by M. L. Banner
A couple floors below Residences was the brig. It was a small prison, with about thirty jail cells, almost half-filled. But unlike what she suspected of most pre-Event jails, this one looked fairly clean. They walked past several of the cells, and she prepared for the indecent catcalls which naturally would come from men who were locked up and now saw a woman parading into their domain. But there wasn’t so much as a peep from any of the inmates. In fact, the prison was so quiet, it was downright eerie. They must be scared about what might happen if they spoke up. Note to self: say nothing!
They stopped at her cell and she took note of the number. Oh, great, lucky 13. She stepped in without a complaint then the larger of the two guards closed the cell and both left her.
She thought about all she did and said. She was very careful about everything. Where had she messed up? Glancing up, she saw a man standing in front of her cell, watching her. He set down the chair in his hands, positioned it precisely facing her and sat.
“Dr. Reid, I am Lunder Gufstafson, Security Director for Bios-2. Do you know why you are here?”
Oh crap, here it comes. You committed insurrection. You’re a traitor. You’re getting the death penalty. “Ah no, I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Come on, Dr. Reid, make it easy on yourself; admit to it and I promise we’ll go easy on you.”
“Okay, fine. I’m sorry. I knew it was wrong. But, I can’t help it…”
“It’s tough being separated from your husband, isn’t it?”
“Ah… Yes,” she stuttered, forcing herself to not say anything further which might betray her.
“Well, we of course understand why you and your husband would break the rules and find ways to be together.”
Oh, thank God, that’s what he’s talking about.
“But, rules are rules, and we have to make an example out of anyone breaking the rules. So you are going to stay here for another few hours to give you time to contemplate the consequences of your actions. Then you will go home to your husband tonight. You will remain together as long as you don’t break any more rules. Do we have an agreement?”
“Yes, that seems fair.” Her heart galloped with a mixture of anxiety and excitement.
“Good. It’s settled then.” He stood up and grabbed the chair, but before walking away, he leaned into the bars and spoke softly. “And one more thing?”
“Yes?” Her heart skipped a few beats.
“No more stirring the pot among your fellow scientists. We’re not kidding around with this one. If you’re caught doing it again, ve vill expel you. You think it’s tough here because ve have rules, but it’s far worse out there.” His accent often came out when he was being a hard-ass. “There” sounded like “zair.”
Her heart was pounding. They had her dead to rights and there was nothing she could do about it.
“Finally, my boss, Mr. Westerling, would like to meet with you two personally at sunrise tomorrow. Just go to the top floor of the tower. Do you know how to get to the tower?”
“Ye-yes.” Her head was throbbing.
“Good. And Dr. Reid?” Lunder said, again leaning forward like he had a secret to tell; one that involved her.
She felt nauseated, ready to vomit. “Yes?”
“Get some sleep tonight. Tomorrow is a big day for you both.”
7.
Outside Bios-2
“I believe we’re almost there, Teacher,” John offered as he led them through a forest of mostly half-dead pines and aspens.
“John, this is good news. We will be patient,” the Teacher reassured him, only a few steps behind. More than a dozen others surrounded the Teacher, wearing robes which had once been pure white, now soiled from their long journey. They listened attentively, waiting for more words. When they were sure that was all he had to say, two of the apostles, elected to that purpose, slowed from the pack and waited for the first cluster behind them to catch up. They spread the Teacher’s message to a few of that group. “We’re almost there. Be patient.” The two apostles in their gray-white robes then raced to catch back up with the others and wait for the next Teacher proclamation. The message traveled to all in the cluster and from it, three or four held back to spread it to the next cluster, and so on, until all two thousand followers heard the same message. This was their message-delivery procedure every time the Teacher spoke, every day they traveled.
When the current message made it to a cluster midway through the multitude, a little boy near the front of the group looked up to his father, tugged on his red cloak and asked, “What did the Teacher say?”
Frank ignored him for just a moment, doing his part by telling the man behind him. The boy watched his father, a brawny man of honor within the Teacher’s followers. His hair and beard were Santa Claus white, a stark contrast to his red robe, the lower third of which was stained black, like all the robes, from their many miles of walking.
Finally, he lowered his head to see his son’s expectant eyes. In a move more graceful than his bulk should have allowed, he hoisted the eight year old into his arms, not slowing his pace with the cluster. As their guard, assigned from the heralded God’s Army, his job was to keep them safe and make sure they maintained their pace. “My, my, you’re getting big now.”
Zachary furrowed his eyebrows and pouted, unhappy that his question wasn’t being answered. He pleaded again, “What did he say, Father?”
“He said we’ve almost arrived at our new home, but we must be patient.” His face was so full of joy that even the ugly scar that ran around his neck, just under his chin, looked happy.
Zachary perked up and gazed into his father’s loving eyes. “Tell me again about the Teacher and our journey.”
“Son, you’ve heard this a thousand times a thousand.”
“I know, but tell it to me again.” He loved this story, at least this version, when his father was willing to tell it.
“Okay, fine… It has been a long and hard journey for us, as you know. The Teacher’s followers have been walking across the country for almost a full year now and we have suffered many great losses. Almost half of the followers perished at a ranch run by the devil’s servants in Illinois—”
“Like Thomas,” Zachary broke in, looking somber.
“Yes, Thomas, the Teacher’s most trusted servant, was one of those who was taken by these devils, who poured their fire out upon them. Those who survived retreated to be with the Teacher, who was readying his troops to finish off the devils. But at that moment, the Teacher’s God sent him a sign; most thought it was just a bright orange nuclear cloud, a sign of a nuclear power plant’s destruction—also brought on by the devils in a futile attempt to get the Teacher’s followers. But the Teacher knew it was a sign from his God, telling him to move on. The Teacher knew right then that instead of him and his followers, the devils would burn in a fiery hell reserved just for them.”
Frank paused to look at his son, who was full of fear, as if he had never heard this part. He hoisted him up a little higher in his arms and held him firmly, enjoying this rare moment. Although he saw his son daily, the women of their cluster watched Zachary while his duties as a soldier took him away. He rarely had the opportunity to spend one-on-one time with the boy.
“But the Teacher and his followers moved on. They weren’t running away; they were headed to a special place. A place he was told about in a vision, which was set aside for all of them, a place where they would be safe. So they set out on this long journey to Colorado, to a place called—”
“Shakayda!” the little boy bellowed.
“Yes. But there were many obstacles and many difficult times ahead. After six months, his followers were starving and everyone was filled with doubt, even the Teacher. Then, he was led to a cave by John for some rest and prayer. That was when the Teacher received his new revelation. It was there that the Teacher received the Book. And the Teacher told everyone, ‘We are God’s children, destined to be gods ourselves. God is within each one of us and as we become
closer to our inner god, we become more like him. We are to persevere, in spite of—’”
“What is per saver, Father?” Zachary asked, his face scrunched to emphasize his confusion. Kids were so good at overdramatizing things.
“It means that when we struggle, even though it is hard on us, we become stronger and more like God. Each of us, even you my son, will become a god, in control of everything around you. You see, son, everything it is to be human, is also to be godlike.”
Zachary thought his father to be the smartest man in the world, almost right there with the Teacher.
Frank continued. “This revelation changed everything, and pretty soon all the followers moved quickly and felt stronger…”
He paused because he could see another message was coming, and this time to just the soldiers in each cluster.
“…and in no time they were here, very close to our destination, that place called Cicada.”
“Frank, you’re needed up front,” said one of the apostles, who continued down the line with this vital message.
“Wait, Father, you didn’t tell me how we were found and that you were saved by the Teacher while you were swinging by your neck.”
Frank put him down on the ground and said to him, “I’m sorry, Zachary, but I must work now. Stay with your Mommy-Sam here and wait for me, okay?”
“All right,” Zachary answered in a whiny voice that he hated.
Frank raced forward, with others coming from the back. Most of the clusters were stopping, aware that something important was going on. Red robe joined red robe, until a sea of red robes washed forward and surrounded John, who delivered their orders.
Later, the troops emerged from the woods, into a large cut through the once dense foliage, onto a long road that took them up to a mesa less than a mile away. There were tents and lean-tos and shanties all around, on and off the road. The makeshift town had sprung up out of nowhere. A small path snaked along the road and through the myriad dwellings on it, along which John led his troops.
They were several hundred strong, all wearing red and all armed with automatic weapons, which they had acquired from a military supply facility along their way here. Marching together, their steps were thunderous and vibrated throughout the land, literally.
The shantytown’s occupants poured from their shelters along the road or from the woods to see the source of this commotion. A worried buzz circulated everywhere.
At the forefront of the squatters another group formed, with a single man in front and another man on each side of him. This group was much smaller and looked less organized, but it was still a group of some unity. Most held knives, swords, clubs, and one even had a bow. The two groups marched toward each other until they stopped mere feet from one another and less than half a mile from the mesa, where a walled fortress stood.
“State your business,” demanded the leader of the small group, a man wearing an old torn police shirt with a badge dangling precariously from a ripped breast pocket. He stood his place defiantly between the Teacher’s soldiers and the walled fortress.
“We are followers of the Teacher, seeking refuge at Cicada,” John roared.
“You’re seeking what… where?” Police Shirt demanded.
“We want access to that walled city beyond, known as Cicada.”
“I will be the one,” the man belted out, “who will say whether or not you—”
Two shots echoed off the dead branches of the tree-lined road. Police Shirt jumped, startled by the noise and looked down, thinking he was shot, but he saw no blood. The two men on either side of him fell to the ground. The people, having at first crowded the road without being particularly worried, leapt off, anxious to get away from the slaughter they were sure was coming.
Police Shirt looked back up from his dead men, now visibly shaken. “Wha-what did you say you want?”
“Entrance to Cicada, will you give it? We will not ask again.”
Police Shirt thought for a moment, and then said, “I’m not in charge of Bio… I mean Cicada. But it’s late and they don’t let anyone in this late. Why don’t you and your men camp right there,” he pointed near to where they had just come out of the woods, “and in the morning, I will see that you get into Cicada.”
“Very good,” John responded, turned around and walked through his men, who stood and waited for Police Shirt’s men to leave. They did moments later, at least knowing they had met a superior army.
John returned to the woods to tell the Teacher that they were here and in the morning, they would have passage to their promised Cicada.
8.
Cicada
The flyer read:
Rules for Squatters on Cicada Property:
Anyone who comes within 1000 feet of Cicada’s walls will be shot dead!
If you have business with Cicada, go to the front gate, no more than two people at any one time.
Our people are to pass freely, whenever they want, on our property, unmolested by any of your people.
If you deviate from any of this, you will be shot dead!
“Maxwell, what the hell is this?” Preston asked, turning the black-and-white print over in his hands like a teacher just handed a single-page term paper from a failing student.
“It’s our new policy. We’re done with negotiating with the enemy or playing nice. I’ve made it simple for everyone: you violate our rules and you’re dead. These people are trespassing on our land, yet we let them stay here, and they’re attacking us? We’re done playing around and putting all I care about at risk.”
“So, if Grannie comes within 900 feet of our gate?”
“She’s toast!” Max handed a ream of printed flyers to each of the “runners” waiting in Comms reception, where Cicada’s only copy machine stood.
Preston looked at the copious use of their copy paper with equal scorn. It wasn’t like they could pop down to Staples for more supplies, though he was surprised to see their copy machine still worked. He watched each of the three “runners” take a stack of printed flyers and a roof stapler. Each was escorted out by two guards wearing full combat gear. Three reams, or fifteen hundred pages total, should definitely get the word out. But Preston was worried where this would devolve to; likely, they would be murdering innocents.
After Max handed the last five hundred printed pages to the third runner, who promptly left Comms, he walked with all three teams as far as the south gate, where they exited. From the wall he watched as they fanned out and immediately began posting on trees, on lean-tos, on anything where their flyer could be stapled, and handing out one to every adult they could find. They would do this until all the flyers were gone and then return home. The two guards in each group of three were ordered to shoot any combatant, even if they offered only cross words. Snipers on the south wall and the watchtower were trained on each of the three groups propagating the flyers, providing cover fire if it was needed. It wasn’t. Twenty minutes later, all three groups returned without any flyers and without an incident.
Preston preferred to sit out this event alone in his office, drinking a brandy and deliberating what was happening to his boss, Maxwell, and to Cicada. He had never seen Max like this. From the day he was hired over twenty-five years ago, until just after the Event, he noticed Maxwell had a benevolent presence about him that said “calm and in control.” His actions were always selfless and helpful to others. That was why Preston had signed on and committed his life to this project. But in the last few years, Max’s focus turned to protecting his friends and especially now, in the half a day that he’d been here, he seemed to have forgotten the big picture. It seemed obvious to Preston that Maxwell was definitely more worried about the safety of his people, especially the Kings, than he was at achieving the main goal of finding solutions to what ailed the world.
For almost a year now, the planet had received a daily barrage of coronal mass ejections, inducing electrical current everywhere and shooting all circuitry to hell. They had done a great job shi
elding themselves from most of each daily solar storm, but as long as the barrages continued, civilization would never be able to rebuild and chaos and violence would reign supreme. His biggest fear was that they would never find an answer and twenty or thirty or more years from now, mankind would be extinct. That was the problem on which their unified minds should be focused, not whether or not some two-bit criminal wanted to break in or whether some friends of Max’s from the beach were safe.
He swallowed the last half of his brandy, holding his breath, waiting for the first shot by one of their guards killing some innocent. Instead, he watched the outside door blow in, followed by two scientists, their lab coats flapping as they bounded the stairs. They barged into his office without knocking or asking permission to enter—another sign of the lack of respect he’d been getting since Maxwell and his friends arrived.
“Where is Mr. Thompson?” Dr. Ronald Stoneridge demanded, out of breath and frantic.
“We really need to talk to him,” added Dr. Montgomery Merriweather, more composed but equally winded.
This is what disturbed Preston the most. These two scientists, who would have come to see only him a day ago, were now demanding to see his boss. What the hell did Thompson know about Cicada’s day-to-day workings? Sure, he may have built the damn thing and used his considerable fortune, but he was never here, instead spending his time at the beach in Mexico; it had been up to Preston to manage, to make and institute policy, to make the hard decisions when society was collapsing right outside their gates. Then Maxwell shows up and these two nerds demand to see him and not me? All the while, Maxwell has declared war on all the poor starving SOBs who just need help. What a hypocrite, a Christian that won’t help his fellow neighbor.
“Mr. Tanner, we really need to see Mr. Thompson. This is very important. It affects everyone here at Cicada.” Dr. Merriweather was insistent.