CICADA: A Stone Age World Novel (18 page)

Westerling was in a celebratory mood. They had already planned to take down Cicada, and now a religious nut and several hundred of his idiot followers would do all the heavy lifting. Both Dr. Reids were on board and they would soon convince the rest of the scientists that it was futile to resist him. Everything was falling into place nicely.

Topping off his glass with an extra-large measure of bourbon from its decanter and sinking into his leather chair were his reward. After another puff from his cigar and a large gulp, he stared out the window and thought about what still needed to be done. At the top of the list was killing Cicada and that sonofabitch Thompson.

He put his glass down and fumbled with the buttons of his intercom, feeling a little light-headed from all the alcohol and smoke. His fingers, acting fatter than normal, punched what he thought were the office speakers—he wanted to hear it better and not have to scrunch over like some feeble old man and listen to the intercom’s little speaker—and heard a crackle in the conference room. Then he banged the button beside it for the office, both buttons depressed together, the static telling him the office speakers were on as well. He punched the call button and the number one.

“Found you, sucker,” he told the box of wires, winning another battle over one more object. He waited impatiently for Lunder to answer.

He started to suck on his fourth cigar of the day while taking another large swig of his giant bourbon and ice. He should feel at least a little guilty. Not that it was his health or that he was living high off the hog known as Bios-2 that bothered him; he was just a little worried that at this rate of consumption, his cigar and bourbon stock was going to disappear in a couple of years, maybe quicker if he didn’t slow down a little. It wasn’t like they were making the stuff anymore.

Where is that Kraut?

Lunder was busy with his normal juggling act, now directing Operations, when the phone started ringing. His boss couldn’t help himself and often had to call him about something insignificant. He wondered what it was this time. At least it saved him the trouble of calling Westerling with the good news.

“Yes, sir,” Lunder answered, turning the volume on his radio down so he could hear.

“Have you found the Reids yet?” Westerling belched, sounding very toasted.

“No, sir. But they’ll turn up soon enough. I wouldn’t worry…”

Lunder’s radio squealed at him; Operations was reporting back.

“I have something more important to tell you.” He purposely sat back and made his boss wait, relishing this last morsel of information, which he knew would make him happy.

The radio screeched some more. “Hang on; I’m speaking to Mr. Westerling.”

“Got it,” Reynolds at Operations answered. “Call when you are done. Out.”

“Well, are you go… oing to make me wait all day?” Westerling’s words were sluggish from alcohol.

“Sir? Oh yes, of course. You don’t have to worry about killing Thompson at Cicada. He’s coming here, tonight,” Lunder happily announced.

“Tonight?”

Lunder could hear him take a long draw off his cigar and exhale little puffs—no doubt he was trying to blow drunk-happy white smoke rings, with little luck.

“Datsgoodnews!” he bellowed in one breath.

“Yes, that is the good news.”

“Lunder, good work. Are we set up for him?”

“I’m briefing Operations and the wall sentries now. We’re going to draw him in and make him feel like he’s snuck up on us, and then we will let them have it with at least two EMAs and our snipers and we’ll finish them off with automatic weapons fire. He won’t stand a chance. You’ll be rid of him tonight, sir.”

“Lunder, I’d kiss you if you were here.” Then Lunder heard Westerling’s phone drop, followed by a cheerful, “Whohooo!” Westerling yelled unintelligibly away from the phone, “Take that you fu—” Then the line went dead.

Melanie knew now what she must do. She had to kill Westerling and Lunder.

Part of her wished that Carrington was part of this, but maybe it was better this way. The consequences of what she had to do were not something she wanted to share with him. He was a good and decent man, and she didn’t want him to go down that path of killing someone like she was forced into; it changes you, and once you do it, you can’t take it back. She hoped that she would be able to put that horrible incident in Texas behind her. And except for the occasional nightmare, she had been able to do it. It wasn’t her though; it was Carrington. He did that for her. He made her whole and gave her a hope she didn’t have after she took the lives of those men. He not only saved her physical life on that road to Laramie, he saved her whole being. Until now, she had enough hope to ignore what happened to them.

Both of them were acting, pretending that everything was all right. Carrington did a masterful job, acting like he was fully accepting of their captors. But she knew he wasn’t. He was ever hopeful, but he was ever vigilant as well. It was why he built the bomb; this was a complete surprise to her, but when he explained his reasons, it made complete sense. “Trust but verify,” he told her. And if promises weren’t kept, they’d blow the EPF and leave.

It was not the life they had wanted to choose, but at least it was a life. Then those plotting, backstabbing scumbags, Westerling and Lunder, made even that impossible.

There was only one course of action for her now. She was going to have to kill them both. She was going to have to be that person who killed in Texas: cold-blooded, full of hatred, and exacting in her revenge for what they did against her. Westerling and Lunder were no different. These two had taken away the lives that Melanie and Carrington could have had together at Cicada.

Perhaps
, she thought, lying with her head back on their couch,
perhaps, if everything went right, Bios-2 would be rid of these two evil men, and we could still be together.

That was hope speaking, and it was dangerous. She quieted this most dangerous impediment and mentally went through each step of her plan.

Carrington waited just another moment to make sure the guard was clear and considered what he was about to do. They had been promised lives of peace within a community, if they would just work with Westerling and his people. The alternative was living outside of Bios-2’s walls in a destroyed world occupied by misery and ruled by maniacs and cannibals. So what if Westerling and Lunder were evil men? Wasn’t his and Melanie’s safety, and the safety of everyone in Bios-2, worth the price of turning the other cheek and not doing what’s right?

If it was, then what the hell was he doing? He was about to violate their rules, only hours after being told not to. They were holding all the cards, and if he was caught, he and Melanie would be cast out or worse.

But his gut told him that he had to take a chance. There was something deeply wrong with this place; he knew it to his core. It was why he built the bomb; that was their post-apocalyptic insurance plan. If the powers that be went against their word or threatened them, he would use the device to take down the turbine, and therefore the EPF, and they would all escape. Hiding a bomb was easy, but getting into a restricted area and not getting caught was not.

What the hell is that place
? he wondered as he glared at the secured entrance to the mystery room, where the guard should have been, and then ducked back. He knew enough about geothermal power production to know that room was not a piece of the geothermal puzzle. They were hiding something and he was about to find out what it was.

He checked once again, clumsily knocking his fedora off his head. But Harry the guard was definitely gone. Carrington had, at most, ten minutes before the next guard or worker appeared.

He grabbed his hat and scrambled across the vast turbine room, looking up to the walkways many stories above him, making sure there wasn’t someone else who would see him. The coast was clear. He dashed the rest of the way to the secured entrance to the restricted room and pulled out of his backpack a handheld Taser. He held the Taser up against the thumb-pad and gave it a long jolt, until it gave a welcoming click. He quickly slipped inside.

Melanie breathed slowly and deeply, closed her eyes and visualized her plan. She could see every detail, what could happen and the risks of each step. When she was satisfied, she stood up resolutely. She grabbed the knife she had pilfered from one of the guards several months ago and went to her front door. Her heart was beating rapidly, but steady. She loudly unlocked the door and pulled it open.
A foot or so ought to do it
.

“Hello? Dr. Reid, are you there?” called Simon’s voice behind the door. He put one foot through the gap.

She waited patiently, calmly, knowing precisely when to spring. She was that person she needed to be once more.

She was a killer.

The room was not at all what he expected.

The first red flag was the black and yellow triangle posted just past the doorway, indicating an ionizing radiation hazard. But it wasn’t a warning sign to keep people out, since only a few were allowed inside. The sign couldn’t be for prevention. It must be a real warning, but of what?

Then there was the whole purpose of this room, which didn’t make any sense. There was some sort of well, which he expected. He knew the Shaft Room was where they captured the superheated steam from the aquifer below them, which was naturally heated by a magma chamber. Then, he expected the cool water had to be injected back into the aquifer somewhere; otherwise, the aquifer would run dry. Of course this was the reason for their needing an alternative energy source: the aquifer
was
running dry, and that meant no steam for their turbine.

He had assumed this room was where they would inject the condensed water. But there were no water pipes anywhere. And over what appeared to be an injection well was some sort of very elaborate machinery. It looked like a kind of electric generator. There were certainly moving parts inside it; he could feel the vibration. But it was remarkably quiet, not like any generator he had ever seen. Over the vent and connected to the machine was a beautifully designed conduit system with a multitude of tubes snaking out of every square inch of the conduit. These were either to cool whatever was going in… or keep it from coming out. But what was it, if not water?