by M. L. Banner
Preston screeched a warning their way.
“I wanted to help.”
Max had his back to the gate, seemingly uninterested in the affairs behind him. “You are my best friend and if something happened to you or your family, I don’t know what I’d do.”
“Hey, I know about the promise to ol’ great-grandpa, but I’m good now, so let’s drop the protective friend act and move on. You can’t protect me twenty-four seven. That’s obvious even here.”
Max reeled from the verbal sucker punch.
More gunfire, and then someone yelled, “Incoming.”
Max instinctively dove away from the yelling and tackled Bill, who was mid-sentence, finger pointed outward, when Max’s full weight hit him, knocking all the air out of his lungs. Then there was a loud explosion.
Grenade. Close range. Thompson was no stranger to the sound. This one was so close that he felt the blast wave hit him, along with a heavy weight coming to rest on top of him. His ears screamed and he waited for the searing agony to hit the rest of his body wherever the shrapnel would have buried itself inside him. But there was no pain, only a heavy weight on top of him, his ringing ears, muffled shouting around them and wetness.
He realized his eyes were squeezed tight, and he opened them to see Bill coughing and pushing against him, hollering something he couldn’t hear. More wetness, which now started to obscure his vision and dripped onto Bill’s face. He winced, trying to keep it from his own eyes, whatever it was… blood, a lot of it.
Max felt the weight lift off them.
Freed now, he rolled off Bill and faced what was weighing them down; it was the body of some pudgy man, whose face—now mostly gone—and body had taken most of the grenade’s blast.
If this man had not been in between them and the grenade, both of them would have been casualties. Dammit, Bill, for disobeying my order.
A shadow fell over him. Preston reached down and grabbed Max by his sleeves. His mouth said, “Are you all right?” but Max could only hear muffled sounds, like he had cotton packed in his ears, and loud ringing. He sure as hell hoped this wasn’t permanent. These things usually only lasted a few days. Every time, though, he wondered if this would be the one that did in his hearing.
Preston shouted something else at him. His hearing was already coming back. That’s a good sign. Max could almost understand what he was saying now. It wasn’t a wellness check question; Preston was pissed.
“Sir, what the hell were you thinking?” Preston was still a little agitated. Max was cleaning the dead man’s blood from his head, neck and face in the washroom of an empty apartment next to the two they had given the Kings, in a mostly empty wing of the Residences building—sort of a glorified dormitory. Max had excused himself while Preston showed the Kings their apartments, after which he suggested they clean up a bit too while he checked in on Mr. Thompson.
“You realize that Dr. Sampson died trying to save you because you were standing in the open? He ran after you when he saw that one of the Squatts had tossed a grenade through that damaged gate. What were you doing?”
Max was dumbfounded. He had been in the middle of many battles, yet he had ignored all that he knew and had been taught because of Bill. And because of his actions, someone had died? He splashed more water on his face.
He was going to say something to justify his actions, but there really was no justification for what he had done. His overt worry for his friend, originating from his great-grandfather’s commitment to watch over Bill’s family, had gone too far.
Max looked once more at his reflection and didn’t like what he saw. He wiped his face with a towel, leaving more gore on it.
“Was this a normal attack?”
“No, this was more coordinated. And they purposely hit the north gate as if they knew it was the weakest point in Cicada’s defensive wall.”
“That explosion sounded like C4, and the one that killed Dr. Sampson… that was a grenade. Ordinary Squatts, as you call them, wouldn’t have tools like those.” He roughly rubbed at his beard, trying to get the blood out. The washbasin was a gruesome sight.
“I was thinking the same thing. Wish there was a way to find out where they’re getting the military surplus,” Preston said, leaning with a shoulder against the bathroom doorway.
“Maybe I can…” Max paused and looked up at his reflection; steam, dust and blood spray covered most of the mirror, but he could see enough. This was as good as it was going to get.
He walked past Preston, slapping his shoulder, and headed to the front door.
“Where are you going? I wanted to… talk to you some more.” Preston fidgeted. Had Max been paying attention, he would have seen his manager acting like a child about to reveal something to his parents.
“I’m going to pay a visit to the apartment of the man I got killed. Then, I’m showing the Kings around. We’ve struggled to get here for a year. I owe them a few moments of enjoyment. Then, I’m going find out personally where this military hardware came from and maybe put a stop to these attacks. Can we talk later?”
Preston didn’t speak, but nodded and smiled.
Max opened the front door but paused. “Please see to it that the gate’s shored up. And for God’s sake, tell the damn guards to shoot the next person that comes close to that thing.”
Neither of them could have guessed the threat that would arrive at their gates next.
2.
Bios-2
One Day B.E.
Senator Brian P. Westerling was up for re-election in six months, but he didn’t care; he wasn’t even campaigning. When the world was about to end, running for a third term in the US Senate was a trivial matter. He just intercepted the notification—sent only to a few select scientists—announcing the Cicada Protocol had started. A giant solar flare would end it all. This was no surprise to him; after all, he knew what was coming and with it, he would be the one responsible for bringing this chapter of humanity to a close. It was a moment of pride for him.
Enveloped in the comfort of his supple leather lounge chair and the buzz from a bourbon and ice smoothing his pre-speech jitters, he took a drag from his Cohiba Robusto and released white swirling puffs of wispy smoke circles. He grinned at his airborne creations as they appeared to float out from the lonely confines of his office to the outside environment he created. Ringing beside him drew his attention.
“Sir, everyone is ready,” the voice on his intercom announced.
“Thanks, Reynolds.” Resting the freshly lit cigar on his polished stainless-steel ashtray, a gift from one of his many mistresses, Westerling popped out of his chair. Its butter-soft arms released their squeaky embrace. He stood, then straightened his tie and buttoned his jacket while walking across his vast office. Past his desk, he stopped in front of the giant floor-to-ceiling, forty-five degree angled windows that were his office walls; like the control tower of an airport, it gave him a view of everything. Looking down to a street polished and marble-like, he took note of the several hundred men and women who looked up at him, seemingly at attention.
He beamed a smile, one practiced from thirty years of politics, to the expectant faces below. They were all there because of him, and soon, they would be thanking him for their very lives. His pride was far greater than when they completed all the construction last month. It was now time.
“Greetings, men and women of Bios-2,” he belted over a wireless microphone connected to the entire city’s loudspeakers. “What started out as a dream for me, twelve years ago, has become a reality.” His voice echoed off the smooth surfaces of the buildings and streets. “Many of you were here at the beginning, and some of you have just joined us; but we are all part of one family now.”
He lowered the microphone from his mouth, dropped his head to appear pensive and then slowly lifted it along with the mic. “And now, I have news.” Again, he paused for effect. Looking at the eager faces, now full of concern, his eyes started to well with tears. That skill had come in handy dur
ing debates.
“It has been announced that a giant X45 solar flare is about to hit the earth, together with an equally massive CME, which should strike sometime tomorrow morning. You know what this means. It is the technology killer our scientists have been predicting for years and one of the reasons we built this place so quickly.”
The next part of the speech he had practiced, knowing their reactions, but it was necessary. He could almost hear the din of worried conversations, even through the thick bulletproof glass of his office walls.
“I know many of you have left family and friends behind to be here. I also know that you will want to warn them in one of your daily phone calls. I’m afraid we simply cannot allow this, which is why there will be no further communication with the outside world until tomorrow. As you know, after tomorrow, it won’t matter.”
He held up his hands, a physical gesture to quiet their disturbance. “I know. I know this may seem unfair, but because of what we are doing here, and to protect us from the outside world, we have to cease communications. If the world knew what we have here, they would all come and try to take it, and we cannot allow that. This place and its purpose are not known by anyone, except us. And after tomorrow, this one fact will save our lives.”
His puffery knew no boundaries. It didn’t matter who or how many people came to their impenetrable city walls, anyone attempting entry would be burned down in their tracks. Unless they were one of the scientists who thought this was Cicada.
All his skills from his years in politics couldn’t hold back the curls of a smile that formed on his lips.
Westerling had kept the comms open on his phone, and he heard Lunder Gufstafson, his Security Director, join in. With the wireless mic flipped off, he asked his question loud enough that both Reynolds and Lunder could hear. “Do we have the green light, gentlemen?”
“Confirmed all clear, it’s a go,” announced Reynolds, his voice distorted over the small speaker.
“All clear. It’s a go, sir,” proclaimed Lunder.
Westerling once again faced the crowd, who was not sure if the announcements were over; without hesitation, he pushed a button on a small console on the credenza behind his desk. The office lights flickered just a little, and then the sky exploded in light. It was a momentary rainbow of colors, which became a dome of almost transparent grid lines of light that shot out from just above his head and arched downward to just outside their walls.
He flipped on the microphone once again. “You can see that we have turned on the Energy Protective Field, or EPF. From now on, nothing gets out and nothing gets in. You are dismissed.”
He set the microphone down and walked briskly to his unfinished bourbon and cigar, hopeful it hadn’t gone out. There was much to celebrate.
Security Director Lunder knocked on the door and entered Westerling's office, shutting it behind him. “Masterful job, sir.” He wasn’t just buttering up his boss; he genuinely believed Westerling couldn’t have done a better job.
“Thanks, Lunder.” Westerling swallowed the last gulp of his forty-year-old bourbon and beamed like the star quarterback who just had his way with the most beautiful cheerleader. He did love taking home the prize.
Lunder waited an appropriate amount of time, and then interrupted the senator’s elation. “Sir, there's a call from Senators Gibson and Ferguson. They're headed here in a convoy of five cars less than five miles away. They wanted to let us know they’re coming.”
“Besides the senators, who’s with them?” Westerling asked, resting his empty crystal tumbler on top of the latest personnel reports he had received earlier from Lunder.
“Their families, a security detail and a Dr. John Bevins—he's Mrs. Gibson’s plastic surgeon—and Bevins’s wife.” Lunder was reading from a small notebook, where he kept his observations and important scribbles.
Westerling beckoned Lunder to sit on the sofa opposite him.
Nose in his notebook, Lunder sat. “I think we should keep Dr. Bevins.”
“Are the guards set up?”
“Yes, they're all ready. They’re just waiting for your word.”
“Do you know yet who's who in each car?” Westerling asked. He stood up and looked out to the front gate, the approaching fleet already visible from the south.
“We will in a moment. Do I have your authority?”
“Yes, of course.”
Lunder pulled the radio from his belt and called the gate commander. “You've got authorization.”
The radio blasted static, and then “Roger that. Will establish location of Dr. Bevins through cell GPS.”
Even though the EPF was on, blocking every communication going out, they had an antenna array above this, which was still tapped into the world’s communication’s networks—at least until tomorrow when everything would apparently go down.
Lunder stood up beside Westerling to see the show. Five cars, ranging from black Suburbans to a Mercedes ragtop, rolled up to Bios-2’s main gate and stopped.
The radio gave them the play by play they needed.
“Gate Commander, this is Operations, you have a go for vehicles one through four. Hold the Mercedes and apprehend its occupants.”
The pulsating grid-light pattern of the EPF was turned off. Operations, below them, and Westerling had the only controls for the EPF.
“Roger that, Operations; confirm go on vehicles one through four. Apprehend occupants of vehicle five.”
The first vehicle in the line was one of the black Suburbans, windows blackened and bulletproof. Its driver’s side door cracked open and its driver stepped outside. From his suit, earpiece and impatient gait, it was obvious he was Secret Service; it was one of the perks of running for president twice. Although Gibson almost won the first time, revelations about hush money and mistresses scuttled any chance of a second run. The man was a prick of the first order, but he had been useful to his boss—it was Gibson who greenlit Bios-2 for Westerling, and both Gibson and Ferguson helped to keep Bios-2 hidden from everyone in the Capitol. They must have heard about the pending solar flare and were seeking safety.
Westerling opened his mouth, probably to ask when the operation was going to take place, when they both noticed the Secret Service driver's face change from annoyed curiosity to wide-eyed alarm. The driver then bolted back into the Suburban just as a missile blasted from the top of the gate, hitting the vehicle almost instantly. The explosion was a wonderful fiery blast that opened up the black SUV like a shucked clamshell and incinerated everyone inside. Three more missiles shot from different placements on the wall, their white trails of death following each to their targets.
The fourth vehicle, a stretch limo, exploded the way Lunder expected, like those he saw in movies. It appeared that the TOW rocket missed the direct hit, instead striking just in front of it. The blast tore through the grill, and then lifted the car up and over, where it hung—standing erect on its rear—for just a moment before falling backwards toward the Mercedes, which was already squealing its tires in a mad attempt to back away to safety. The ragtop was just getting some traction, but the limo, which resembled a giant exploded cigar, descended faster, matching its progression. Just inches before the convertible reached safety, the limo’s twisted grill and bumper assembly speared its hood, stopping it dead in its tracks.
Several of Bios-2’s security personnel raced from the gate to the Mercedes, drawing automatic weapons, and yelled something at the driver. Westerling and Lunder couldn’t hear without the parabolic. Two of the security detachment broke from the group and fired rounds into the limo, already partially ablaze. The occupants of the Mercedes, a soft-looking man in shorts and a yellow polo and a slender woman wearing a miniskirt and a colorful hat that one might see at a Kentucky Derby, exited their car and followed the men back to the gate.
“Operations, this is the Gate Commander. We have acquired subjects and dispatched the other vehicles and their occupants. We're sending in cleanup.”
“Good work, Gate Comman
der. Operations out.”
Westerling sat back down, unable to hold back his grin. “That was fun. Good work, Lunder.” He raised his glass, a sign instructing Lunder to get him more bourbon and grab a glass for himself as well.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Do we expect any others?”
“No, that's it. The president is going underground at Camp David, and the VP is going to Cheyenne Mountain.” The security director returned with two glasses, handing one to his boss.
“Shit, that old fool might actually make it there.”
“I know.” Lunder practically inhaled most of his drink, rarely tasting something so delightful.
“Tell me how we're doing on the scientists.”
“Well,” Lunder said, almost finished with his bourbon, ready to show off why his boss had so much trust in him, “we’ve already secured ten scientists who were headed to Cicada. But we expect to pick up many more over the next few days or weeks. We figure they would be slowed by the Event on their way here. So, the ruse worked very well.” Lunder reminded him, lest Westerling forget, it was his idea to send the fake emails to the Cicada scientists and divert them to Bios-2.
“Indeed, I guess time will tell then. And with Cicada?”
“Well,” he hesitated, not wanting to give him any bad news, “today, two doctors showed up.” Lunder pulled out his notes. “A Doctor Merriweather, expert in particle accelerator design, and a Doctor Valdez, a micro-epidemiologist, specializing in apocalyptic viruses.”
“So why didn’t we get these guys?”
“Well, you’ll remember, the database copy we stole from Maxwell Thompson was a little older. These two must have been some of their recent additions to the Cicada Protocol.”
“So, this was definitely not a good thing?”
With his boss, it was all about the Ben Franklin list. Everything was broken down to a plus or minus, to check whether an action was a good or bad thing. “Well, it’s not good for us. You might remember Merriweather was one of the scientists our contractor was chasing in Texas.”
