CICADA: A Stone Age World Novel (33 page)

Commotion at the First House drew his attention, the noise rising from maybe thirty people clustered in front, waiting. Tom was at the door, shaking it, but it appeared to be locked. Tom raised his weapon, fired off a couple rounds and the door swung inward. Preston thrust a propane lantern inside for light and Tom went in to find who had locked the door.

Max could see that Sally and Lisa were propping up Sue, injured in the failed assault on Bios-2. Pel was beside them in a cot, still unconscious, as he was when Max carried him back. Webber, still a little wobbly-looking from the beating he’d given him, held onto the other side of the cot. Max counted the others, who were desperately waiting for word that it was safe to go inside. There were only twenty-eight of them. He hoped there were more alive and just late in getting here. He had counted eight taken down from the attack, but he suspected their losses were worse than this. It was a far cry of the four hundred Cicada had been built to house for many years.

Tom popped out of the door and announced, “All clear, folks. Watch your step.”

There was an explosion by the southern perimeter fence entrance and billows of smoke. This elicited shrieks from a few of Cicada’s remaining residents, most of whom pushed to get through the door and out of harm’s way.

“Whoa, people!” It was Magdalena. “One at a time,” she demanded. She saw Max watching her and smiled at him. He walked over to her, not feeling the anxiety that most did from the enemy obviously blowing the perimeter fence open. They were less than a minute away.

“So happy to see you’re in one piece. You look pretty good, considering.” He smiled again.

“You too, but you look pretty awful.”

“Thanks.” Then to Preston and the others still outside, he asked, “Who are we missing?”

“Shingles bought it,” Tom said, coming over to them. “I think that little prick-mole Johnson did it, and I think he locked this door too.”

“Any sign of him?” Max asked.

Tom shook his head.

“Where are Dr. Ron and Dr. Monty? I see their wives here, but not them,” Max asked, head turning to find them.

“They’re in their laboratory!” hollered Preston as he carried Pel in with Webber, almost tripping at the threshold.

“I’ll go check on them,” Tom offered.

“Thanks. I think I need to lie down for a bit,” Max responded and shook his hand. He looked him in the eye; they grinned at each other and nodded… “It’s been an honor.”

“Max, for me as well.” Tom let go and darted to the Rec Facility’s side entrance, his rifle raised and ready.

Magdalena stepped in and Max followed. He was the last one in. To his right, he saw some red-robes flooding onto Max’s Boulevard and walking their way. To the left he saw dozens, marching in their direction from the breached fence. He closed the door and secured it as best he could. It was fairly quiet inside, other than a whisper or two and the hiss of the lantern’s propane flame. The mud-adobe brick was a pretty fair insulator.

“Shhh,” Max whispered. “They’re almost here.”

“Teacher…” Frank ran up to him, still a little winded after having run the mile-plus distance from the other end of the oval complex.

“Francis.” The Teacher warmly shook his hand. “So glad you made it. You and your warriors have done a masterful job. What are our numbers?”

“We won’t know for sure of our losses till morning, but I’m guessing about two hundred,” Frank answered. He took a knee beside the Teacher, resting. He could walk tens of miles without losing a breath, but he wasn’t used to all of this running.

“That’s not bad at all, less than what I expected. What about Cicada’s occupants?”

Frank’s face turned sour. “I’m sorry to say, Teacher, we could only find fourteen bodies and no survivors.”

The Teacher’s face sank like the Titanic. “What did you say about prisoners?”

“None. We could find no one here alive.”

“Where did they all go? Did they just disappear in the air like some fart in the wind?” Anger filled his features.

“Teacher! Brother Francis,” Stanley called to them. “Come here.”

They walked briskly to Cicada’s First House, the plaque on the door saying just that. It was like some museum. Its door was open. Stanley turned to the Teacher before entering and said, “Several of our warriors said they saw people walk into here, just before we arrived…” He then stepped inside. The Teacher followed.

Someone handed the Teacher a lit oil lamp, and other than the concrete floor, he felt transported back into a small home from the late 1800s. In fact, it was probably just as it looked back then: a small table and three chairs where the family would have dined; a kitchen area with washbasin; a fireplace with a pot hanging over it; and three straw beds in the back corner.

There was no sign of anyone, besides his men.

Stanley finished, “…but as you can see, if anyone was here, they’re not any longer.”

“This was probably the manager’s residence.” Frank stood in front of the open door. “It’s the largest one, so we thought you might prefer this for your home, until a suitable one could be built for you, Teacher.”

“It’s just fine Francis, thank you.” The Teacher strolled inside, first examining the three pictures, just beyond the door, and then moving into the living room.

Frank hesitated outside. “Teacher, my men have swept the place, and of course it is empty but a little unclean, and the door to the public bathroom is locked, but… we’ll get someone in to clean up shortly, but I thought you might like to rest. Can I get you anything?”

“Yes, Francis; bring me a couple of my companions, and find me Cicada’s survivors.”

“Yes, of course, sir.” Frank bowed and then closed the door.

The Teacher ambled through the living area and then to the bookshelves, examining each of the books there. He slid out
The Flames of Rome
by Paul L Maier, about Roman Emperor Nero, and blew the dust from the top of it. Something else caught his eye on the next shelf over. Alone on the shelf was an old bottle of tequila and two glasses. The shelf they rested on was layered in a year of neglect, except in one area. A rectangular void, cut out of the dust, told him that the previous occupant had just taken something from the shelf; another bottle, or a book perhaps? It didn’t matter; he had what he required.

He wanted to be prepared for his companions when they came. He seized the bottle of tequila and both glasses, and strode with his new book under arm into the bedroom. It was a little disheveled, as if the occupant had left in a hurry, but otherwise, it would do. He rested the bottle, glasses and book on one of the bedside tables. He removed his robe, placing it on the end of the bed, and dropped his boxers, stepping out of them and settling onto the bed. After propping the pillows behind him, he relished the comfy feel. He slurped from the bottle of tequila, enjoying the burn as it slid down his throat. The bed needed to be straightened before Francis brought his companions by.

He put the bottle down and pushed the previous occupant’s clothes off the bed onto the floor.

There was something under the covers too; probably more clothes.

He slid his legs under, relishing the feel of the sheets; they were clean. He swiped the bottle once more and took another gulp, happy for all the developments. He was a god. He had control over all of his people and the world around him.

Another gulp.

He threw back the bedspread and sheet and saw a bundled up shirt and pants. He leaned over, and with his free hand, he tugged at the bundle, just beyond his feet. It had considerable weight for being nothing but clothes. Maybe there was something of value in there. He pulled it closer to him, about midway between his feet and groin. Whatever it was, it started to slide out of the garb. He clutched the clothes tighter and gave it a yank, dislodging the object right between his widespread legs.

He focused on the object, which seemed smooth, with a diamond pattern on it.

And it moved.

When it rattled, the whole thing was so perplexing, he bent closer to look.

SNAKE!

In shock, he froze, and in horror, he watched it rear up.

It struck.

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Reviews are vital to indie authors. If you liked this book, I would really appreciate your review.

Thank you!

It's been said that if you sit enough monkeys down in front of enough typewriters (substitute with “computers” for those under 50), and given enough time, one will eventually pound out a Shakespearean Sonnet. This monkey is no Shakespeare and it took more than just time, luck or a few bananas to get this book into your hands; I had lots of help. Here's a brief list of those who have been invaluable to me in bringing
CICADA
to life, all of whom I am eternally grateful.

To my wife, Lisa… You’re my anchor, my rock, my everything. You were the one who encouraged me to write, even when my writing became a damned mistress who schemed to suck away much of my time. Why you put up with both of us is a mystery to me.

To my editor, Karen… Even though I must make your eyes bleed and your head swell, you have diligently worked to “flesh out” what I wanted to say, sometimes far better than I could have said it.

To my cover artists, Alisha & Damon… Thanks for creating a thing of beauty that immediately stirs up emotions, and draws potential readers to that first page.

To my formatter, Jason… Thanks for untwisting the words from my awful Word-coded copy so that readers are less likely to curse my name.

To my proofreader, Sara… You're the last person who is tasked with the heavy burden of making this grammatically perfect. Thanks!

To my Advanced Copy Readers… Thank you for your words of support and even the occasional criticism. You guys (and gals) rock!

Finally, to my readers… I am humbled that you have invested your most valuable time and a little money into something I've written. I've done my best to make your experience enjoyable and thought provoking. I hope our journey together doesn't end here, but continues for many years to come. I promise if you bring the beer (substitute beverage of choice) and popcorn, I'll do my best to provide the entertainment.