thompson stood on top of an expansive mesa surrounded by pine, juniper, and a grove of magnificent aspens, all looking upon a majestic green carpeted valley below. He regarded all of this land with a certain reverence. His great-grandfather had left it to his grandfather, who had left it to his father, who had left it to him. Originally, Russell P. Thompson III had envisioned this as a sanctuary for humanity, but that goal was never realized before his death; besides his dream and a few thoughts in a journal they shared, the only tangible remnant was a rock wall around the mesa’s circumference and a few buildings within, their walls buckling from age and nature’s advance. No one in his family had taken up the mantle of Russell’s dream, preferring instead to waste their portion of the inheritance. Max’s father was frugal with the land and reverent of the Cicada dream, leaving both to his only son, Max, along with a substantial portion of Russell’s sizable fortune. Upon his father’s death, Max had created a not-for-profit corporation whose overly general purpose was, “to create scientific breakthroughs that might benefit humanity,” and to which he had donated all of the rights to the land and a considerable amount of cash. For this, he received a half-billion-dollar deduction against his taxes, and more important, a guarantee that the land would not be sold to a housing developer and Cicada would outlive him.
His own stamp on this vision was about to be actualized.
“So, Mr. Thompson, what do you think?” asked Preston, his project manager, standing next to a broad table covered with the architectural plans, the curled corners held down by stones.
“You did a great job,” Max said scrutinizing each detail. “What about its defenses?”
“Top of the line, Mr. Thompson. We have the entire perimeter—”
One of the two cell phones resting on the table’s plans rang. Max reached over and grabbed his, not looking up. “Yes?”
“Mr. Thompson, this is Frank Spade. I have an update on the Kings. They’re going to Rocky Point again in two weekends.”
“Great.” He looked up, eyes filled with excitement, focusing now on his attorney’s words. “And how did we do on those two beach houses?”
“They’re yours. Agreements are signed and you should have the equivalent of a closing just before that same weekend. Should I book a flight?”
“Yes, call my office so they can coordinate my schedule.”
“Will do, Mr. Thompson.”
“Thanks, Frank. Great work.” Max pressed the end button on his Brick and set it back on the table.
“Sorry, Preston, continue.”
“Well, if you look over there …” Preston pointed to the southern and northern boundaries as he launched into describing all the defensive systems that would be built around the complex.
55.
> Writing It All Down
300 Days A.E.
New Mexico, Territory
“Come, hurry; your son is kicking.” Darla shinned an inviting smile, like a new day’s sunrise, at her husband. She grabbed his tentative hand and placed it on her swollen belly.
“How do you know it’s a son?” Steve asked, touching her warm roundness gingerly, afraid of pushing too hard and causing harm to mother or child.
“You might say it’s… a gut instinct,” she said, snorting at her own joke, baby and belly jostling under his hand.
“Ha-ha-ha… Whoa, I just felt it, I mean him.” His lips curled into a grin. He leaned over to her, while she rested in Herb’s comfy leather chair. “Thanks,” he said before kissing her softly, and then more passionately.
“Come on, that’s what got you into this mess the first time,” bayed Olivia Wright, whose belly was showing a significant swell of its own.
“You’re a fine one to talk.” Darla snorted some more, as she pulled back from Steve and cast a mock glare at her before breaking into another brilliant smile. Truth was she was ecstatic to be sharing her pregnancy experiences with someone who had been through this before, especially after they had shared so much loss getting here.
Steve withdrew. “I’ll let you finish your writing. I’m going to help Wilber and Herb with a special project today,” he said, already making his way to the home’s back door.
“That sounds mysterious. What have you boys been up to anyway, working late every night? Are you ever going to show us poor little ladies what you boys are doing?” Darla wheedled in her best southern belle accent, daintily touching her cheek with a fingertip and batting her lashes.