by ML Banner
“Yes, you’re correct,” the kid continued in the same ambivalent tone he always used.
The tone, the brilliance, and the knowledge behind the kid’s words just grated on Scarface. “You are so frustrating, child. You obviously believe that dear-old-dad has some greater role to play in everything going on here, including joining up with the people occupying Cicada, and preparing them for battle, but with who?”
“You mean whom?”
Scarface tapped the silver dagger with his fingers. It would be so easy to slide its blade into the back of this kid’s head and walk away. But he had agreed to this job. And he always finished his jobs as agreed, regardless of his feelings. “Just answer the question.”
Scarface glanced up, at attention, to see a large figure running toward them.
“My child! Is that really you?” hollered the GA guard in charge of the rear cluster of followers. The guard’s crimson robe flapped in his wake as he trotted over to Scarface and the kid. “It is you!” The burly man hoisted the boy in the air and yelled out jubilantly to the followers, who had paid no attention to the scarred man and the kid before the guard’s announcement. “Tell the Teacher his prodigal son has returned home!”
~~~
It was a hero’s welcome, and that was the problem.
Before this, most people feared to so much as cast a quick glance in Scarface’s direction. Now they were slapping him on his back in the familiar way people do that he detested. He had liked it the way it had been: people left him alone and obtained for him everything he desired, all because they feared him or respected him. Now everything had changed.
Perhaps it was time to move on. He had, after all, just “hitched a ride” with these people, all to minimize the work he’d have to do to get to the other Cicada, the one created by his last employer before the lights went out.
Before he could leave, he had one piece of unfinished business to attend to. Technically, he’d finished the job he agreed to with the Teacher: he found the kid, and made the traitors pay with suffering and then death. He still wanted to grill the kid again and figured he’d do that and then leave after things settled down.
But there was one final part of this job to recover the Teacher’s son that he told the Teacher he would do: He’d make everyone who was involved in the plan to abduct the boy “pay with their lives.” And there was one more person who needed to pay for their assistance in the conspiracy to abduct the boy.
He’d slip away now, from the crowd’s adulation and celebration, and go find the woman who, with the boy’s help, created this mess. Then he’d tell the Teacher personally that his adopted son was the reason for this whole debacle. But that would come right after.
First, he needed to kill Mimi.
33
Home
Every mile Tom marched was a mile closer to his destination. It was also a mile farther away from his old life.
Day after day passed by, like the miles on the road, with one blurring into the next. His daily physical quest to survive was a continual struggle: find food, clean water, and avoid injury. He was pretty good at finding water where there was little, thanking his Army desert survival training for keeping him from dehydrating too badly. Food was the more difficult task.
His bug-out bag contained a small supply of Pemmican he’d prepared a year ago. He had wagered that this would provide him about a week’s worth of food, which he could supplement with what he found on the way. Unfortunately, this was much harder than he suspected.
Most stores were cleaned out and so were the vacated homes. He snared a few animals, found some roots and mushrooms, and occasionally happened on a car with stale snacks in it. Otherwise the pickings were pretty slim. Later in his journey, he went as long as a day or two without eating anything. Then he found a lifeline.
It was an abandoned private airport. His thinking was that it would be ignored by most looters and apparently it was, as he found a Sky Gourmet in-flight food service truck full of supplies. Most had gone bad, but there was still more than he could carry. Yet he tried, toting out a scavenged bag full.
Most of the journey to Cicada, he had spent considering his life and the boy’s revelations about him, his wife, and what he was supposed to do with the remainder of his life.
He was struck at how he had been barely surviving, weighed down by a ball and chain of his own making because of his deep-seated guilt for Drew’s death and his pushing his wife away from him. He felt so different now.
He knew it wasn’t all his fault, although he certainly accepted his role in everything. Drew’s death was an accident. There was no doubt in that. He had taken all the precautions. It was just some fluke thing that occurred and couldn’t have been recreated if he tried.
As for pushing Mimi away, he was to blame for that as well, and he accepted that now. But he also realized that he shouldn’t have married Mimi in the first place. From the beginning, she wanted to change him, to save him from himself, when she didn’t even know what she wanted in her life. She was always on a different path than him, and neither of them would admit to this.
Somewhere far west of Dodge City, just before passing into Colorado, Tom fell onto his knees and asked God for forgiveness for his own sins. And then he offered his own forgiveness for his wife. This brought him an immense measure of relief, something he had not felt in decades.
It was then that it all felt worth it. Even though the pain of losing Drew was unfathomable, it was better than to have never had him at all.
And now he knew that Mimi had another boy, a red-head just like Drew, only crazy.
He followed the logic of all that he knew, and the chronology seemed to come together easily.
His wife Mimi, after leaving him, found another love in the leader of one more cult. They had a boy, who appeared to be as demented as his father must be. And obviously, Mimi told her son about Tom and his ranch. The boy then told others (his intruders) about this, so that they would find Tom and his ample supplies of food and weapons. All of this made sense. It was the rest of the kid’s words which were still so puzzling. He chewed on this while his feet ate up the potholed roads to Cicada.
Mile after mile passed, an endless blur of roads of gravel and asphalt. But the boy’s words continued to ring in his head. “You needed to become what you were meant to become. All these years, you’ve been surviving, but you haven’t been living.”
But it was the next part of his words which bewildered Tom: “You needed this, so you could find your new home. And prepare them for battle.”
As supernatural as this sounded, he felt like it was correct. A battle was coming, and he was going to play a part in it. And he had to make it to Cicada, not only for his protection, but for theirs.
The whole journey took about four and a half weeks. And when he walked that final mile and saw it, he knew he was home.
He marched past a grand sign—it looked more like a monument—and toward the giant walled complex that was Cicada. And with each step closer, he was filled with anxiousness, more like anticipation, at wanting to start into motion his new life.
Once past the sign, he found himself navigating around groups of people, encamped on and off the road, and everywhere around the fortress, as far as his eyes could see. Part of him started to worry that he might not be allowed inside. Surely these people wanted inside, just as he did.
None of those camping or milling around the area seemed to take any notice of Tom, as he looked a lot like them: a bit haggard and certainly malnourished. He decided to blend in a little and listen to the conversations floating around from group to group, to get the lay of the land.
Pretty quickly, he found some were talking about attacking the fortress, but they said their armaments were too meager to succeed against the vastly superior fortress. A few mentioned the fortress’s weaknesses and how easy it would be to take it over with the right number of people and some weapons. Tom had had enough.
He decided that he would try the dir
ect approach since he guessed none of the people here had an invitation, even if it were stolen, as he suspected his was, based on where he procured it and the invited recipient’s name.
Tom found himself standing before a colossal door, looking for something like... a doorbell? He snickered at this and tried pounding with balled fists on the solid metal edifice. This barely registered as a weak thunk-thunk.
After a moment, he yelled, “I’ve been called by the Cicada Protocol. Would you open up?”
Tom watched as a crowd of folks formed behind him, attentively watching for Tom’s and he guessed Cicada’s reaction.
He was about to pound and yell again when the huge door made a buzzing noise and clanked open. Everything about the structure looked almost medieval. For a moment, it felt like the door opening was to some ancient castle in England, and not a modern fortress in the post-apocalyptic hills of Colorado. Several guards poured out the gate’s opening, each with their rifles drawn. Some had their M4’s pointed directly at Tom; others pointed at the growing crowds. One nervous-looking guard, with his finger touching his trigger, unknowingly had his weapon pointed at another guard, while he was sheepishly glaring at the gathering hordes. He looked more like a scientist than someone who should be holding a weapon. It was already time for Tom to offer his help.
“Hey,” Tom signaled the agitated guard. “Watch out where your gun is pointed, buddy.”
The guard shuddered, let go of his weapon, which was thankfully slung loosely around his shoulder, and ran for the open doorway. Yep, Tom thought, there were several things this place could do better. And Tom would teach them these things, before the outside throngs mounted some sort of coordinated attack. He had already made several mental notes of how he’d improve their procedures, for their safety and protection.
“Where’s your letter?” snapped the lead guard.
Tom unfolded the invite letter and map he’d taken from the giant. The guard looked at Tom and then the letter again and asked, “What’s your specialty?”
Tom grinned wildly, “Security. And it looks like I came in the nick of time.”
The guard thought about what he said, returned the papers and said, “Welcome to Cicada, Mr. Tenaka.”
The chorus of a tune buzzed in Tom’s head. It was a little ditty from R.E.M., found at the end of his Hell’s Requiem playlist.
He indeed felt fine.
He was home.
Hell’s Requiem Playlist, Track 13
Song/Artist: End Of The World by R.E.M.
Keywords: end of the world; as we know it; I feel fine
Epilogue
A few miles outside of Kansas City
One month earlier
He was ushered into the vast multi-roomed tent of the Teacher, who he was told wanted to personally host a dinner in his honor, as thanks for bringing his son back to him safely.
Scarface had just left Mimi in her tent, and part of him wondered if word of his visit had already made it back to the Teacher, and if the Teacher would be accepting of his actions even though he had given the order to “make sure everyone responsible suffered the ultimate fate.”
She had quickly confessed that she told the boy everything about his father, Tom Rogers, including the details about where he lived. Further, she professed to the kid that she hated that Tom would be living all alone with all his supplies, which could be easily taken by someone with enough cunning to try. She even hinted to her son which three people he should convince to take the bait and grab the supplies; the boy just had to convince them to take him with them. Mimi failed to mention to the kid that Tom Rogers was paranoid about any visitors and even wore a bulletproof vest all the time for protection.
Scarface was sure that Mimi had baited her child, knowing the boy would figure out how to best take advantage of this information. Mimi and her son—the Teacher’s wife and adopted son—were the cause of this whole affair. And the Teacher had no clue about her role or the boy’s role in it. But he would soon.
Scarface gave Mimi a choice of poison or the knife. He didn’t really want to leave her all bloody and obviously murdered for the GA guards to find. He was persuasive and she chose correctly. That way Scarface could choose whether to say that he was the cause of her death, or offer an alternate narrative that she took her own life, knowing that he would tell the Teacher about her role in the abduction of his adoptive child.
He could only assume that she was not happy about her position with the Teacher, being the least desired of his five wives. But it wasn’t his place to speculate on such things.
As Scarface entered the Teacher’s tent, he decided right then that he wouldn’t speak about Mimi’s death unless the Teacher pressed. He would only tell him of her role, since he was seen entering her tent. And he would also tell the Teacher about the boy.
It was the boy who concocted the whole thing and who was obviously going to stage some sort of coup, by somehow trying to help Cicada with their upcoming battle with the Teacher and God’s Army. He still didn’t know how the boy knew all of this. But that was not his concern. He would tell the Teacher what he knew and let the Teacher figure out what he wanted to do about it. It would be an appropriate conclusion to his work with the Teacher.
Scarface was asked by a GA guard to enter the private reception area of the Teacher’s tent. Right when he slipped in, he saw a large table, adorned with a vast amount of food. At the head of the table was a place setting with an empty Champagne flute and a pack of Dunhill cigarettes, obviously meant for him.
It was then that Scarface noticed the boy was also here, with the Teacher. The Teacher was seated at the other end of the table and released his embrace from the child and softly instructed him, “Why don’t you pour some bubbly for our hero?”
“Yes, father,” the boy obediently answered. The kid glanced up at Scarface, flashed a small glimmer, and then returned to his normal stoic state, marching over to another table with many bottles of white wine or Champagne. Scarface instantly recognized the distinctive green bottle and distinguished yellowish label: there were a dozen bottles, all Veuve Clicquot Brut Champagne, his favorite brand: oh so difficult to find in the US before the Event, but impossible now.
“Please sit, my friend. This dinner is my way of personally thanking you. I want to hear the whole story, but before you do, please tell me how you found my boy and the traitors? Was there someone else who knew, or did you use your superior tracking skills?”
Scarface was at first hesitant to say anything with the boy present. But he felt confident that the Teacher would believe him, given that his position had become so much more elevated lately: besides finding the kid and dispatching the traitors, he’d even told the GA guards about the cache of food he’d found just south of Warsaw.
“Well, sir,” he paused for the child to pour some of the delectable Champagne into his crystal flute—it felt like Waterford by its heft and polish. Most impressive. Maybe he’d stay a little longer, even with the extra attention he’d been receiving from the Teacher’s followers.
The kid carefully poured a small amount from the wrapped bottle, which had rivulets of condensation falling off it. The kid held back more, waiting for him to taste it.
He did and smiled wildly. Only the slightest hint of a metallic taste he couldn’t quite place, but otherwise perfect. He nodded his approval to the child and the kid filled his glass.
Scarface took a giant gulp, utterly captivated by its aroma, fragrance, the coolness of the gold-colored liquid, and its smooth taste. It was overwhelming. He flashed a guilty glance back to the Teacher, a silent apology for pausing so long.
“Please don’t worry. I want you to enjoy. Now do tell how you found my boy.”
“I’m only sorry, sir, that you don’t drink Champagne.” Scarface paused and finished his glass, which was immediately refilled by the boy.
“Well, this Sir was a conspiracy. And of course, with any conspiracy, people talk. So it was rather easy to...” He paused to fight
a flash of dizziness, his head swimming in momentary confusion. It had been over a month since he drank any alcohol, and that was a deplorable white wine dredged from some despicable grape grown in California. Perhaps he wasn’t used to the alcohol.
“... I’m so sorry, sir. As I was say... Your wife Mimi and your ssss...” his voice trailed off.
The tent room buffeted to one side, and then the other.
Scarface rose from his seat, snatching up the full flute of Champagne and examining it, his hand shaking. It sparkled against the multiple lanterns hanging around the tent. Then he glared at the boy. The grin pasted on the kid’s face told him instantly what had happened. He’d been poisoned.
He glanced back to the Teacher, whose eyes were filled with concern for him.
Scarface collapsed onto his china place settings, bounced off the table, and came to rest on the floor. His dark eyes stared out blankly.
Two GA guards burst into the tent room.
“Teacher!” one of them exclaimed. “Your wife, Mimi has taken her own life.”
The Teacher leapt out his chair, taking in his guard’s hurried rendition of what had happened.
Unnoticed, the boy casually stepped up to Scarface, leaned over and whispered, “You have been a faithful servant.
But your service is no longer needed. I couldn’t let you reveal the truth to my father. It’s his time now, but soon it will be mine.
What is Cicada?
For more of Tom’s story, and to learn what happened after Tom reached Cicada, as well as more about the Teacher’s story, read the best-selling novel CICADA (book #3 of the Stone Age Series).
mlbanner.com/cicada
