CICADA: A Stone Age World Novel

by M. L. Banner

  They had a name now and a general location. The Squatts called him Club because he carried a giant club with spikes on its end built to inflict maximum injury on its intended victims. Max pulled this information from an unwilling man who would probably never recover the use of his fingers after the interrogation. A well-placed gun butt to the middle of his hand and the fear of death was all it took before the fellow gave up Club’s name and tree of residence. It was a lean-to in the woods with a British flag tied to a tree above it.

  They entered the canopy of the thinning pine forest, leaving their shadows behind and finding easy cover in its darkness. The forest floor was thick with dead pine needles, a deep shag carpet of brittle spines crunching under their boots, making their progress less silent. Most of those who lived in the woods—hundreds of them—appeared to be asleep.

  Each time they came upon a lean-to or something similar, Max pulled out a plastic flashlight and blasted its light up and down the pole, looking for a Union Jack.

  They ran across several of Max’s flyers; some were posted on the trees, but most had been discarded on the ground along with so much garbage piling up after a year of living here. The putrid smell of human waste was everywhere. These once-pristine forests were now no more than a dump of trash and humans.

  After an unsuccessful hour, they were running out of campsites. So they doubled back and looked for any signs that a flag had once hung on a tree, assuming it must be taken down at night.

  They looked again at one of the early lean-tos they had scrutinized, and because they had approached from a different direction, they had missed a piece of fishing line stuck into the bark. It was definitely used for securing something.

  Tom was just about to kick over the lean-to when he heard a crackle of pine needles beside him. Pivoting, he saw a thick piece of wood coming down on him. It just grazed Tom’s head, his movement surely saving him from death, and hit the tree instead. The truncheon thudded and bounced out of the attacker’s hand. Max spun around and fired off a silenced round into the man’s leg, not wanting to kill him just yet; it sounded like a small twig breaking and nothing more.

  “You shot—” Tom brought the butt of his pistol down hard on the back of the man’s head. This didn’t knock him out but was effective in quieting him.

  The man, known as Club and feared by many, shuddered enough that the bandana he wore as a protective hat slid off his head to the pine needle floor.

  Max kneeled down face-to-face with Club and smiled, just slightly. “You were the one who attacked that place over there.” He pointed toward Cicada. “And you tossed in the grenade. Good job, by the way; they had it coming to them.”

  The man wasn’t sure whether these two were friend or foe but decided it was better to cooperate. “Ah, yeah… it’s those damn scientists; they have food and water and we have nothing,” he said, grimacing from the pain.

  “I thought so. Now tell me where you got your explosives. We want some to take out that place—maybe we could split the spoils?”

  Feeling a little more confident, Club told them, “There’s a guy who brought these to me. He leaves me a sign when he’s left me a new supply and sometimes instructions about where to hit the fortress.”

  “Where are the sign and the drop-off points?”

  Club hesitated at first, and then gave up his only bargaining chip. “It’s always at the same place: a split aspen, like from a lightning bolt, just off the road by the Cicada sign. I’m expecting a delivery tomorrow, just before sunrise. Maybe we could—”

  Tom scooped up Club’s bandana hat and shoved it into the man’s mouth, holding it in place. “Do you need anything else?”

  “No, I’m good,” Max said.

  As the sun broke over the rugged horizon, Beatrice Peters stepped out of her parents’ tent to relieve herself. When she looked up from where she’d squatted, she fell back, as if her shock pushed her over. It was Club. He was as dead as anyone she’d seen, and these days, she’d seen lots of dead people. This was certainly ironic being that many of them died at Club’s hands. He had even boasted last night about killing one of the people from the fortress on the hill.

  She scuttled back a little, pulled up her pants and stood; she wanted to make sure what she saw was real, scrutinizing every hair and twig. And the knife. Club was strung up in the tree that made up his lean-to. His tongue was dangling out of his slack jaw, and his eyes were swollen in a permanent state of terror, forever staring into the ground. His hunting knife was sticking out of his chest. It pinned a bloody white piece of paper with words on it, as if he were some sort of community billboard. She recognized it as one of the flyers those men handed out yesterday, but someone had scrawled on it with a finger, using Club’s blood: “G U I L T Y”

  At long last, she screamed.

  Squatters poured out of their tents, cardboard boxes and lean-tos. Within minutes, all received the message.

  Bill King turned over again in his new bed, eyes wide open, thinking about the last twenty-four hours. He rose quietly, careful to not disturb Lisa, who was still unconscious from fatigue—they dealt with stress differently. He was exhausted still, but he couldn’t sleep any longer. He threw on some clothes and left the Residence building, intending to go for a walk and to find Max. He had something he wanted to say to him.

  It was that windless time, just before sunrise when everything was quiet and everyone was asleep, except for the auroras churning overhead, as they did every evening ever since the Event.

  He stopped by Comms to see if Max was there.

  Just inside, he found Webber—his Cubs hat permanently mounted to his head—and somebody else he didn’t know. They were sitting in two of the comfy chairs playing cards.

  “Hey there, Bill,” Webber called out to him. “Care to join us vampires for a game of cards? If you do, you’ll have to watch this guy. Like all Dodgers fans, he cheats.”

  “Hi, Bill, I’m Ray Johnson. Don’t mind Webs, he’s just saying that because he’s gotten tired of losing like all Cubs fans.”

  “Hi, Ray, I’m Bill King…” Bill didn’t really feel like socializing, after all. “Thanks, guys, I think I’ll pass. Maybe next time… and Webs, we’ll gang up, two to one.”

  “Ha, there you go; another suffering Cubs fan to keep you company,” Johnson chuckled.

  They both waved to Bill as he slipped out.

  Outside the perimeter fence, Bill saw movement on the north wall by the damaged gate they had arrived through only yesterday. It was already mostly repaired, a miraculous feat since the explosion had twisted it and its hinges so badly. He didn’t know why, but he felt an urge to be up on the wall and see the other side.

  Working his way toward the northern wall stairs, he looked up and saw the man everyone called Shingles looking down on him, waving. Bill waved back. Magdalena told him that they called him that because he was always standing on some soaring roost somewhere: in the tower, on the wall, or on one of the roofs, like a roof-shingle. She couldn’t ever remember seeing him on the ground.

  His footsteps were crunching loudly on the gravel; he was aware of being exposed and visible in the light. He needed time to sort out his thoughts. The wall’s peak beckoned him like a mountaintop needing to be climbed.

  A piece of paper caught his eye, and he recognized it as one of Max’s You-Approach-You-Die flyers. At least that’s what Preston called them, and the policy had been the subject of everyone’s conversation last night at the Rec Facility.

  Bill ascended the long stairwell, taking two steps at a time.

  Most were shocked about this flyer and its implications, but not so much Bill. He had witnessed Max in these situations firsthand and knew how he operated; like just before Max was abducted in Rocky Point, when he assigned Bill the task of killing the chief drug lord from a thousand meters away. It was awful, but it was necessary. Likewise, this action of Max’s was forced upon the people of Cicada by these squatters who had no right to be here. Yes, they were starving
, but if Cicada didn’t do what it was supposed to, the whole world would eventually starve. And that might mean the end of humanity. As the saying goes, desperate times require desperate measures. He supported his friend in his decision. He just wanted to tell him.

  Bill reached the top, panting. He had to brace himself so that he wouldn’t stumble; that wasn’t good at this height.

  Wow, what a view.

  “Morning,” said a guard behind him, making him jump a little.

  “Morning.” Bill returned the sentiment. Not wanting a conversation, he said nothing further.

  “Interesting development, huh?” said the guard, gesturing at Bill’s right hand.

  Bill was surprised to see that he still had the flyer clutched in it. “Ah, yeah, it is,” Bill said. He definitely didn’t feel like talking.

  “You probably shouldn’t be up here because it’s not really safe. Mr. Thompson wouldn’t like it,” the guard—Bill wished he could remember his name—said in a quiet voice; no doubt part of that “keep Bill safe” thing. Perhaps he was right. Someone could shoot a person up here from below pretty easily.

  A distant scream drew their attention toward the tree line.

  Bill wasn’t sure if his eyes had finally fully adjusted or if they had only now made themselves known, but he saw two figures coming up the hill, toward their gate. They were dressed in black and were almost invisible. This was obviously purposeful. The two figures looked up to them and flashed a signal, and the guard beside him turned and flashed a signal to Shingles in the tower. A large clunk vibrated below their feet and the gate opened slightly. Inside the wall, two other men pulled on the massive door to open it. The two figures on the other side waited, silent, but at ease.

  One of the two figures in black looked back up at Bill and flashed a thumbs-up sign. This must be Max. Bill was shocked that he was outside, dressed like he was on a military mission or something.

  Another two figures approached from the bottom of the hill. Bill could see by their shapes it was a woman and a man. The man was moving ahead of the woman, with his hand out. “Excuse me, sirs…” Bill could barely hear the beggar’s plea.

  The men in black spun around and pointed their weapons on the approaching couple, startled.

  “Do not take another step or you will be shot,” one of the two men in black demanded. That was Max.

  Still the man approached, his hand extended. “We don’t mean any harm; we just need some food. Please, would you help us?”

  “Sir, you will not be asked again,” the other man in black said. Bill didn’t recognize him.

  “But, all we want is food.” The man kept moving.

  The female behind him was fiddling with something as she followed the man up the hill, and then she released something from its coverings.

  Both Max and the other man fired several times; their reports echoed off the walls and rolled down the valley below, like ripples in a lake after several stones were tossed in.

  The man and woman were slumped over in their places, begging no more.

  Bill dropped the flyer he was clutching and headed down the stairs. Sleep couldn’t come fast enough for him now.

  11.

  Outside Bios-2

  “Teacher!” John barked, waking him. The early morning air hung on them, just above a layer of sweat. He lifted his tired frame up in the bed he now shared with a naked woman taken from the village by one of his men. It was still dark, so he couldn’t see what she looked like, but he remembered her dirty beauty. She was a pleasant enough diversion, but he found her less enjoyable from all the drugs they forced into her to make her compliant. He found those who were willing to serve him without the aid of drugs to be much more pleasurable.

  “Teacher, please come. We need you now.” John was unrelenting, just outside his sleeping chamber.

  He swung his legs over the woman, pushed himself around her and stepped onto the carpeted ground two inches below. He grabbed his red robe and threw it over his nude form, first admiring himself. The walking these many months had not only been cleansing; it had made him physically stronger, leaner.

  He ducked through the curtain that separated his sleeping chamber from the entry room of his very large two-room tent and found John with several of his men, standing over four other men on their knees. One of the four kneeling men wore a long, scruffy beard that looked like it was started years before the Event. He wore a police shirt with a police badge, and below the tarnished emblem was a nametag that said Chen even though the man sporting it looked more like a Jones or a Smith. Like the other three, he was bloodied, apparently from having been roughly handled by the Teacher’s men. They must have had a reason.

  “Teacher, I am sorry to wake you at this ungodly hour, but it was necessary. As you guessed last evening, this group’s offer for us to rest was a ploy. Several of us, as you recommended, waited and surprised these men who were approaching our camp with the intention of attacking us while we slept. This”—John pushed the man in the police shirt—“is their leader.”

  “What do you have to say for yourself?” the Teacher demanded.

  “I did nothing,” Chen said. He lifted his shoulders upright but said nothing more.

  The Teacher pulled the sash to his robe tighter and approached the man. “So, have you made arrangements with Cicada to let us in?”

  “What? What the fu—”

  John brought his rifle butt into the side of his head, knocking Chen to the carpet.

  “You told my man here yesterday that you would talk to the ruler of Cicada, who would let us in this morning. Is that not true?”

  Chen looked up. His eyes fluttered, dazed and far less prideful than a moment before. “What is Cicada? Oh, you mean the castle on the hill. Yeah, of course you’re welcome to go in,” Chen said and smiled, showing off brown, crusty teeth through his filthy beard.

  “Ralph, please step forward.” One of the men wearing a red robe walked around the group and knelt down. “Do you see this?” Ralph opened his mouth wide, showing a large space where there should have been a tongue. Chen’s face contorted in confusion quickly followed by disgust.

  The Teacher continued, “This is one of my most trusted men. But a while ago, he told a lie to John here, also one of my most trusted men.”

  The Teacher strode to a chair placed in front of the captives, sat down and crossed his legs. “Our book says: It is better to pluck out a man’s eye caught lusting upon another’s wife than lose the whole man to his sin; it is better to cut off his hand caught stealing than lose the whole man to his sin; and if a man lies, it is better to pluck out his tongue than lose the whole man to his sin. You have been caught lying to us. You will now face your punishment.”

  Realization hit Chen like a bullet and he started to beg. “No, please. I’ll get you into Shakonda. I’ll do whatever you wan—” One of the guards dragged him out by his feet, heedless of his screams.

  When they had left, the Teacher looked at the other three men on their knees. They had understandably become much more agitated. The scruffiest of their bunch, his torn clothes caked with dirt and other foulness, said, “I’ll tell you whatever you want.” He bowed to the Teacher.

  “Good, son. What is the name of the castle on the hill?”

  “They call it Bios Two. But you don’t want to go there demanding anything or they will cut you down with their ray guns. You can go to their front gate, if you’re not carrying guns, and ask to speak to them.”

  The Teacher looked into his eyes, as if he were trying to send his thoughts to him. He said calmly, “Thank you for your help, son. Because you answered truthfully, I promise you will not suffer.” Then to John, “Take them and set up the display so that our new friends at Bios Two can see it. How long until sunrise?”

  John looked up into the air, thinking. “Less than an hour, Teacher.”

  “You’d best be going then.” The Teacher stood and returned to his sleeping chamber; he had a need to attend to. As he slipped
through the curtain, he let his robe slide onto the floor and hopped onto his bed. He was filled with anticipation.

  12.

  Bios-2

  It really is quite impressive, Melanie mused to herself as Westerling and Lunder spoke glowingly to her and Carrington about Bios-2 from this lofty perch. Westerling’s office was entirely grotesque. It was gigantic, air-conditioned, full of plush furniture and looked out on a dying world through floor-to-ceiling windows. It reminded her of Gordon Gekko’s ostentatious office in Wall Street, and Westerling was, in many ways, a carbon copy of Gekko: just a little too slick and seemingly in it for himself.

  Carrington and Melanie had spoken last night after making love. They would be careful around these two men and not trust them. Even if the senator and Lunder were speaking the truth, which neither she nor Carr believed, they should never forget that they were forcibly separated, and she was placed under the watch of an armed guard for over a month. They had never been able to leave. They had been prisoners, even if Westerling and his security director tried to say otherwise. No matter what they said, it was never acceptable.

  “You can see all of Bios-2 from here,” Westerling bragged, a stinky cigar stuck in his mouth. “We built this place always with safety in mind, always to protect the men and women who work here.”

  Mel and Carr held hands and gazed upon the impressive sight of this mini-city on top of a Colorado mesa. The entire property was surrounded by a giant oval-shaped wall of block, topped with barbed wire and the tower they were in near the middle. The streets were a gray-white, the faux marble starting to darken in the short year since the apocalypse. But otherwise, the buildings and the city looked striking, without a doubt. Over the wall was a desolate world, somewhat obscured by a constant force field.

  “As you know, from this tower we generate the force field that provides a barrier around this place so the natives cannot shoot bullets or arrows or toss stones at us. Now, let me show you what we have to deal with every day.” Westerling walked to the opposite wall, mostly made of glass, separating his office from a conference room. Its only breach was a set of thick glass doors. He pulled on one of the two, putting his whole body into it, and then held it for the others.