by M. L. Banner
Max inhaled slowly and deeply. He tried to focus. He wanted to say something reasonable and unemotional. This man had power over them in ways Max was only just beginning to understand, and he had to be careful. But at this point, he didn’t care.
“Listen, you prick asshole; I tell you at this moment that I have made it my personal mission to make sure you don’t see sixty-five.”
That felt a little better.
“I heard you were a bit of a hothead. Now, before you say anything else you might regret—Ow! Shit, doc, can’t you wait till I’m done with my phone call?—Anyway, I have someone you’ll want to talk to… bring him over here…” Murmured conversations in the distant background got louder; then the sound of a heavy chair being slid across a long floor grew as well, until it was almost too much for the phone’s little over-modulated speaker.
Max looked up and saw that Preston, Lisa King and Magdalena were all inside Comms now, listening with him. There were several others outside the door.
“Hello…” a scratchy, but familiar, voice spoke on the other end. “Max?” It was Bill!
“Bill? Is that you?” Max hollered into the phone. “Are you all right, buddy?”
“Yeah, just a little bang—”
“That’s enough,” Westerling cut in. “Do you believe me when I say I have your friend Bill King?”
Max looked up and saw Lisa holding her mouth, eyes watery, nodding a confirmation he didn’t need.
“Yes, I believe you. Now-what-do-you-want?”
“It’s very simple. My army should already be at your doorstep. When they announce their demands, you are to fulfill them, without resistance. When my guy Johnson calls me to tell me that the army has taken over, without incident, I will release your friend Bill. That’s all.”
Max leaned forward on the console desk, his weight on his elbows; it was as if Westerling’s face were in front of him and he was moving in closer to it. “Now, listen to me, you douchebag,” Max said very calmly. “If you at all harm one hair on that man’s head, I will make you suffer the most horrible death imaginable. And because you seem to know everything about me, you know what I have done to people and that I mean every word I say. Do we understand each other?” Max stood bent over and still leaning on the desk—his face pressed against Westerling’s imagined one.
“I’ll wait for my call. Remember what I sai—”
Max slammed the phone down in anger. “Ahhhh!”
He stood up and stomped past Preston, up to Lisa and hugged her.
Her words tumbled out. “Max. Ple-please don’t let them hurt Bill.” She pressed her head against his chest and sobbed uncontrollably.
A murmur grew into loud debate in the Comms room and in the reception room, until one of their guards burst through the building’s front door and yelled to the crowd, “The enemy’s made their demands.”
Everyone held their breath, waiting for the guard to say more.
Max led Lisa out of the Comms room, onto the walkway outside their office and above the guard and the people in the open reception area. Magdalena followed, and then Preston, who called to the guard below. “Go ahead, Tony, what did they say?” Preston figured this concerned everyone anyway.
“They said that we have ten minutes to surrender Cicada or they will destroy it and kill everyone in its walls… What should we tell them?”
Everybody, even Preston, turned and looked at Max.
34.
Bios-2
Melanie knew that it wasn’t in their apartment, but she had hoped that maybe there was another note or that Carrington somehow had time to get the second bomb back and leave it for her. No, that was asking too much and too risky. And one thing she knew about Carrington, he planned for every contingency.
Her luck was holding out, not that she believed in luck. Still, there were no guards to be seen anywhere on their floor. She glided quietly across the polished concrete like a figure skater, glad for her sock-covered shoes. There were no other sounds but her soft steps and the constant hum of the machinery below.
The door to S227 was open; several papers were resting haphazardly in the threshold and out the doorway. Looking in, she saw why. Their place had already been ransacked. Hopefully the goons hadn’t taken everything. There were a few things she wanted before she left this place, their home for the past several months.
She shut the door and walked to the sofa, its foam-stuffed cushions ripped open and tossed aside. Reaching under, she found the two knives stored on the underside wooden lip. She had developed a love for knives. They were silent killers. She had learned how to throw them in Laramie, but in the last couple months she’d developed proficiency with them, practicing on the underside of their coffee table for hours.
She examined both blades. In their former lives, they had been steak knives. Now, each had another edge and better balance thanks to her repurposing. She placed both on the coffee table along with the two magazines and her pistol, a newer Glock confiscated from the guard.
She examined the rest of the apartment. Into a large backpack from the closet, she tossed items picked from clothing strewn on the floor: a shirt, her good jeans, her only non-holey tennis shoes and three pairs of panties. Standing in front of the bookshelf, she searched. It wasn’t there. Her heart rose almost to a panic until she saw it, Shakespeare’s Sonnets half-buried in with the other books tossed from the shelves. Unfolding the back cover, she saw all of his notes still there—and several new additions, taped to the book’s final pages. This went in the sack too.
She dropped the bag at the bathroom entrance and attempted to bring some order to her disorder. She sucked down some aspirin, and then tossed the bottle on the bag—definitely coming with her. She did her best to brush the blood from her hair, being extra careful to not touch the sensitive area where Lunder had hit her. She slipped a band around her tresses and made a ponytail.
What else? Finally, she snatched a roll of toilet paper, her hairbrush and the surgical tape from their first aid drawer and tossed them in the bag.
From the front of the little desk, its contents on the floor, she snatched a piece of stationery like the ones he used to write his notes and sonnets to her. Her fingers curled around the elegant Mont Blanc pen, a gift from his daughter and his preferred note-writing instrument. Looking up for inspiration, she carefully wrote the note, mimicking his hand.
Satisfied, she walked to the coffee table and slid one knife and both spare magazines into the front of the backpack. The other knife she shoved into her waistband, trying not to stick herself with it.
Let’s go get a bomb, she mouthed, not wanting to say anything in case someone was still listening.
She took one final look at their apartment—their home for many months—and said goodbye.
Matt Richards wasn’t about to leave his post. The place may fall to invaders, but he wasn’t going to give them access to Supplies without a fight. He had been given this post by the big man himself, after being the senior security officer in the senator’s detail. After a stint in the Marines and then DC Police, he had been the first on the scene when the senator’s wife and son-in-law were murdered by the two drugged-out miscreants. He shot one, who later died, but the other got away, stealing a few dollars and a bottle of Percocet. It was a tragedy for sure, but this tragedy had led to a much higher-paying job on the senator’s security detail, as thanks for killing one of the perps.
It was like that with people. They all had it in them to commit horrendous acts. But without the law to keep them in check, most would take and kill for themselves. He wasn’t about to let that happen here.
A very pretty woman entered, looked around, and then approached him.
“Hello, Mr. Richards, we’ve never met. I’m Dr. Melanie Reid; Dr. Carrington Reid is my husband. I’m helping him on a vital project for Mr. Westerling. He sent me for these things.” She slid him the piece of paper she had written up in Carrington’s handwriting.
Richards read the note twi
ce and then looked at her. This one was very curious. He knew people pretty well, and he could sense she was hiding something, but he wasn’t sure yet what it was. “Come with me,” he said, holding onto the note and standing by the door that buzzed open. “I’m sorry, but I will have to pat you down, Mrs.—”
“It’s Doctor Reid, sir. And you are not touching me, you understand.” She stepped through the door and walked right up to his face. “I know for a fact you don’t pat my husband down. You are not going to get your jollies feeling me up, buddy. Now, I’m running late. Are you going to show me where this shit is that my husband needs, or do we have to talk to Mr. Westerling?” She remained unmoveable like a statue, hands on her hips.
Poor SOB, he thought of Dr. Carrington. He knew who ruled this household. Smirking, he turned and said, “Very well, follow me then.”
35.
Bios-2
“What about him, Doc, will he come out of it?” Westerling asked Thornton, who was changing a couple of the bandages on his face.
The doctor looked back at Bill King, now lying flat on the floor unconscious. “He has a concussion, but it’s not too bad, couple of broken bones, and some superficial wounds. Like you, he should heal in a few weeks.”
“I don’t care if he heals—he’ll be dead by tomorrow. I just want to make sure he can talk if I need him to.”
Doctor Thornton regarded him for a moment, wondering how he was ever talked into serving this narcissist whose hunger for power was greater than anyone he had ever met—and after the collapse of society outside their walls, greater than he probably ever would meet. He knew Westerling meant what he said; the senator never filtered his words around the doc. It was as if Westerling believed that doctor-patient privilege had no boundaries, even post-apocalypse. He had no doubt Westerling would kill this man, who was just an innocent pawn in some real-life chess game, where every person, including him, was one of the chess pieces. In spite of the relative safety he enjoyed, he regretted his decision to be here, every day.
“Are we done, Doc?”
“Yeah, we’re done.” He collected his supplies and packed up his bag.
“Aren’t you going to tell me to take it easy, and all that doctorly kind of stuff?”
“No, do whatever you want. I’m sure I’ll be patching you up again soon enough.” Thornton walked out.
Black pawn fixes black king, prepares to be moved again on the board at the whim of black king, he thought as he tried to leave.
Reynolds almost knocked Thornton to the floor, crashing into him in the doorway. He was frantic. “Sir, some of the invaders are on top of the wall.”
BOOM.
Operations’ walls shuddered around them and the floor rumbled, like in a small dull earthquake.
“They’ve killed some of our people near the northern gate,” croaked an out-of-breath Reynolds.
White pawn takes black pawn.
“Well then, fire everything we have at them there. Where are our soldiers?” Westerling asked.
Black knight takes white pawn.
“They’re keeping them off the other walls. And the invaders keep picking off every soldier who has tried to help at our northern gate.”
White pawn takes black knight.
“Look, their attack is at the north gate. Focus most of our men and weapons there. Put nonessential personnel on the other gates. Give them a gun and tell them to fire at anyone who moves. Grab the scientists if you have to. Reynolds, we have to hit them hard, now.” He looked over to the entry as another guard brushed by Thornton, still standing there. The guard tentatively walked in, carefully holding two bottles of the forty-year-old bourbon and a box of Cohibas.
“Put them over there.” He motioned to a table against the wall near where Bill King was having a nightmare about falling.
Black king orders black pawn around.
“Thank God. Now we can be civilized during our battles.”
Black king takes a drink.
“I need more C4,” John called out to a runner, who took off to report to one of his generals. “Get two more on the wall and our .50 up there,” he yelled to Peter, who signaled and two more red robes shinnied up the ropes they set up on the wall.
John stepped back and looked at the gate. This one was pretty strong. The blasts shook part of it loose from the wall, but it was held in place by the other door. Two more blasts at the other door and the middle should bring it down.
He quickly drew his sight on a head that bobbed along the top of the wall running toward the gate and fired two shots.
“Keep our cover fire, there and there,” John pointed to either side of the gate. “Soon, they’ll figure out our game, so we need to blast the gate while we have the advantage.”
“Wouldn’t it be better if we waited for Teacher and the other soldiers?” said a woman. Only her eyes were visible from within the oversized robe she wore.
John stuck his face up to hers and said loud enough that she could hear it above the gunfire and commotion, “If you don’t leave this battlefield right now, I will shoot you myself.”
As the woman left, the tail of her robe trailing like some macbre wedding train, the runner returned with the C4 and grenades.
John whistled to one of his red-robed people on the gate, a signal for “get busy shooting fish in a barrel.” The man looked down and John tossed up the grenades one at a time. He smiled at the irony of this. The leader of Bios-2 made a deal with the Teacher to leave and not bother Bios-2, giving him explosives and three .50 calibers. Now, they were using those weapons on Bios-2. He would have a good chuckle when their compound fell.
John looked up to make sure that only friendlies were on the wall and he set up the next blast.
Another explosion sounded, smaller than the previous one and without any corresponding earthquakes.
Westerling exhaled a large puff and waited for the next report from Reynolds. He had a sinking feeling in his gut and it wasn’t the bourbon. He remembered this feeling during his first congressional election. All his people were telling him that he was up in the polls, but the exit data coming in from several locations said that his competitor was capturing the minority and female vote. Considering that district was composed of a large minority population and a majority of the voters were female, his gut told him that he would lose. He could feel the shift in his political winds. His people continued to reassure him not to worry, he would carry the night. He lost by two points.
He could sense the winds had changed once again. He took another healthy sip of bourbon and then signaled one of the guards to come over.
“Grab one other guard, go get my daughter and granddaughter and take them to the bunker. Get it prepared and don’t let anyone in but you four. Are we clear?”
The guard nervously but decisively nodded. “Yes sir, I’ll protect your family with my life.”
“Great, go now.”
Boom.
The building shook again.
36.
Bios-2
They stopped first in a vast room of various building materials, all categorized, sorted and resting in their appropriate places. Of course, the metal conduit she was looking for was at the back of the room and Richards was taking his sweet time getting there. She wanted to get in and get out, not sure how much time she had before Bios-2’s security looked for her here. It was hard enough for her to remain composed when each time they turned a corner, Richards would shoot his skeptical gaze back at her to make sure she was still there since her footfalls were nearly silent.
From what she had memorized from Carrington’s drawings—he would never draw another one again… She fought back tears. Concentrate, Mel! It was near impossible because everything reminded her of Carrington, and she had not allowed herself a moment to grieve. She needed to stay at the anger stage until she escaped this madhouse.
“Is this what you’re looking for?” They were looking at an area of one-to-two-inch-wide metal conduit pipes stacked in shelves base
d on length. It was like going to one of those big-box home improvement stores, with everything laid out for you and their not-so-eager staff pointing you in the direction you wanted, while other consumers battled for your helper’s attention. Those days no longer existed.
She glanced at the shelves and then of those nearby, and then saw it. “No, that’s what he wants,” she pointed to a lower shelf with two-foot lengths of one-foot-diameter pipe.
Richards didn’t respond or budge, indicating that he wasn’t intending on helping her pick up the item. Yep, just like the big-box stores.
It must have weighed thirty pounds or more and was bulky, difficult to carry. Richards was already impatiently waiting at the end of the aisle; that was his way of saying that he wanted to move along so they could pick up the final item and he could be done with her.
She tried to figure out how to lug the damned thing around, first trying under her armpit—too heavy; then in front of her—too difficult to walk; then behind her head, straddling her shoulders—just right. Now she marched onward, head bent forward, wondering how she would explain the clock to him.
She should have just written it down on the sign-in sheet. Instead, she listed “Broken black pocket watch in Misc. Area,” knowing from Carr’s instructions that this was in front of where the clock and its internal bomb were hidden. Since the clock was already “repaired,” she thought listing it would be suspicious, whereas the pocket watch would be somewhat easy to explain. She just didn’t expect him to be watching her every move, and now how would she explain wanting this?
“So, what do you need the pocket watch for?” he asked.
Shit!
“Look, if we’re going to have a conversation, maybe you can help me out here. This damn thing is heavy.” She grunted to exaggerate her efforts.
He said nothing, not changing his stride either. She could have sworn he was snickering, just a little.
