Desolation

by M. L. Banner

  Bill stood and was about to offer a rebuttal, but Max cut him off.

  “Sorry friend, but let me finish first. Then I want you three to discuss it once more before you make your final decision.

  “As I was saying, I think you should stay now. Obviously, if you do, I will miss you all deeply. It’s true that I think your talents would be invaluable to Cicada, but I don’t want to be the cause of another separation from your family. Life is short, and who knows how much time we have left, so I couldn’t blame you for wanting to stay. It is a rich and safe place to be.” Max paused for a bit and then finished with, “I’m going to wait outside.”

  They were quiet while he left through the squeaky front door.

  Bill spoke first. “But what happens if…” he trailed off.

  Lisa picked up the thread. “Wait, that’s not what he said….”

  They seemed torn and unable to complete their thoughts, their words mirroring their indecision.

  Sally stepped in and with confidence announced, “Well, know this, whatever you decide to do, I’m going with Max. I feel I need to do this. I still have a skill, but it’s not for farming and ranching. I’m just not cut out for that. I need to be looking at code or tapping away on a computer. I’m hopeful that I can make a contribution at Cicada and that my contribution helps this world. I owe this to my brother, just as much as I do to my sister and my nephew.”

  After only a few minutes of debate, they each announced their decisions to the group.

  “Let’s all tell Max,” Sally proclaimed.

  The Kings came out onto the porch and told Max the news. The three of them were going after they said goodbye to everyone.

  When it was Max’s turn with Darla, Toma, and Stepha, he offered them a gift.

  “Here,” he said, handing them the journal. “This has been in my family for over a hundred and fifty years. Besides being our family journal chronicling various odds and ends of unrelated stuff, it is mostly about Cicada. Plus, there are a few secrets,” he winked at them with a grin. “But, that’s not the reason I’m giving this to you. If sometime in the future, you, or your son, or even your son’s son, decide to make the journey to Cicada, I have provided the map my grandfather drew and I added to it to show you where it is from here. When you get there, just hold the book up at the entrance after you announce yourself and they will take you in. Hopefully, we will return long before that day. But just in case,” he said, releasing the journal.

  “We will take good care of it, Uncle Max,” Darla promised him.

  ~~~

  Around noon, they pulled the truck out onto the highway and drove north. The distance they had to travel was a little less than half what had taken them almost a year to travel from Mexico. In their Blazer, in the days before, when there was a clean road and AAA to call on if there was engine trouble, it was an easy day of driving. In this world that had changed so completely, it was impossible to guess. They would be the only operating vehicle on roads with scattered hazards and people everywhere who were willing to kill for no reason. They presented antagonists with many solid reasons for violence: food, supplies, and a working vehicle. This trip was extremely dangerous and they all knew it. They planned on it taking less than a week, but to be safe they packed for a month.

  They passed Albuquerque without incident because the city had apparently been abandoned. Only one person shot at them the entire time, but he (she? Who knows?) missed. When they crossed the Colorado state line as the sun was setting, they decided against pushing on to Pueblo and chose to pull off the road. They parked under the cover of several trees near the Saint Charles River. Max, Bill, and Lisa pitched a tarp and slept a restless sleep, interrupted by cool blowing winds, the bright luminescence of the night sky, and anxious dreams. Sally slept well in Stanley’s back seat. When they left the next morning, just before the sun rose, they were full of expectation and excitement at knowing they were less than sixty miles from Cicada.

  Max took over the driving from Bill, giving him shotgun, almost literally, as Bill’s job was to shoot at anyone who stood in their way.

  Pueblo posed no problem for them and they drove onward toward Colorado Springs. Just before signs of the city appeared, Max turned off the road onto a four-wheel-drive trail.

  “This is sort of a back way, so we can avoid any traps. I’m worried that this place will be less of a secret than I hoped. If word of this sanctuary gets out, there may be many others trying to get to Cicada just like us.”

  “I’m all for the back way,” Bill replied, still remaining vigilant on watch.

  They stopped on top of a hill several miles farther on. Max asked, “Lisa, can you hand me the binoculars?”

  “Sure, is everything okay?” She handed them over and frowned.

  “I don’t know,” he said, looking toward the horizon. “There are a lot of people around the grounds. And I see a fire and some smoke, which is probably nothing. All right, this might be hairy.”

  When they had gone less than a mile, they passed people. It was just one camp site, except it looked like it had been there for a long time. Then another, and then another. A half a mile up the little Jeep trail they were on, a man stood in the middle of the track with his hands up, holding a rifle in one hand.

  Max said in a low voice to Bill, “You know what to do.”

  Bill rolled the window down, aimed the rifle and fired two shots in quick succession at the man’s feet. He dove into a nearby ditch. Bill kept the sight on him in case he tried anything.

  “Ladies, keep your eyes open. Yell if you see anything,” Max ordered as they all scanned the area.

  They pulled up to the base of a mesa on which stood a rock wall that looked fairly old and circled the summit. On top of the wall was barbed wire. They all glared at the insurmountable fortress, heads craned upward against their windows. All, except for Max. He pulled the truck onto a frontage road that appeared to go around the mesa.

  “This is it, guys. This is Cicada,” Max stated proudly.

  After driving a mile down the frontage road, they came to a steep Jeep trail up the hill to a tall gate only slightly wider than their truck. Max drove up the trail like a pro, handling every inch with knowledge and skill, the truck’s wheels fighting to grab on the broken road. After a few short minutes, they pulled up to the gate and honked the horn. He waited a bit and then honked again. A couple more minutes, another long honk.

  “I have people walking our way,” Bill called out, as they all watched a group of people walking up the broken road they had just driven. “I count five, six… no, eight, and most of them have guns.”

  Max put the Blazer into gear and stepped on the gas, bumping into the gate. A big thump reverberated through the truck. He then started honking like a crazy man, or so it seemed. After a few seconds Bill realized that Max wasn’t honking wildly, but with purpose. He was using Morse code, telling whoever was behind the wall it was him.

  “Bill, you have to take the shot!” Max stopped only long enough to shout at Bill and went back at it, producing the same pattern each time: honk-honk, hoooonk, honk-honk-honk… hoooonk-hoooonk, honk-hoooonk, hoooonk-honk-honk-hoooonk.

  Bill took aim and once again shot at the dirt in front of the first man, who was coming close to them. This time the man shot back.

  Sally screamed, then Lisa. Max kept honking code and thumped the gate again.

  Bill aimed and took another shot at the leader who’d shot back, and this time hit him square in the shoulder. More shots sang out. A bullet hit the back of their vehicle.

  “Max, we’re sitting ducks here!” Bill flipped the switch to automatic and sprayed bullets in the group’s direction.

  The gate cracked open for a minute, and then it opened just wide enough for them to drive through before it clanged shut right behind their rear bumper.

  Several men with guns surrounded their truck, and everyone put their hands in the air.

  “Mr. Thompson? Oh, thank God it’s you. We thought y
ou were dead when you didn’t return after the Event.”

  “Thank you, Preston,” said Max warmly, shaking his old friend’s hand. “Please meet my old friends, the Kings.”

  “Gladly,” said Preston with a wide smile. “Welcome to Cicada!”

  ~~~

  Steve and Darla stood on the rock ledge about five feet from the sand and rock floor of the oval-shaped open area they called home. Steve was holding his son and Dar had her arms around them both. They looked out admiringly at this amazing place, then at each other.

  “This is home, little Toma,” Dar told her son. “This is where your father will stand up and tell stories and the whole tribe will listen with bated breath as he regales us all. Sounds like a wonderful life to me,” she said, kissing her husband.

  “Me too.”

  60.

  The Storyteller

  56 Years A.E.

  Formerly New Mexico

  Stepha stood on the rock ledge that many in the community had stood on before him, to make announcements or to teach. This ledge had been carved in a time long ago, before the Event, that moment that separated the time of now from what most call the Time Before. The view from here was always magical, even after all these years. They were outside, but it felt like the large atrium of a luxury hotel still part of his memories. This oval area was perfectly enclosed by rocky cliff walls that shot upward almost thirty arm spans. Hewn into the cliff walls was a walkway that wound all the way around the oval several times to the very top of the opening, like what some in the Time Before called a corkscrew. Every few feet was an opening to a residence, almost all of these occupied by the one hundred people that made up their tribe. Many of their tribe were sitting on the walkway’s edge at various heights, their legs dangling over. Others sat on the rocky and sandy ground of the oval.

  Tonight, Stepha was doing what all in his tribe loved. He was telling stories about the old world, the Time Before. He and his wife, Dar, were the oldest in the tribe and had many stories to tell. Dar was sitting next to their two sons and one daughter, and her grandchild, Gord, was attentively sitting in her lap. All the tribe loved Stepha’s stories about the Time Before when objects smaller than your hand spoke to you and you spoke back; where you would climb into a moving cave that took you to faraway places; when the people of the broken monuments ruled the earth; and when all of this went away, when the great gods of the sky took everything from the people.

  Stepha thought about this time before the Event, when people would assemble at drive-ins or movie theatres and watch a movie staring up at a screen, waiting for it to entertain them. He missed those times, but he also didn’t. Back then people assembled, but not in community. No one knew anyone else staring at the screen, necessarily, and they never discussed the story with the others, only noisily talked on their phones, and texted their friends, or Facebooked their experience instead. The movies themselves didn’t provide much mental engagement either, leaving nothing to the viewer’s imagination. Now, without the electronics of old, or even many books from the old way, people relied on oral stories, where their imaginations would soar into the winds, and the story was discussed with everyone in the community. He relished these times as much as his tribe did.

  When everyone was quiet, he spoke. “A time long ago”—he started each story this way—“I was called Stephen and my wife was called Darla. During that time, I operated a giant bird, which I could control and fly through the sky, faster than the birds of the sky you see today.” He then shot his arms out like wings and made engine sounds, turning his body from side to side. They loved this part. “Back then, we traveled great distances in these flying containers, flying over many tribes to get to other tribes we had never been to before. Then the gods of the sky took all of that away.” He paused and looked at the children. They stared at him with rapt expectation, knowing this story, but almost unable to wait for him to tell it. The eyes of his audience reflected the aurora light above, making it feel like there were a hundred or so pairs of soft green fireflies, flying in formation, their lights flickering with each blink.

  “Grandpa, tell us about Grandma and the wars,” Gord said, barely able to contain himself. He could hear about his grandma and grandpa over and over, without ever getting bored.

  61.

  The Promised Land

  75 Years A.E.

  Colo Territory

  When Gord awoke, he was assailed by the acrid smell of death, decay, and defecation. It was worse than the stench from the waste pond outside his family’s cave on even the hottest of days. His nostrils burned and his eyes watered, but he didn’t dare blink the tears away. Instead relying on his other senses, he listened carefully, unmoving so as to not draw attention to himself. Behind him were the rhythmic sounds of someone sawing through something both solid and soft and a heavy man’s foot-falls on the metal floor; each step caused the heated surface beneath him to shudder. His arms were still tightly bound at his wrists, and his legs were numb from the bindings digging into his ankles.

  The footsteps dragged something heavy and dropped it directly in front of him. Therrrump.

  The ground shook, and so did his insides. The smells that made his stomach turn somersaults worsened, becoming more pungent. He knew he shouldn’t look, but he had to confirm with his eyes what all his senses were telling him. He slowly ushered them open, but one held, abated by swelling and his own dried blood. Now his vision suffered the same gut-churning assault. It was a dead woman, her slack mouth wide open and her eyes devoid of all life. Her face was a mask permanently locked in a silent scream of terror and pain. She was naked, broken, certainly abused in ways he didn’t want his mind to entertain, and she had been discarded right in front of him, like useless trash.

  The sawing stopped. “No, get that one: the clothed one next to the female. It’s fresher, less soiled,” said a scratchy, almost squeaky voice from behind him.

  Gord kept still, feeling a chill, even though it was very hot.

  “One day or two days, what’s the difference?” answered another voice right behind him, beefier but gentler. “Ohhh, you mean the one brought in today by Snort and that other bad man I don’t like.”

  “That’s the one, Moby.”

  Gord felt this Moby grab his feet and drag him sideways across the floor. He had to think quickly. His one eye scanned this odd rounded room with bodies everywhere and small holes in the walls filling the inside with dirty light. His chance, coming up, was a sharp piece of metal stuck up at an angle from the floor. He waited as he was pulled closer, controlling his breathing. When Moby dragged him around some other bodies and toward the side of the structure, Gord pretended to be slightly jarred and let his bound hands be pulled by the floor past his head. Reaching out, he thrust the bundle of twine around his wrists on top of the sharp piece of metal, careful not to cut his hands or wrists, and pushed down with all his might, all the while still pretending to be unconscious.

  He felt a great tug from his legs to his arms, and his motion stopped. Gord’s ankles slipped from Moby’s grasp and his lower half hit the metal ground beneath him, causing a deep thud and clanging that reverberated all around. Gord was now face down, his arms over his head. While Moby re-focused on his feet, Gord made a quiet swipe with his bindings at the cutting edge before placing his now-loosened bundle back at the starting point of the jagged metal strut. He waited for Moby to do the rest of the work.

  Moby breathed a frustrated sigh and grabbed Gord’s feet again, this time vigorously yanking and pulling at him. With each tug, the binding loosened further, and more of it was slashed by the sharp edge of the metal. Gord felt the big man wrap his arms around his legs and put all his weight into the task. Then his bindings fell away, and the force of Moby’s pull caused both men to become momentarily airborne. Moby let loose as he fell, like the great trees of the dead forest, pitching slowly at first and then faster until his massive frame crashed.

  “Gods dammit, watch out,” demanded the scratchy voice. �
��Moby?”

  Gord forced both eyes open now. With his hands free, he quietly unbound his ankles and then stood on unsteady legs, feeling somewhat weak, but free. The scratchy-voiced man, his back to Gord, was leaning over Moby, who seemed to have knocked himself out. Beside them was a work table with knives and saws and one large thigh bone of a man. Blood coated everything. A tub beside the table contained the freshly cut-up pieces of human flesh and bone. I would have been next!

  Gord grabbed an ax, sticky with blood, and stalked over to the scratchy man. There was little time for the man to look surprised, and none for him to raise an alarm. Gord swung with all his might.

  Turning to run, ax still glued to his hand, Gord took a moment to search. At the end of this long cylindrical room, by the open entrance, was a pile of bags, clothes, and other discarded belongings. Near the top he found his satchel. After a hasty look inside for his book, he threw the strap around him and sprinted out of the opening.

  Looking back as he attempted to put some distance between himself and his captors, he took in the strange edifice. It was round and long, like a massive tree trunk lying on the ground, maybe only four arm-lengths high. It had a smooth, faded, white skin with blue and red colorings on it: letters that read “American.”

  “Hey, who are you?” said a voice he passed.

  Gord ignored him and others around him and continued running. He was in a village, nestled in a dead forest of tall, round, straight trees that bored holes into the bright sky above. He ran in no particular direction. Then, he realized most people paid no mind to him or his bloody ax. Either they thought him to be one of their own, or they were just plain indifferent to the cruel life around them. With that, he slowed down to a walk, trying to figure out where he was. The mountains poking through the trees looked similar to those he remembered before he was knocked out, yet different, like they were farther away. He just couldn’t get his bearing. He looked for a worn path where many before him would have traveled. That would lead him in a direction where he could get a better sense of where he was.