by ML Banner
27.
The Foretelling
9:05 P.M.
The loud banging finally woke Max from a vivid dream of death and destruction.
He was on a train with many passengers, all content and going about their business, unaware of what lay ahead. However, he knew that less than a mile ahead of them, a bridge they were supposed to cross was out. If they didn’t stop the train before this bridge, they would all plunge into the canyon below to their deaths, or worse. The canyon they would cross was so deep that from its bowels erupted the actual fires of hell. He could see in his mind’s eye the fire erupting from lower levels in the canyon. And they were headed right for it.
He had to warn everyone and he had to stop the train, and he knew he was the only one who could do it. Desperately, Max tried to warn every passenger on the train about their impending doom, but for some reason, he could not speak; he was rendered mute. No matter how hard he tried to speak, the words would not come out of his mouth. He tried to point and to pantomime his warning, anything to show he was serious, but everyone ignored him.
He was completely panicked now. If he could only speak, people would know what he knew. However, they were all playing with their phones, and tablets, and laptops, oblivious to the fate that awaited them. Then, he realized he couldn’t even breathe. He tried to take in air, but he was unable. The lack of oxygen made him dizzy. He stumbled to his knees. No one looked his way, or even gave him notice, as if he were invisible.
To draw attention, he tried to beat on a seat in front of him with his fists. The knocking sound of his fists on the metal frame of the seat barely pierced the din of the idle chatter around him. He tried again, this time with all his strength, making more sound, but not enough. Shockwaves of pain now started pulsating through his hands, wrists and arms.
He looked up and could now clearly see the fire out the windows on both sides of them. The flicker of the fire’s light reflected off the inside windows and ceiling of the train. It was strange mixture of red and green. The passengers were still oblivious to him, the fire and light around them, and their pending doom. They were only interested in their texting, game playing, and in whatever else they were doing on their electronic devices.
“It wouldn’t be long now,” he thought. It was inevitable. He would die and so would everyone else on this train.
Gasping for air, he felt faint. He banged on the seat again, this time with little authority. The train car swooned around him. He was suffocating. Out of focus…
Max sat up in bed, his forehead and armpits drenched in sweat. He took in deep breaths of air, relishing the feeling. His heart was racing, beating heavily in his chest, but at once, it started slowing as he realized it was only a dream. He pushed aside the panic that still wanted to hold on.
Taking another breath, he started to relax, before recognizing that his bedroom had a weird glow. An eerie green luminescence invaded through the gaps of the closed blinds on both his bedroom window and sliding glass door. The panicky feeling still had a grip on him.
There was knocking on the metal frame of the sliding glass door. A muffled voice yelled out, “Max, please get out here. You have to see this.”
It was Bill.
The knocking and voice were much louder than he would have liked. Each rap on the door felt like an icepick being pushed into his head. The pain was horrible. He felt nauseous. He was still hung over.
“What happened?” He thought to himself. He remembered telling off that miserable prick Clyde, saying way too much about his prepping consuming way too many mango margaritas and excusing himself and going right to bed. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200. “Should have taken some aspirin,” he said groggily to himself while carefully holding his head. He looked at his alarm clock for some reference. It read 9:10. “Is that AM or PM?” He asked it. His head pounded some more.
“Max, are you there?” Bill continued.
Max swung his legs over the bed with much effort and stood up. The room spun, but he steadied himself on his nightstand, still knocking something over in the process. First, he took one step, then two, tripping over his boots, steading himself on the wall. He drew the vertical blinds all the way open and took a step back.
What he witnessed seemed as surreal as his dream, as if this was all still part of his dream. But, sobering reality hit him instantly. He knew this was real. The night sky was ablaze in what looked like a green fire.
“Bill.” He unlatched the door and slid it open. “Holy Christ, Bill, how long has this been going on?” Max asked as he stepped onto his patio. Bill was standing a few steps in front of him, head craned upward toward the green pulsating sky.
Bill turned to him, his face somewhat contorted in fear. “What is this? Is this the CME you told us about? Are we in trouble?”
“I don’t know, Bill, but it looks bad.” Max noticed he was resting, more like holding himself up with one of the pillars of his patio.
This was an aurora, he was sure of it. Like waves of water in the ocean, but instead of foamy white waves, the sky was filled with waves of green and some wisps of red. From what he read, Mexico had never had an aurora, so it had to be a CME. However, where were the explosions? A CME as large as this one was, which was making auroras as far south as Mexico, should be damaging the power grid and shorting out everything electric. However, he could see his lights were still on, and so were the others on the beach.
“What the hell is going on?” Max yelled out.
28.
More Bad News
9:15 P.M.
Max gave Bill, Lisa, and Sally specific instructions, trying his best not to scare them too bad, since having them hysterical wasn’t going to help any of them. He followed his own advice, first gathering up any stray electronic devices and placing them in his protected office/workshop. He left the flat screen TVs untouched in the living room and bedrooms, along with few other electronics, such as alarm clocks also for show, so that anyone who entered his home might not wonder if he knew something before they did.
When he felt satisfied that he gathered all that mattered, he closed himself in his secret office/workshop and turned on his computer and his iPhone which was plugged in and fully charged, since it ran out of juice before returning to Puerto Penasco. Both beeped, letting its owner know they were waking up from their long slumber.
Then, while standing over his desk thinking about what he needed to do next, it occurred to him that he didn’t have any other weapons in the Beach Warehouse. This was just plain stupid. If they had to make a stand there, they would need far more than the one sniper rifle. He had a crate of new military issue M4 rifles resting unopened by the far wall, one of two he spirited across the border; the other going to El Gordo’s men as payment for smuggling both. It had the stamp of El Gordo’s Mexican shipping company prominently displayed, which told any handlers, “Keep your hands off this.”
He dragged it across the concrete floor to the center island workbench and turned on the workbench light directly overhead. Grabbing a crowbar, he pried the top of the crate off, its nails crying out loudly and releasing a gun oil smell that he found satisfying. Max removed one of the M4s. Pulling the hammer back, he examined the ejection port in the upper receiver to make sure it was empty, while pointing the front of the barrel at the light to make sure there were no obstructions. He then examined the sights. Reaching into the crate, he grabbed an empty magazine and fed it into the rifle, hearing the desired click sound, he released the hammer aimed and pulled the trigger, which made a clicking sound. Satisfied with his dry fire test, he released the magazine, letting it drop a few inches from the rifle into his hand. Check, he said mentally, placing both on the workbench.
He grabbed three others M4s and seven other magazines and placed them on top of the workbench. Then, replacing the top to the crate, he dragged it back to the far wall, returning with an ammo can filled with the .223 rounds needed to feed his hungry dogs of war. He loaded each brand new 30 round clip, feedi
ng a loaded magazine into each empty weapon and placing the spares beside them. “Now, a few side arms,” he said out loud, unaware that his webcam light had been on for the last few minutes.
A few miles away
The two men sat in a dark room only a few minutes’ walk from Max's home. "Idiot. You forgot to turn the light off," the larger of the two said.
The smaller man started typing a few key strokes and the program they were using indicated Señor Max's webcam would now appear to be off.
"Look at that, the boxes of ammo on the bench and all the weapons esé. And mira, there’s El Gordo’s stamp. Señor Max is moving guns for El Gordo now." The bigger man pointed at the 30" computer screen showing the bounty that awaited their taking before them. A smile, stained and encrusted with yesterday’s burrito, peeked out of his black mustache and beard. He had been watching Max for a while, but this new computer genius, who told them they could turn on Señor Max’s web camera remotely, had proven a wise investment by his boss. They now knew what he was hiding in his beach house and that he was working for their enemy.
"Better tell Rodrigo what we found."
29.
Fear of Flying
11:25 P.M.
Somewhere in Indiana
Darla raced to get to O’Hare in time. Each time the traffic would slow down, she cursed under her breath so that Danny wouldn’t hear. “Why was there even traffic at this time of night?” She yelled at unknowing drivers ahead of her.
Normally, she would take the 12 to I94 all the way through Chicago to the Kennedy to the airport. An easy two hours, maybe three with traffic. However, it had been one thing after another. First, she left later than she wanted. Then, she had to find gas and couldn’t locate an open station because of the late hour. Then, she was talked into taking Elm Valley Rd so she could drop off something for Mammie’s friend, but there was some sort of a tractor accident on the road. If these issues weren’t enough, the traffic was bumper-to-bumper in Gary, Indiana and it was like eleven fricking-PM, when the highways should be empty. Finally, to top it all off, they were having a very rare aurora display in the sky, which was drawing drivers’ attention away from their driving to the sky, slowing the traffic down even more. Bottom line, as her sister liked to say, she was seriously late. She even texted Stace to let her know they would have to see each other again at the gate. It was still amazing that they ended up on the same flight together with a couple of additional friends as well, at least through Dallas. What were the chances?
Now, how to avoid missing their flight? Besides the pain of missing their flight, having to reschedule, and maybe missing their flight to RP, she didn’t want to let Stace and her family down. Dammit, why didn’t she leave earlier? Stace was so nervous about flying and was overly excited when told they were sharing the same flight. Stace would have a hand to hold on the plane, assuming she could convince the seat holder next to her to switch seats… If she could even make the flight.
“Dammit,” she yelled at the group of cars that had just slowed down to a crawl in front of her. “Sorry, Danny, my bad at saying that.”
Danny smiled at his sister, who never said bad words.
“Your sister is sooooo fricking stupid,” castigating herself.
Rocky Point, Mexico
Max’s iPhone buzzed where it sat, announcing a call, but not audibly because its ringer was silenced. He halted his march back from his largest gun cabinet, already placing 5 Glocks and 2000 rounds of .45 ammo on his bench, beside the rifles and extra magazines. All were ready for transport to the Beach Warehouse. His phone buzzed again. He picked it up seeing no picture to reveal the caller, just the letters “L.H.O.” El Gordo was calling him directly, which never happened, as El Gordo always had his henchmen contact him when he wanted something. “Now what?” mumbling and sliding his finger across the screen to answer, “Bueno, Señor Luis. What can I do for you?” He asked respectfully.
“Bueno, Señor Max. I am calling you as a favor. Rodrigo knows what is in those boxes we helped you with,” El Gordo said very cryptically knowing the Mexican government was probably listening. Max glared at the half-opened crate by the wall, while still listening. “He has control of your webcam and can see inside of your house. So-” Max jerked his head to his left, away from the phone to his largest computer screen and the webcam resting above, pointing directly at him. The light wasn’t on, but he read that once you had control of someone’s webcam, it was easy to turn the light off. “...open the box in front of the camera and be careful.”
“Chingado,” erupted the Mexican profanity from his lips before he could stop it. “Compermiso, Señor Luis. It is too late.”
“Am sorry to hear that, my friend. I must protect my investment then. Do not leave your house. I have two men in front, watching you now. I will call again soon.” With that, El Gordo hung up.
Completely unnerved, Max roughly put his phone down.
His computer yelled some sort of warning tone out to him, unlike any of its normal announcements. He shakily walked over, first grabbing the violating webcam cord and pulling it out of the computer. He focused on the screen and recognized the warning he never wanted to see. “Chingado,” he said once again, vocalizing his dread while tossing the dead webcam away from him. It skidded across the floor, coming to a rest up against the same crate of guns it was so interested in earlier.
Grabbing his mouse, he clicked the large “CLICK HERE” below the red pulsating warning, knowing what would come next. “Attention! The Cicada Protocol has been initiated…” Max dropped into his leather work chair. He had no time to lose now. He knew what the rest said. Hell, he wrote the first protocol message, and he doubted it changed that much.
But the information wasn’t for him. So, he played along and reviewed the message, opening the instructions and map and printing them. After examining both printed pages, he reached under his desk beside where his soon to be dead computer currently resided. He grabbed a satchel and placed it reverently on his desk. He blew on the top, disbursing a thin layer of dust above and behind his desk. Opening the satchel with his left hand, he reached in, grabbed the wrapped package with his right hand, and pulled it out. It looked just as he left it a few years ago. Quickly opening up the flaps of the package, he opened the book it sheltered, admiring it for just a moment, and then slipped the pages into it. He wrapped everything else up and placed it back in the satchel, leaving it there for the moment.
“Time for that Mission Impossible thing,” he announced. He reached down and yanked the cords out of the computer, and dragged the computer case to the middle of the floor, its little rubber feet trying to hold onto its position on the floor, screeching its discontent.
He opened a recently purchased MacBook Air, booted it up, opened Microsoft Word - he still never liked using Apple’s equivalent – when it was fully booted, a message he had never seen popped open. It said, “Your computer has been infected with the Zombie Computer Virus. It will now eat itself and all of your other computers…”
A smirk broke out on his lips. “Sally? Dammit. I wish I could enjoy this.” He remembered her borrowing his laptop the last time she was here at the house to install some new software she was able to get free. “Zombie virus?” He shook his head once more.
The smile ebbed as he refocused on the job at hand. Closing the window on the fake program, he chose his “From the Desk of…” template and started to write, “To my family (William, Lisa & Sally)…”
The computer in the middle of his concrete floor started to emit a hissing sound, mimicking the deflating mood he felt as he continued to write. A small cloud of smoke, no more than a puff or two from a good cigar, exhaled out of the back, signaling his trusty computer’s exit from this world.
Turning away from the show, Max finished his letter, printing it out. He re-read it to make sure it said what he wanted it to say, scratching his nickname they all used rather than his initials on the bottom – his normal method of signing to make it “offic
ial”. Then he placed the letter on top of the wrapped package, slipped both into the satchel, and then placed it in its normal resting place under the desk.
“What am I forgetting?” He asked his laptop, before closing it. He spun around in his chair 90 degrees to look out into his secret workshop, hoping something would stand out.
He stared first at his dead computer, close to a small organized pile of things he heaped onto the floor taken from other parts of the house. He hoped Bill had a similar pile in his “protected” room. A couple of Mexican cell phones, a watch, a few solid metal sculptures, his favorite alarm clock – anything with value that was electronic or had a large amount of metal or other conductive material.
“It should be anytime now.” He blew out a large breath. He felt a large weight bearing down on him. In addition to the end of the world occurring any moment, enough for anyone, he knew it was a matter of minutes or hours before one or both of the two drug lords he knew considered him too much of a liability. He just hoped that he thought through this scenario enough to protect his best friend, his family, and with a little luck, himself.
So intent was he that he didn't even notice his muted phone was attempting to give him other warnings.
O’Hare Airport
Stacy Jenkins’ face crinkled into a smile, the recognition of her phone speaking to her, alone in a sea of people at the airport. Five passengers from the next flight sat behind her at the gate’s waiting area, each engaged with their devices, while also disconnected with everyone else they were sitting with. Stacy stood outside the area in the path of hurried travelers, who breezed by her as if she didn’t exist. She watched intently for an signs of her friends.
