Max’s Epoch

- A Stone Age Short

M.L. Banner

Copyright © 2014-2015 by M.L. Banner,

All rights reserved.

Max’s Epoch – A Stone Age Short is an original work of fiction.

The characters and dialogs are the products of this author’s imagination.

Most of the science and the historical incidents described in this short story are based on reality,

with just a sprinkle of poetic license added.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Cover Art: M.L. Banner

Editor: G.K. Bradford & L.A. Konrath

Toes in the Water Publishing

12/31/2014

The Stone Age Series

An apocalyptic solar storm takes the world into a new Stone Age

“A great apocalyptic story!”

Stone Age (book #1) – The days surrounding the Event

Download HERE

DESOLATION (book #2) – Desolation follows the survivors of the new Stone Age

Download HERE

Stone Age Shorts – Other stories set in the Stone Age World

Max’s Epoch –Find out what happens to Stone Age’s favorite Character, Max Thompson

Download HERE for FREE

Time Slip – A doctor creates a slip in time and attempts to use it to save his wife, but he ends up in a dying world with little technology

Download HERE

The Stick – A man receives a package from a missing friend, which contains a flash drive with secrets which may save the world. Now, he is pursued by a killer, hired to stop at nothing to get, The Stick

Download HERE

CICADA

(The final chapter of the Stone Age Series)

Coming 2015

Go to http://stoneageseries.com/book3 to get the latest!

Want to read more about the Stone Age World?

www.StoneAgeSeries.com

Stone Age World facts vs. fiction; what’s next; extra material not in the books; more

Prelude

Maxwell “Max” Thompson is by far the most beloved character of the Stone Age Series. So much so that I have been often asked questions like, “Why isn’t there more about Max in DESOLATION?” or, “Why don’t we know more about Max’s past?” Of course, just about everything Max does is remarkable—and they say the Dos Equis guy is the “most interesting man in the world”?

While writing DESOLATION, I focused on a balance between maximizing your experience as a reader with telling a complete story. Needless to say, after publication, I too found myself wanting to tell more about Max.

What follows is Max’s story after he broke out of El Gordo’s compound, up to when he made it back to Rocky Point. Get ready for more from our favorite character, Max.

--M.L. Banner

WARNING… I would strongly recommend that you read DESOLATION (and probably Stone Age) before you read this. Otherwise, you're likely to be confused and wonder just who is this Max guy anyway?

1.

Basra

Even before the first bullet zinged by his ear, Max was brought back to that time long ago in Basra. His heart leapt immediately to a staccato beat, like a drummer banging away moments before a firing squad's triggers are pulled. Make no mistake, Max’s heart wasn’t pumping rapidly because of fear; it was the masterful design of his body that sent adrenaline to his brain and other necessary parts, preparing him for battle. Accompanying this were his heightened senses, which brought an awareness of everything around him, like an animal alert to all the other predators nearby. And even though he was outnumbered better than ten to one, he was the predator and they were the prey.

It was then that the memories of Basra flooded back: that epoch time in his life when he experienced his first real battle, and that battle was epic.

Oops! I'm getting ahead of myself. To understand why this event was an epoch in Max's life, it's important to understand just who Max was at the time and how he got there.

Long before he could remember, Max was fascinated by old texts and antiquities. It started with his great-grandfather’s writings and research. He would try to imagine Russell talking only to him. Perhaps it was just Max’s way of understanding the family history, but that was only part of his fascination. He had a true love for all antiquities, or what he jokingly referred to as, "Old Shit." This passion grew into a study of ancient languages, which grew out of the need to understand the hermeneutics of the authors’ ancient writings—he imagined each author was writing directly to him. There was no disputing Max and his great-grandfather’s shared passion for the Bible. Maybe at first it was the appeal of these stories about regular people, so long ago, who pledged their faith in God. What followed was a sense of awe for those who gave up their vocation, their family, even their very lives for one man named Jesus.

His need for more information and a better understanding of the Bible and the Christian faith took him to seminary. Mind you, Max had no interest in becoming a pastor; he just wanted to understand God in a deeper way than his self-studies would allow, and maybe learn what the Bible's promises meant for him. He finished seminary in record time, enjoying rich comradery and debate among his fellow seminarians. Throughout, Max called himself a Christian, but he hadn’t felt the passion to serve nor the fire in his heart he was “supposed” to have, and others seemed to. When he completed seminary, he never took that final step to become ordained as a pastor. For a few months afterwards, he felt lost, unsure what to do next.

He still doesn’t remember why. Perhaps, it was like when moisture and heat gather together to create storm clouds. For Max, the confluence of all he was and his need to do something greater than self, brought him to enlist in the Army. It certainly wasn’t the direction his father had chosen for him, who preferred something more on the scale of a doctor or lawyer. But at the time, it seemed to make sense. It was nothing like the seminary where he found profound stimulation in debating philosophy and religion with fellow seminarians and instructors. But Max knew he was pretty good with a gun, and he had an acuity for many of the other things the military taught. So he entered the Army, completed Basic and excelled in all things, even testing into a special ops program.

In the waning days of the Iran-Iraq war, Max was deployed to what later became Camp Udari in Kuwait for a secret mission in Iraq.

Now, we come to that epoch time in Max’s life in Basra...

~~~

Bullets came at them from every direction and they found themselves pinned down. It was a mission that never made the news, as it was still about a year before Iraq invaded Kuwait and the US spearheaded Operation Desert Shield. Their Beta team was there to support the Alpha team, whose sole mission was to snatch or kill one of Saddam's henchmen who had been buying WMD, and was believed to be in Basra. Alpha was sent in four hours ahead of them. But when Alpha hadn't reported in at the designated time, their mission changed: rather than support, their job now was extraction. As they approached the target point, they understood why they had lost contact with Alpha; there was enemy everywhere, and their unit found themselves under attack.

“Preacher,” John yelled to Max, over the cacophony of gunfire. Max had picked up the nickname “Preacher” in Basic after having admitted to graduating seminary. “Preacher,” John yelled once more, as Beta waited for their orders behind the relative safety of a smashed wall. John was an Iowa farm boy, and although younger in age and wisdom, he was superior in rank. He was also way out of his element, looking to Max for strength: sort of a father figure. John treated him with an equal measure of respect. “What does that Bible of yours say about being scared shitless?”

“It says don't worry, be happy,” Max yelled back in a matter-of-fact tone.

"Really? No shit, it really says that?” he asked now towards Jonas, a young Jew, who knelt a couple of feet behind them. A few of their team within earshot, chortled nervously. Fear was a funny thing. Some of it was good; it was part of that adrenaline surge that helped you in battle, but too much of it can cause you to act irrationally. Max’s concern was for John, their team’s commander. If his fear took control, he would surely lead them all to their deaths.

So Max ignored them and focused on John, who now stared back at him. His smooth face, reddened from the Iraqi sun, seemed more in place in a tux at a prom leading a pretty cheerleader on to the dance floor, than in fatigues leading men and women into battle. John's face was tight and determined. The sweat on his brow and his quivering hands belied his true feelings. Max would have loved to have spent some time talking with this kid about faith and his place in the world, but Beta needed an effective soldier--their life depended on it. Max did the only thing he could think to do; he slapped him across his face with an open palm.

To say John was shocked was to wholly understate that moment. His jaw dropped and he glared at Max. As Max's superior, John could have had him court-martialed, but John was far more dismayed at almost losing it. He had trained three years for this, his unit was depending on him, and he needed to get his crap together… He actually felt pretty good now. A grin formed, announcing his change in presence.

“Shit, you’re no touchy-feely preacher, are you?”

Max just smirked.

“Right,” John said to his unit, wiping his face with his sleeve. Now he roared, “We’ve got some terrorists to kill.”

It would have been heartening to say that Beta went on to kill every last enemy and none of their own were lost, but the evils of war do not usually lead to happy endings. A more auspicious result would not have been reality; it certainly wouldn’t have led to Max’s epoch. The truth was they walked into an ambush and they were vastly outnumbered.

Like vivid images of a nightmare that continue to work their way into your conscious mind long after waking, the memories of what happened next tortured Max for years.

A few of their Beta team were picked off as they approached the small compound where Alpha should have been, but when they entered the first house, proverbial hell broke loose. What was odd to Max each time he contemplated what followed was that he felt as if he occupied someone else’s body, or that he was watching a movie: a horribly intense and violent movie.

John was hit twice and fell beside him, and then Jonas. But so did the enemy. One by one, they fell by gunfire. Max looked down and realized then that he was the one shooting the enemy. He proceeded from room to room taking out each combatant as they showed themselves. When his magazine was empty, he would drop his rifle, grab another from one of the dead, and continue forward, driven by some unknown force, like a possessed Rambo. Three men who scrambled right in front of him, their kaffiyehs flapping as they tussled with their weapons, were cut down by the AK Max now held, before it too ran out. A guttural cry behind him generated a swift reply. In one quick motion, he fluidly pulled his knife from its sheath and swiped once across the attacker's neck then plunging it into the man's chest. Then another came and he threw the knife, missing the chest, but hitting his neck. This man crumpled in front of Max. Another two came from the doorway and Max grabbed the dying man’s AK and spun while holding the trigger. This went on—felling one terrorist after another--for a seemingly endless amount of time.

Then, all was quiet.

Max sat on one of the bodies of his vanquished enemies, pulling the knife out of him and wiping the gore on the man's shalwar kameez before returning it to its sheath. He stood and attentively listened. Breaking the silence and the pulsating rings in his ears were muffled screams which sounded close. Stealthily stepping into the adjacent room, he saw a dozen men, stacked one on top of each other like cordwood—it was Alpha team. All but two appeared to be dead. The two were gagged and showed signs of torture. Their wounds didn’t appear to be mortal and both were animated at the sight of Max.

Max untied the first one’s gag. The man's words came flooding out, “They knew you were coming. I’m so sorry, sir.” The words stopped abruptly, the man’s face fixed on Max’s, his mouth agape. Terror then filled his eyes. As Max cut the man’s bindings loose, he glanced up at the dirty window a couple of feet in front of him, catching his own reflection. Max was completely covered in blood and gore. His face was a mask of bright crimson, only the whites of his eyes projected any glint of humanity from the scary visage. He knew all of the blood, or most of it anyway, was from the men he had killed.

That day, so he was told, he had taken the lives of as many as fifty, and in the process, he had saved the two from Alpha, but none of his Beta team. Although he sometimes felt sorrow for the loss of his team, it wasn't their deaths he so desperately tried to forget. It was the image of that man staring back at him from the dirty window. It was how easy it was for him to kill so many, without fear or hesitation. Mostly, it was because he was so good at taking other lives and not feeling any regret.

Now today, when the images and feelings started flooding back, instead of trying to push them aside as he usually did, he accepted them... no, he needed them. This battle was different. He was surrounded by maybe a dozen of El Gordo’s men. But he had a greater mission. He needed to return to Rocky Point and get himself and the Kings to Cicada. He needed to become a warrior once again.

He readied himself for his next battle.

2.

Ranches

15 hours earlier

El Gordo stared in utter disbelief. While his men were asleep in their debauchery and liquor, someone was attacking them. Using his ammunition storehouse as a diversion to the south was brilliant and, no doubt, the attack would be coming from the north. But who was it? Who was attacking them? Was it Menendez or some other cartel? Meanwhile, his beautiful ranch was going up in flames. All those years of work…

"El Jefe?" called a voice from behind.

"Jorge? Oh, it's you. Has the attack started? Do you know who it is?" he asked in Spanish.

"I'm sorry, El Jefe, it is not another cartel and we were not under attack. It was Señor Max. He destroyed the hacienda, killed many of the men and escaped in his Jeep. The bendejo destroyed the other cars too so we couldn't follow. But I sent Jaledro to go get the Chevy pickup that we hid from Max. With your permission, we will hunt him down and kill him...” While waiting for an answer, the smoke bit at his throat. “El Jefe, you must leave your villa because it is on fire and it is not safe."

El Gordo just stared. His mind was smoky, like his bedroom. How could Max, his trusted friend, be the one who took out his people? Yes, he kept him against his will, but that was mostly for his safety. How could he commit such a traitorous act? He needs to be killed, but... he just never thought Max would have done this. Perhaps he would have done the same, if he were held captive, away from his friends.

"El Jefe, please you must leave."

"Yes," he said, stirred out of his thoughts. "Go hunt him down, and do what you must with him."

"But-"

"Yes," he cut off Jorge, "I will leave right after you. Go now," El Jefe commanded his Number One, who dutifully turned and left.

Not two minutes later, El Gordo headed out of his bedroom, but he was too late. Flames had already made their way up the stairs, cutting off his exit. Perhaps one of the other bedrooms? These he saved for his other mistresses and guests across the hall and hopefully away from the flames. If he could make it out of a bedroom window, he might be able to crawl down the trellis. Being on the second floor, he might break something, but at least he would be alive.

Touching one of the bedroom doorknobs, he immediately pulled his hand back, turning his palm inward to see the damage: it had already turned red and angry from the burn. That leaves my bedroom!

Closing his master bedroom door behind him, he rushed to the window farthest from where he thought the fire would be the most intense. Red and yellow flames danced just above his only means of escape--his fate was sealed. A wretched cough erupted from deep within his lungs, a response to the heavy smoke as thick as a steam bath now covering his bedroom.

~~~

Jorge was as hot as the fires that consumed this place, stewing further while watching the truck advance from the mostly undamaged north side of the hacienda. He thought about what had transpired before this, as his pace quickened to a trot toward the approaching truck. He had advocated killing Señor Max from the beginning. Yet, it was El Gordo’s affinity for this man and his utility around the hacienda which prevented him from getting his way. Jorge never complained. After all, El Jefe was the boss among all, and although he had many weaknesses, El Jefe would not have tolerated even the slightest sense of disloyalty. So, when Jorge saw that Max had escaped, he did not say anything, nor think treasonous thoughts about El Jefe. It was the way it was. Now he would get his wish, but at what cost?

Señor Max’s ploy to disable their vehicles was a good one. Jorge didn’t have to trust him like El Jefe, so Jorge held back one vehicle, telling Max it was abandoned during one of their runs.

“Should we try to follow Señor Max?” asked the driver, as Jorge climbed into the passenger side of the ‘68 Chevy truck, tightly loaded with almost a dozen men in back.

“No!  Señor Max already has the jump on us. If he headed south, we will never catch him. I believe that he will go to his ranch first. If he does, we will catch him there.”

The tires of the overloaded truck spun on the loose gravel, kicking up stones and almost dumping one of the men, hanging cantilever out the back. His compañeros grabbed him just in time and the rest of the men hooted in joy, as they were off to kill that traitorous Señor Max.

As they drove past the villa, all eyes watched in horror as the main house was now completely ablaze.

~~~

El Gordo thought back to the dream he had only a few days ago, when his skin melted off his bones. It was another dream that would come true.

Clutching his garish gold-plated Desert Eagle pistol, he fled into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. Grabbing a hand towel stylishly embroidered with the letters L.H.O., he held it under the faucet until wet, covered his mouth, and hunkered down considering his options. The phone!

Picking up the receiver, he heard nothing, not even a dial tone. Usually, one of his most trusted men would pick up the other end and answer him instantly. Not this time. They were gone and the line was… "Muerta!" he yelled and slammed the phone back on its cradle.

A carpet of smoke seeped under the door. Shoving bath towels into the crack, he slunk back and hopped into the deep recesses of the shower basin, his heavy weapon skittering over the shiny gold tiles, their luster muted in the smokiness.

The lights flickered and then went out, covering the room in thick, heavy darkness.

El Gordo, overseer of the third largest drug cartel in Mexico, the leader of hundreds of men, a man whose name, until recently struck fear in every man, woman, and child in Mexico, did the only thing he could think of; he screamed.  “Help!”

~~~

Max looked up to the sky and prayed quietly, “Lord, I know I haven’t been your best foot soldier lately, but I am asking you to please protect me and help me get on my way in time to be there for the Kings when they need me most. I am putting my trust in you, that I have broken down for a reason and not because I am following my own path. Please protect me Lord in the days to come and let your Spirit keep my feet upon Your path, not my own. I ask this in Jesus’ name.”

He hopped out of the Jeep, grabbing Frankenstein before slamming the door. Although the night’s auroras were bright, it would be hard for him to see the detail he needed to assess the Jeep’s problem. So, he pointed the rebuilt flashlight, or what he called Frankenstein, towards the Jeep, fumbling to find the switch in the protective steel mesh wrapped around it’s outside. The mesh was probably overkill and made the flashlight seem monstrous, hence the name. But finding an electronic device that wasn’t fried from the electrostatic current buzzing around everywhere was difficult, and Frankenstein despite its ugly exterior, worked like a champ. Finally, he successfully clicked it and out shot a vast cone of white light upon the Jeep. Squinting at first, his eyes adjusted immediately and explored for anything out of the ordinary. He chuckled at the thought of what was ordinary these days, and searched for what he assumed he would find, but hoped he wouldn’t.

“Yep, there you are,” he said to the bullet hole in the Jeep’s side. Following the suspected trajectory, he shined his light to below the Jeep and saw the dark puddle and then the trail of gas leading from where he had just come.

Accepting his fate and already knowing his next steps, he shined the light to the side of the road, picking his route.

After pushing the Jeep behind a mesquite, he used a broken branch from another tree to cover his Jeep’s tracks. Packing a day’s rations, both AK’s and most of his ammo, he headed back down the road, brushing away the Jeep’s trail, making it difficult for anyone to find where he had pulled off the road.

Stooped over, he drifted to the other side, erasing his footsteps as he walked. Then, he carefully stepped on rocks to mask his prints, still leaving enough signs to throw off someone if they attempted to track him. Finally, after back tracking about a mile, he crossed the road again, brushing away his new tracks and tossed the branch into the desert scrub on the side of the road. Standing straight up, he focused on a small peak for bearing, and headed roughly east by northeast. With any luck, he would be at his ranch before sunrise.

~~~

“El Patrón, how do you know he will be here?” whispered Jorge’s most senior man beside him. As Jorge was grooming Jeledro Montoya to a higher position in the organization, or what’s left of it, he was the only subordinate who could have asked such a direct question. Anyone else would be killed on the spot for such insubordination.

“Señor Montoya. That is a good question. Normally, I would have you search the clues and follow them. That means, we should have split up, and held half back here and the other half following Señor Max’s Jeep trail, which should remain pretty fresh for a while since there has been no vehicle traffic for a month now. However, I have a feeling after knowing this man; he will pick up more supplies here. And because I also know his skills, I wanted as many men here as possible.”

A whistle from southwest of where they knelt told them that someone was approaching. Most of the men were quiet, watching and waiting for their target to fall into their trap.

~~~

Max did not want to come back to the ranch. It was a bad idea since it was the logical place for El Gordo’s men to go if any had made it out alive. He held out hope that without vehicles, their walk would have taken them longer to get there than it had taken him via his more circuitous route.

He could see the ranch house now. An abundance of memories came to him, and feelings of home. It would have been the perfect bug-out place, had the cartel not owned the property next door to him. There were two rivers that ran year round with trout and giant catfish. There were several herds of deer, elk and antelope that roamed year-round, all the way up to his house. He has tons of supplies… had tons of supplies, before El Gordo took most of them. Now it was just a stopping off point as his home would now be where the Kings lived.

He would pick up some of his tools, plus a new gas line to replace the one that was punctured. Then, there were two more things he needed. In his office, hidden from the world and El Gordo’s men, was his lifeline. He needed to get to this and collect some of his notes that he suspected would be important to him, the Kings, and perhaps the world. That was worth the risk… that and of course the gas line.

He stopped just before the opening to his property, knelt down and listened. If there was anyone there, he would hear them. He learned this long ago that when tracking people, you had to be patient and aware of everything around you. Always stop and listen. So, he remained motionless and listened.

Above the peak of the eastern mountains, a wisp of light was almost visible, evidence that dawn was about to start its daily push against the previous night’s green and red auroral display.

~~~

"Manuel," José whispered to his buddy, "I hear we get 5000 pesos if we get him first."

Manuel was standing beside a palo verde, waiting for their target to show himself; José was standing behind him.

“Really?" Manuel asked, his finger tightening on his rifle's trigger, less than a pound's pull away from lighting up the desert. "Who said that?"

"Uh…” he looked up to the sky to refresh his memory, “I think it was Jorge."

"Ta bueno." Manuel responded, squeezing just slightly more. His mind wondered what 5000 pesos would buy. He was oblivious to everything else around him, all his attention focused forward to where he thought Señor Max might show himself.

~~~

Max stayed in a kneeling position, unmoving. It didn’t take long to know what he was up against. He heard two just to the right of him, whispering in Spanish about the bounty offered on getting him first. Before this, he heard three others at his nine o'clock rustling, as if they were too anxious to remember there might be an enemy out here. Then there was someone just to his left, moving. And, there were a couple of men around his one o'clock, standing—their outlines obvious--but quiet. Finally, he heard two more men trying to get on the roof. That meant a total of at least ten. He had to get into his house and lure them in, where he could take them out one-by-one. But how do I get in without getting shot?

The one man just to his left was moving his way, taking controlled, but noisy steps. It was then that Max came up with a plan.

~~~

Manuel couldn't stand the wait any longer, and now his eyes were playing tricks on him as every shadow seemed to be this Señor Max. He almost fired twice, but he held back.

“Where the hell is this bendejo?” he mouthed in a muffled voice just above a whisper, not to José but to himself.

Just then, they heard a single shot and a muffled scream, immediately to their left.

"There!" yelled José.

Manuel turned and saw a man running towards the far left side of the house, a sort of muted screech trailing behind him. He stood and then pulled the remaining half pound and let loose all thirty rounds, bringing his arch around towards the running figure. He wanted to make sure that he was the one who got ‘em. He did.

Other shots rang out, and almost immediately a sharp point to Manuel’s chest punched him backward and he was on his back, dying. He turned his head slightly and saw that his friend José was beside him, eyes glassed-over and permanently staring at the heavens.

Movement pulled his fading gaze; Manuel’s eyes followed another figure swiftly approaching. This figure pointed a rifle above him and fired two shots, and then raced into the open where he ran toward the house. He could see now, it was Señor Max. But then who did he just shoot?

~~~

Jorge knew most of El Gordo's men were estúpido, but he cringed when he saw they had set themselves up in a crossfire and then proceeded to shoot each other for fear of missing Señor Max.

A figure leapt out of the darkness and rushed the house. This time, it wasn’t a decoy… It’s him! Jorge fired, but Max was out of sight and in the house before he could get a bead on him.

"Come on," he yelled to Jeledro. "He's in the house."

~~~

The plan worked perfectly. Max had thrown a blindfold over the man he had captured, fired a shot into the man's hand, making sure he couldn't fire back, and told him to scream and run or he’d shoot him dead right there. He then worked his way around the side of his house.

El Gordo's men fired into each other, all far too trigger happy to check what they were shooting at.

Using the diversion, Max fired upon and hit the two on the roof, purposefully making sure his shots came from the location of two already shot in the crossfire. He then slipped into his house through the back door, only attracting the gunfire of one man. It was probably Jorge, who he didn't think would be fooled by his trick.

Racing inside, Max set up behind a kitchen counter he had long ago fortified for just such an occasion. The hallway leading to the kitchen area was long and unobstructed, a locked door providing the only means of escape once they started down it. All the other outside entrances were reinforced and made difficult to open. They would have to come through the only open door and then through this dark hallway. It would be a kill zone. He quietly pulled out his partially spent magazine and slid a new one in until it clicked into place, all without averting his steady gaze from the hallway. He pulled the bolt back, chambering a round just to be sure it was ready. He waited and listened.

~~~

It was completely dark inside, though it seemed like the hallway opened into a larger expanse. A few pin pricks of green light from Los Diablos de Verde shot through the vertical blinds, but were too weak to pierce the room’s blackness. It was as quiet as a tomb, until they heard the unmistakable click of a round being chambered. Jorge immediately knew then they had made a mistake following their prey into his own home. Señor Max had them right where he wanted them. Jorge’s only hope was to draw him out. He pushed Jeledro in front of him, whispering in his ear, "Shoot anything that moves."

Jeledro obliged his boss and grudgingly lumbered forward. He could see the area before him was some sort of lounge and kitchen area combination. His eyes fought with the dark to make out the many shapes that formed in the murkiness; Señor Max was probably one of them.

Jorge held back a few yards, and then slowly followed, his gun leading, patiently waiting for their target to reveal his hiding place.

~~~

The tentative shuffle of a man's shoes on the tile floor told Max someone was coming. He heard softer footsteps behind the first set—that was Jorge. The first set was probably those of an underling, offered up like a lamb for slaughter. Yet Max knew once he took a shot, Jorge would have his location and the element of surprise would be lost.

Working alongside Jorge the past few days, he found him to be shrewd and calculating. In some ways Jorge reminded Max of himself. They were about the same age and both had military experience. Jorge was also one of the few of El Gordo's men who had compassion. No one would consider him a kind soul; he was still a killer. But, he never killed for sport, a rarity among murderers born of this new world. Jorge would only attempt to take a life when it was necessary, like he would try now. More importantly, he knew Jorge would not stop until one of them was dead.

Max would have to draw the first man and then Jorge into the lounge. Yet, that meant both would have to walk past him and there was just enough light creeping in from the outside to make him visible. He could try to shoot both of them almost instantaneously, but this was a precision made nearly impossible by the heavier veil of darkness the hallway provided his enemy.

An idea leapt into his mind, and just as quickly, Max reached up feeling along the top of the counter and found what he needed.

~~~

Jeledro walked past the kitchen entrance, first cocking his head around the corner, anticipating Señor Max's blast. But it never came, because he was not there. Next was the half wall of a counter top; it was a perfect hiding place. Jeledro reasoned he could spray the whole area and he might get lucky; more likely, Señor Max would anticipate this and get him from somewhere else.

He was hit with a momentary bolt of heroism and thought he might rush into the area and draw gunfire. He probably would be killed, but El Petron would get Señor Max good. Then, Jeledro’s much greater instinct for self-preservation took over. He pushed himself forward, in a semi-crouched position, his rifle leading, as if it were a Señor Max detector, praying it would find him before Jeledro heard the first shot. His finger tightened around the trigger, but he resisted the urge of squeezing it. He would hold off, in case Señor Max lay in waiting.

He slid past the counter, opening his eyes wider in an attempt to see through the room’s dark-green gloom. An eruption of light from an overhead light blinded him. Looking down, he squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them again. Looking ahead, white spots danced in a thicker darkness surrounding him. He sensed some movement and felt a sharp pain in his neck. His eyes bulged and his mouth opened, but no words came out. Señor Max's expressionless white whiskers and greenish eyes stared at him. It was the devil himself about to welcome Jeledro to his new home. Jeledro’s eyes drifted downward and he could see a large knife being pulled out of his neck. Already weak, he attempted to scream, only expelling a gurgling sound. He felt the warmth of life leak out between his fingers, involuntarily clutching at his neck to stem the flow. He closed his eyes once more, this time for good.

~~~

Jorge could see Jeledro had stopped immediately past a countertop. He was staring and mouthing silent words at something. Jorge’s plan may have worked. If that was Max, he had him. When Jeledro slumped forward, Jorge unleased his dogs-of-war. He fired into Jeledro and swept right, racking the whole area where he knew Señor Max would be. The rifle’s explosive sounds stopped, his finger still clutching the trigger. He looked down for just a moment to load another magazine, fumbling at first, and then gilding it home. He had already started his march forward, expecting to see Señor Max on the floor, dead or dying. But, before he could pass over Jeledro's dead body and chamber the new round, Señor Max's head, shoulders, and then rifle popped over the counter. A flash of light and the sound of a single shot told him he was beat. He barely felt the bullet, expecting to be punched. Instead, it was like a small needle, injecting a numbing drug. The warmth spread out from his chest and traveled throughout his body.

As a sign of respect, Señor Max saluted him, his left hand—palm down—going to his chest, all the while his right hand held the gun on him. Jorge tried to do the same and signal back to this excellent opponent, but he couldn't lift it--the numbing now settling below his waist. His lip curled slightly and he fell to the floor, dead.

3.

Phone Home

There was no time to waste. Max needed to assemble his supplies and get back to his Jeep. But first he had to attend to his office. Ever since the Event, he had been unable to enter this room alone as he was always shadowed by one of El Gordo's men. Turns out El Gordo was right not to trust him.

He unlocked the door and found the room to be just as he had left it. Although El Gordo's men had seen his office, its papers, books and furniture held no interest to them. Ironically, within its oak paneled walls, bookshelves, cabinets, and the seemingly random mass of papers, were secrets and plans that would affect the whole world and possibly even determine whether or not humanity would lose its battle with the sun.

He sat down in his great grandfather’s creaky wood office chair facing his desk and spun around to a locked cabinet panel. Gliding his key into the lock and turning it with a click, he slid the cabinet door sideways into another cabinet. The space was completely empty, except for an older-looking, cream-colored office phone. It had six clear plastic buttons to the right of a keypad and to the right of that, a cradle that balanced the handset. It was the kind of artifact you might see in an executive's office in the late ‘70s. He lifted the handset and placed it against his ear as if he expected to hear something. Then he pressed the first button, which immediately flashed red. A dial tone told him the line still worked, followed by a click-click and then it rang. A voice on the other end immediately answered, "Mr. Thompson, is that you?"

"Johnson. Hello! Very glad you made it," Max responded enthusiastically.

"Everyone will be glad to hear that you're safe too. When should we expect you?"

"That depends on a few things-"

-another click-click sound made Max stop. "Are you still there?"

"Yes, sir. That sounded like it may have been on your end."

"This line may not be secure," Max reasoned out loud. He remembered the clicking sound of a bug when engaged on an analog line.

"Who the hell...” Johnson stopped, realizing the implications of this. “Who else could be listening? There is no one else out there with any technological capabilities. That is except us, and the others."

He was right of course. Who else could it be? Unless... He glared at the rolled up plans on the long drafting table and thought for a moment. Stop being so paranoid, he chided himself.

"Mr. Thompson?

"Sorry. Not to worry Johnson. To answer your question, I have to pick up some friends and then I plan to head that way. But, that could take days or weeks... or even months. How's everything there?"

"Well that's the thing; very few of the scientists made it here. We’re a little puzzled where they are. We expected maybe a quarter to not make it, but we've only had ten total show up."

"What? Are the roads blocked? Any problems with outsiders?"

"I don’t know about the roads, but in fact, we've had quite a few uninvited people show up at our gates. And many have said they were told we would offer them sanctuary."

"Where in God's name did they get that idea: The place is supposed to be a bloody secret!" Max fell back into his chair, the telephone cord being stretched to its limits, along with his patience. For a plan that had been over a hundred years in the making, this one didn't seem to be coming together very well.

"Is the facility at least secure?"

"Oh yes, we can hold back whatever is thrown our way."

"Those who made it, have they figured out what is causing the deterioration of our magnetosphere and come up with any solutions?"

"So far, no. We have one guy, Dr. Merriweather, who’s brilliant. He has some theories, but there are no solutions thus far."

"Fine, well, we all knew when this might happen that it might take a few years to sort things out. We just didn't think it would be this bad, and seemingly permanent."

"No we didn’t."

"Listen, Johnson, I need to go. Please tell Preston and the others I'm all right and I’ll make it there as soon I’m able, even if it takes several months before I do. I suspect travel will slow."

"I will Mr. Thompson. Thank you for your concerns. Again, it's damn good to hear your voice. We'll look forward to seeing you soon. God's speed."

"You too."

~~~

Lunder removed his hand from covering the mouth piece and placed the phone back onto its cradle, softly pressing the line button to make sure they were no longer connected. Finally, he turned off the intercom’s speaker, silencing the crackle of static.

"So, our infamous Maxwell Thompson is still alive," said the man standing beside his desk.

"And they suspect someone else is listening to them," Lunder added.

"I wouldn't let that worry you. Thompson’s a bit paranoid from what I’ve read. More interesting is their confirmation that our plans have worked well and they still don't know anything about our existence."

"Yes, that is good news."

"Good work Lunder. I’m glad I hadn’t left before the call came through."

"Thank you, Senator Westerling. I'll let you know if any other chatter comes on Cicada's line."

"You do that," Westerling said, while blowing out a puff from his freshly lit Cuban. Then leaving Lunder at his desk, he closed the office door. The door’s placard read, "Lunder Gufstafson, Security Director BIOS2.”

~~~

It took Max less than an hour to grab all the items he needed, including what he thought might be the most important notes from his office. He dragged the two bodies outside and left them by the others. The coyotes and mountain lions would take care of the rest. Nature’s perfect garbage disposal system.

Just after closing the door, he regarded the house one last time, knowing it would probably be his last time here. He hesitated with his key, unsure if he should lock it; perhaps someone else would find his ranch to be the refuge he had hoped it to be. Waffling back and forth, he decided to leave it unlocked. There was still enough food and supplies, even after what El Gordo took, to feed a dozen or so people for a few months. If someone wondered in, it would be providence.

The trip back to his Jeep was simplified now by the ‘68 truck Jorge had left him. In the excess heat of the day, he replaced the Jeep’s fuel line, filled up the tank and started it right up.

He only made it three more kilometers before he was stopped again.

4.

Magdalena

Magdalena Garcia ran as fast as her size six feet would take her, but with a full pack of supplies weighing her down, they were gaining on her fast. She cursed herself for being so slight in body size: had she more weight, she might be able to make a stand. She cursed herself for not being more careful when she had grabbed the supplies from what she thought was an abandoned house. While she was at it, she also cursed herself for stopping to help those people, to whom she had now committed herself. But that wasn’t true: she couldn't have just left these people, most of them older and unable to fend for themselves. If she was able to get out of this, she would leave them these supplies before moving on. After all, she had a greater purpose, or so she thought.

Only a few days ago, she had solved the puzzle that had stumped all her hacker friends on the Darknet. The last piece was so simple, and when she entered it, there was no fanfare for coming up with the solution. Just a simple message, "You have answered correctly. Join us and solve puzzles that may save the world." It was signed, "Cicada." Below the message were GPS coordinates. When she plugged them into Google Maps, it showed a large white structure, surrounded by an enormous wall in the middle of nowhere, south of Boulder, Colorado.

There was no pledge of money or a great prize, just the arcane promise of solving "puzzles that may save the world." She held out hope that this Cicada thing was some secret American government project looking for smart people to do something meaningful and positive for the world. It certainly sounded better than helping older customers figure out how to set up computers they had just bought from their local Elektra superstore. So, Magdalena decided to do the one thing many others from her country had tried to do. The one she had sworn to never lower herself to: She was going to cross the American/Mexican border illegally. Then, she would head to Cicada.

She had started the drive from Mexico City in her dented 2002 Ford Fiesta, heading north. One day later, the world ended. And like so many others, she didn't realize this. Her car just stopped in the middle of the hot desert. The battery appeared dead, obviously spending too many tortured years in her car. Then there was her phone: it wouldn't work either. She assumed she had forgotten to recharge it, not having noticed it ran out of juice, though she doubted there was any cell service in this part of Mexico. She would have to walk and thumb the remaining hundred to two hundred kilometers to the border, catching a bus the final distance to Colorado.

She reasoned she would have no problem fitting in, as she spoke English fluently and many people said she was pretty, though she never felt as much. And unlike so many other illegals, she had some money saved up over the years from many odd jobs. What she didn't know is that the entire world had just stopped and her money and talent for computers were completely worthless, except at her destination.

While walking, she came across a rag-tag group of stragglers on the road, trudging towards someplace even they didn't know. They had been forced out of their homes by a gang from the local cartel that had also burned down their whole town, stole their supplies, and murdered many of their people. Some of their group could barely walk. Magdalena figured that God had meant for her to be here at this place and time to help these people. Her trip would just have to be delayed a little longer.

After a few hours, they had found a seemingly unoccupied house. Further examination found it's owners murdered and left like refuse. They buried the dead and then tried to find food. She had only brought a couple of days of supplies with her, figuring fast food would fill her most of the time. I would kill for a cheeseburger!

Because most of the food had already been plundered from the house they had found, she volunteered to help them search for food from neighbors or a nearby town. Surely someone would help these people. That’s when she had found what she thought was an abandoned home and the two men now chasing her.

She was running out of breath and could feel them closing in. There was no way she was going to be able to evade them wearing this giant pack. She reasoned she had two choices: leave the pack and run faster or stand and fight. If she left the pack, which had not only the supplies she needed, but the supplies her new friends needed, many would probably die. It also had her map to Cicada and notes and there was no time to dig them out. Dammit! She had to stand and fight.

She would probably be no match for these two men who were much larger than her. She had taken some kickboxing classes for exercise, but mostly because the instructor, Miguel was so cute. Her only fights were a couple of fist fights as a little girl; she was raised by her papa as a tomboy, but certainly received no useful skills like defending one’s self against two large men. She might get lucky if she played it smart and these two were as dumb as she hoped. While deftly navigating her way around the lethal arms of several saguaro and organ pipe cacti, she reached into the side pocket of her backpack and grabbed her only weapon: a small knife she kept for carving apples. Past a mesquite tree, there was an opening and a sandy road. She would make her stand there. She stopped and turned to face the two, just as they were almost upon her.

Her aggressive action stopped them, but their cockiness and machismo propelled them forward again.

The big ugly one spoke first, "Hey chicka. Whatcha gonna do with dat little knife?" He continued lumbering forward, but she held her ground, ready to strike.

An odd noise stopped the two men cold and they both stared at the approaching sound behind her. In a world where magical auroras and death were a daily occurrence, this was completely unexpected.

~~~

Max had barely accelerated, filled with an all-consuming desire to put as much distance between him and this part of Mexico as possible, when he was forced to hit the Jeep's brakes hard. A young woman with black hair tied up in a ponytail and a backpack practically bursting, raced into the middle of the road and stopped abruptly, dropping her pack and standing with a knife pointed aggressively towards some unseen antagonist. Then, two men, who looked like they were part of El Gordo's gang, emerged onto the road and appeared to taunt her; obviously they were the reason for her aggressive stance.  When Max stopped, the two men stared at him; probably from the shock of seeing a working vehicle.

Max's first thought was, "you've got to be kidding me!" If he believed in something as silly as karma, he would have had to belief that the universe was against him, as if the "universe" was some omniscient person that held past grievances against him. But it felt as if he couldn't leave this place: one thing after another was keeping him here.

He could just drive around them and keep on going, but he knew that wasn't going to happen. He wasn't built that way. When someone needed help, he had to help. It was in his DNA.

The woman finally turned and stared at him with dark probing eyes, her mind twisting over the possibilities of his presence and her own options. She must have thought he was one of them, because she quickly sprinted to the other side of the road and disappeared, leaving her giant backpack behind. The two men didn't hesitate and took after her. All seemed to ignore Max.

Now what? He waited a grand total of one second before he hit the gas pedal and drove into a side area covered by the canopy of a mesquite tree, partially camouflaging his Jeep and supplies. Although anyone with moderate tracking skills could find his Jeep pretty easily, he just didn't want it to be obvious. Grabbing an AK, he followed in their direction.

He must have been right behind them because he heard her scream very loudly: he found the desert makes a habit of eating the sounds around it, suppressing them so that they don’t carry very far. And there they were. She was cornered, her back to a few spiny cacti. She screamed again upon seeing Max’s approach behind the two men who hadn’t noticed him yet.

Their eyes locked and right then something hit Max. A strange feeling he couldn't quite place. A slight smile curled upon her lips. And then for a quick moment, he remembered another part of his life that he had tried desperately to forget. Images and feelings of another place erupted.

This beautiful young woman with a dark complexion, luxurious eyes and wry smile, here in the middle of the Mexican desert, looked exactly like his one true love, Fatima.

~~~

Desert Storm was over and he was back in the region to aid those who had been through combat trauma before returning them back to The States and to a life of “normalcy”; to safely fit in with regular people after taking others’ lives. He was an Army chaplain back then: after his experience in Basra, he had sought solace in the one dependable thing in his life, God. First, it was his ordination, next was a crash course on dealing with post-traumatic stress disorder, and then Max was back in Kuwait helping to set up the forerunner to the Third Location Decompression program.  It was Max’s way of once again helping those like him to cope with life after being on the battlefield. Unfortunately for Max, he bottled up his own wounds, keeping his skeletons locked away. He effectively dispensed God’s Word and helpful advice to others, but rarely applied it to himself.

Unable to cope with his own battle scars, after each day of helping his fellow comrades-in-arms, he would go drink. This was not an easy task in the dry, ultra-conservative, Muslim country of Kuwait. Off base, at a place that catered to foreigners and a few expats, some of whom worked on the container ships, Max found what he needed.

It was sort of a local tavern--more of a small shack--that served homemade rot-gut, distilled out of cacti and probably other ingredients he surely didn't want to know. Max played a drinking game involving dominoes with a few of the Americans and foreigners who frequented the place. Loser of each round had to throw more money in the pot and drink some more jet fuel. This game and drinking were among the few skills Max never excelled at and likely never would. One night during a marathon game, he passed out while standing up, striking his head on the game table and sending the dominoes flying. It was the only severe battle injury he sustained so far in the war. When he woke up, he was in what felt like a hospital bed, with an angel looking down at him. Her eyes spoke of both compassion and scorn, at the same time.

~~~

Max jumped as he realized he was daydreaming and one of the two men was coming at him with a knife. In a move that now seemed to have become second nature to Max, he swung the AK around and squeezed the trigger, just quickly enough to dispatch the man with the knife and the other right behind him.

Magdalena ran to Max, a fusillade of tears and Spanish thanking him for vanquishing her enemies. She was just like Fatima. Yet that was a different time and he was now a lot older.

When she finally stopped, Max checked the bodies of the two men and confirmed what he already knew. They were remnants of El Gordo's gang; the crude tattoos of a lion and a dagger, the mark of their cartel, were etched on each of their shoulders.

She watched him and then questioned, "Friends of yours?" she asked in English, as he looked more gringo than cartel in spite of his rough appearance.

"No. They were part of a cartel near here. Most of them are dead now, so I doubt you'll see any of them again."

"You seem pretty sure, as if you were the reason most of them are dead… Who are you?"

That same scornful tone as Fatima too, Max thought to himself, not answering her. "Where do you come from?" he asked her, after shifting the AK to his back.

She didn't answer his question either. Instead, she turned and headed back to the road, he assumed to pick up her backpack. He followed her and watched as she did so. But rather than sling it over her back, she carried it like a canvas bag, and continued walking, approaching the Jeep. Without missing a beat, she opened the door and hoisted herself into the passenger side and slammed the door shut.

"You'll give me a ride, won't you?" she asked rhetorically, watching him regard her from the driver’s side doorway.

He couldn't hold back the smile creeping onto his face. If only I was younger and didn't have to make it back to Rocky Point. He mounted the other side, unslung his AK, placed it between them and brought his Jeep back to life. "What's your name and where are we going?"

"Magdalena. You're taking me to a house full of people who are waiting on me for food and medicine."

Also just like Fatima.

"And you?" she asked still looking at him; or was it through him? Her voice raised to be heard over the engine and the loud whoosh of the air rushing through the Jeep's open cockpit.

"Me, what?"

"What's your name and where were you going... you know, before you stopped to help me?"

"Oh, sorry." Why was he apologizing to her? "My name is Max, and after I drop you off, I'm headed to Puerto Penasco to help some friends. Tell me about these people you are bringing supplies to. Are they your family?"

"No. I met them on the road. Some are very old. I couldn't just let them die. But, you understand that don't you? Say, why is it that no one but the cartel and you have working vehicles? I thought cars no longer worked."

"You could say I have skills," Max turned to her when he said this and smiled again.

"That's obvious. And you have the kind of skills that are perfect for this world." Magdalena said this and then stared down the road in contemplation. "So, you didn't really say why your vehicle works and others don't. Two of the people in my group said their cars also wouldn't start. What do you know that we don't?"

Max thought about what he was going to say before he said it, and figured Magdalena was safe. Maybe it's because she was so attractive and reminded him of his Fatima. "Okay, here's the deal," he said and trailed off slightly. "Our world is screwed. Massive bursts from the sun have hit earth, knocking out power and frying all electronics."

"That's why my cell phone doesn't work," she cut in.

"Exactly. My Jeep uses an old-type ignition system-"

"-you mean points."

"Yep!" Max shot a surprised look.

"My papa was a mechanic, so a little rubbed off. Hey, I think my turn off is about a mile from here."

Max nodded and continued, “Anyway, all the newer ignition systems have solid state electronics and are susceptible to the electro-magnetic pulses caused by the bursts from the sun. Most of them were fried. Without that, as you know, you cannot start a vehicle, which is why most are dead. Mine and other older vehicles will start."

"Okay, so what's with the metal on the front hood?" She asked pointing to the wire mesh recently welded to the front and sides of the vehicle.

"Unfortunately, this wasn't a one-time event. It continues to hit us daily; look no further than the auroras each evening. Besides electrical systems, anything conductive can cause electrical shock. This old Jeep is all metal, so we are libel to get a jolt just standing near it. But, a wire mesh, like the one surrounding this Jeep, disperses electrical discharges along the mesh, thus reducing or minimizing the potential for shock."

"Ohhh," she said, but she seemed disinterested.

Max couldn't help but stare at her face: the soft lines that probably hadn’t seen twenty yet, the prominent nose, also similar to Fatima's. It was uncanny. Then those images and emotions flooded back again.

~~~

It was the mental picture of her standing over him the first time they had met that always came to mind: he was in a hospital bed, nursing a bad hangover, a severe concussion, and nasty divot in his head. And there she was, scornfully looking at the stupid American who didn't seem to know that the foreigners were stealing his money and his pride from him every day. He didn't mind, because beneath those eyes of scorn, were pools of compassion. She really cared.

He was only there for two days, and it passed by as if it were just a few moments. Then, after his release, he returned to her clinic often to help on his time off.

She was a beautiful Iraqi Kurd, and daughter of a prominent Iraqi physician, whose family evaded Saddam's goons before they enacted his genocidal plans on the Kurds. She, like her father, had a classical medical education from Oxnard and a passion to help her people. They were part of a large migration of Kurdish people who fled from Iraq; a number that grew substantial after Saddam killed thousands of innocent Kurds with chemical weapons. Unfortunately, the Kuwaitis were not very accommodating either, often persecuting the Kurdish people or being complicit in crimes committed against them. Most of the Kurdish population living in Kuwait was forced to live in squalid conditions. Although they could have left at any time and received high-paying jobs in another country, her family chose to stay with their people and help.

Fatima was encouraged by her father and friends to leave. But she wouldn't hear of it. "This is my family, and where my family is, so will I be," she would tell them. Through his stay and then their times working together at the clinic, she actually taught Max a thing or two about honor, family and commitment. And, his heart swelled with love.

Max remained closed about his past. He wanted to keep that part of him that was scary locked away, and was fearful she would see this evil side of him. So, when she would ask him personal questions, he often turned the conversation around to get her to talk about herself, her family, or anything for that matter. He also just loved hearing her speak.

His commander gave him a lot of flexibility to spend time off base, but his commitment was still to the Army. And because of the success they were having with the rehab program, he had received orders to set up more elsewhere. Although Fatima and he had been working alongside each other for several weeks, and it was obvious that they cared for each other, they had never had a meal together or been outside of the clinic together. She had always resisted, partially in honor of her family and their customs, but also out of her fear of his leaving. He was insistent this time because he had “something important to talk to her about.” She told him that he must ask her family first, and they would come to dinner with them. While they were not strict Muslims, it was still their custom in these circumstances.

Max would never have considered marrying a Muslim woman: they believed in a God totally different than his. But his heart sang when he thought of her. And for the first time he could remember, he looked forward to the future. He had even stopped drinking.

He told her, "I will go to your father and we will go to dinner. And one day, we will marry."

They were in the doorway of her clinic when she quickly looked to her left and right and then kissed him, softly. "You do that Maxwell Thompson. And so that you won’t stress over your proposal, know that I will say, “yes."

Later that day, he headed to Fatima's father's house, where she lived as well. It was in an area where many other Kurdish refugees lived, and although his was one of the nicer homes, it would be considered a hovel by American standards. As he walked up the narrow street that led to Fatima's home, a man dressed in traditional Kurdish attire brushed past him without slowing. The man ended at the door of the same home Max was headed, near the top of this hill. When the door opened, it was Fatima who answered; her smile was warm and inviting, but it turned almost immediately to terror. The man pushed past her, ran into the house, and not a second later, the house exploded.

The force of the explosion was so great that Max, who was a hundred yards away, was driven backwards. He lifted himself to confirm what he thought he had just seen: Fatima's father's house and everyone in it were obliterated. Blood started to seep into his eye and he felt faint from the second concussion he had received in Kuwait, this one far more serious. Before he lost consciousness, he thought of Fatima's warm smile and her kiss.

Her loss was heartbreaking, and he did all that he could to push back his sadness. But he had gotten quite good at locking away skeletons into an ever growing storage closet. He resisted the pull to drink and vowed to spend the rest of his life helping the people he loved and others he didn’t. He would no longer let self-pity be a part of his life and he would absolutely not let Fatima's death be in vain.

After his tour was completed, he had focused all his attention on the Kings and Cicada.

~~~

"What?" She asked, startling him from his gaze. She probably thought he was leering at her.

"Oh, sorry. It's just that you remind me so much of someone... someone I used to know."

"Girlfriend or wife?"

"Someone I lost a long time ago." Those sad feelings threatened to fill him once again. "So, where were you headed before you decided to help the old and starving on the road?"

She threw that scornful look back at him, twisting her nose like what he said smelled bad. That must have been her way of saying, good segue buddy. She then offered nonchalantly, while staring out the windshield, "I was headed north, to a place called Cicada."

He hit the brakes so hard the Jeep slid sideways and her head whipped forward and then back.

"Chinga su madre! What's da matter wit you?" The scornful look now replaced with anger and a Mexican accent which she had been careful to hide until now.

Max just looked at her like she had just told him she was ET and asked if he had change for her to phone home.

"Say that one more time?" he asked slowly and carefully.

"What? I was headed north when all this-" she thrust her arms into the sky "-happened."

"You said a place. What was it?"

"Oh, Cicada. Yah, it's some puzzle. Some stu-"

"-Yeah I know, so you solved a Cicada puzzle?"

"You mean there's more than one? Caracoles! I thought I was one of the few."

"You are. So, you were headed to Cicada when this happened?"

"Yes, like I said. How do you know about Cicada? Are you good with computers too?"

"No, I created the puzzle and built Cicada. Let me see your pass."

She looked at him confused and then realized what he was asking for. "Oh, you mean the map," she said this while she unzipped her backpack and pulled out the two pages of the GPS map from Google Maps and the screen shot of the message that welcomed her to Cicada. "Is this what you are talking about?" She thrust them into Max's hands, hopeful this mysterious man could provide some answers to her questions about what Cicada was and what was really meant when it said she’d be helping to save the world.

Max grabbed the two pages, went back and forth looking at each, and then considered what they meant. "Was this it?"

"Jes, this was everything. Do you not think I answered the puzzle?" she asked, that tone of scorn coming back.

"No, you are exactly who we were looking for. I believe you solved the puzzle."

"Den what's wrong?"

"This is not from Cicada."

5.

Helping Hands

Max's head was swimming with questions. Someone else was pretending to be Cicada, but why? What was their purpose? Why would someone else go through all the trouble? It made no sense.

Then he thought of his conversation with Johnson. He said that many of the scientists they expected never showed up to Cicada. Further, many others who were not invited were told to seek sanctuary there. There was something afoot, but he couldn't get his mind around it.

He realized then that there was another organization out there that must have survived the Event, and they were not only aware of Cicada, they were doing what they could to keep them from their mission. Magdalena’s map would confirm this. He had to warn Cicada without tipping his hand to the other group.

"This is it," Magdalena alerted him as they pulled up to a small earthen house. A couple of heads popped up in one of its two windows and then withdrew out of site. They were obviously afraid. Had he not been prepared for this world, he would have been too.

"How many did you say you have?" he asked.

"Fifteen. There are four of us who are pretty healthy and went out to find food, while the rest stayed behind. Two are very old and very sick."

Max thought about them for a moment, not willing to share how the sickly would die, unable to get their needs met by "modern" medicine, which recently became extinct. He wondered sardonically if bleeding a patient would make a comeback.

"Well, are you coming?" she asked, already out of the Jeep and headed to the front door.

"Coming." Damn, the similarities to Fatima were just amazing. Max expected feelings of sadness to come, but this fresh spirit, in this awful world, brought him and others joy. He was going to return the favor, in spades.

~~~

"I cannot believe your generosity," Magdalena emoted, her eyes seeping with happiness. He had brought her and two others of their group to his ranch, telling them he knew were they could find lots more food. On the way, they had stopped and picked up the ‘68 Chevy truck Max had left by the side of the road to shuttle him to his Jeep earlier.

Then he revealed his plan. He would let her group stay at his ranch for as long as they liked. They would care for it, eat whatever they pleased, but they could not go inside his office. Everywhere else was fine. They could use what they needed, but his office was off limits.

"Why would you be so kind to strangers?" she asked, the other two listening.

"I told you earlier that you reminded me of someone I lost. In fact, she was going to be my wife. She taught me a lot about commitment to family and friends and even strangers. I have tried to live that way, ever since I lost her so long ago. You remind me of her in so many ways. And because of this, you have stirred feelings in me I had long since forgotten. Please don't take any of this the wrong way, I'm just thankful. I wanted to help you and your friends, who were strangers to you just days ago. And another reason, which involves you."

"What's that?" she asked, cautiously.

"First, let's go get the others and show them their new home."

After shuttling the others using the Jeep’s trailer stored in his garage, and showing them around the property inside and out, Max ushered Magdalena into his office and locked the door behind them.

"Should I be worried?" she asked with a disarming smile.

Thinking she was serious, he was about to apologize. Then his tenor softened, and he walked over to the large table in the middle of the room (where he had taken his notes and a set of rolled up plans from earlier). "Come here for a moment," he beckoned her. When she was standing over the table, her face scrunched, exaggerating expectation, but obviously interested. "This is a layout of Cicada," he said, pointing to a topographical map of the compound to which he had dedicated most of his inherited fortune and much of his post-Iraqi life.

"You mean you were serious? Cicada is yours?"

"Well the truth is my great-grandfather started this and I built it from there. It's no longer mine, it belongs to the world. It was created to help the world in the event of an apocalypse."

"Looks like we had one of those. Did you know it was going to be the sun that did us in?" She asked, again both playful and serious at the same time. So Fatima-like.

"Sort of. We believed we would have another Carrington Event..." He stopped, because he was getting a deer-in-the-headlights look from her. "Think big solar flares and lots of crap shot at us by the sun," he said, making sure she was following. "Anyway, as much as my information, from many scientists, pointed to this event coming sometime soon, we weren't entirely sure when. In the meantime, it seemed like there were plenty of other types of potential apocalypses that could happen-"

"-you mean like Darth Vader coming down and taking over?" she asked with a giggle.

"Maybe not so much Luke’s father, but earthquakes, volcanoes, asteroids, viruses, and a multitude of other potential calamities. The long and short of it is that we built a place whose sole purpose is to bring back society from the brink. The scientists called to Cicada are all specialists in their fields and the hope is that they, collectively, would find an answer."

Magdalena thought seriously, none of the playfulness she had before showing on her face now. "So, why me?"

"Well, I honestly don't know personally. I wrote the protocols that were used to choose the scientists. Other really smart people--you know, like you--created the logistics and methodologies of how to choose. I imagine because of your IT acumen, you were chosen. Regardless, I know for a fact that you are perfect and Cicada desperately needs you. Especially now."

"Why now, what's happened?"

"I don't know exactly, except a lot of the scientists didn't make it. I believe that like you, they were sent purposely incorrect information."

"Why would someone do that?"

"I don't know. I suspect to steal those same people we identified, but for their own purposes, whatever that might be."

"You mean I was headed to someplace that was going to kidnap me?"

"Yes, I believe so; which is why it is so important that we get you to the real Cicada. I asked you here so that you would understand what has happened and so that you would know what’s at stake. I also want to make sure I do everything I can to get you to Cicada as fast as possible. Here's what I am suggesting. You take one able-bodied person who could assist you with protection. And before you fight me on this, I know you can protect yourself, but I also know the roads are full of people like those two men you ran into. You need another set of eyes watching your back. If you agree, I'll give you a vehicle and supplies, including guns and a free ticket inside for you and the other person you take with you."

Magdalena thought about his proposition and then agreed.

It took longer than he thought it would to get them prepared. He fixed up an old truck he had on the ranch into a running and serviceable vehicle. Although the ‘68 Chevy left by Jorge and his group was running, it was also an unknown. So, he left it to be used by the guests at his ranch. Magdalena chose Felix as her "body guard" to accompany her on the trip to Cicada. He was the most fit, having competed in a few marathons before returning to Chihuahua to move his family to Mexico City. Of course, Los Diablos de Verde had changed everything. What took Max the most time was training Felix, Magdalena, and Frank (the leader of the group who would stay behind) on weapons. First Max made sure they were proficient and safe with their guns, and then he drilled them on the need to not hesitate when they had to shoot, always practicing different scenarios. Fortunately, Max had some additional weapons stored on the property that El Gordo's men had never found. After feeling comfortable that they had all the supplies, training, and preparations he could give them, it was time.

“You will need this,” Max handed Magdalena a letter addressed to Preston giving her and Felix his blessings, and explaining his suspicions about the fake organization stealing their scientists. “Don’t open this, but you will not be able to enter without it. So, don’t lose it.”

"I can't thank you enough," Magdalena offered accepting the note. Her face was sullen, appearing ready to burst.

"Just get there safe and fast, and do good work. With luck, I will see you again."

"Until then." She leaned over and kissed him on the check.

If only I was younger, he thought and just smiled back.

"God go with you!" She climbed into the truck and they drove off.

6.

Reunion

Max once again found himself broken down on the side of the road, although his position was much better this time: he was so close to his and the King's home in Rocky Point, he could walk. However, he felt a responsibility for trying to fix one of the few vehicles that still worked, or had worked in Mexico. He slid out of the driver's seat and popped open the hood, attempting to assess the problem. After a couple of minutes, he realized he would be here for a while.

Then it happened: he heard a most amazing noise that instantly filled him with jubilation. Not even bothering to look because he knew what he was listening to: the unmistakable throaty rumble of a 1978 Chevy Blazer. There was only one of these in all of Rocky Point, and it belonged to the Kings.

He turned to face the vehicle and couldn't hold back his delight. Tempering it only because he couldn't be absolutely sure it was them; perhaps someone stole the truck or maybe...

The familiar outlines of Bill and Lisa in the front seat confirmed it was them.

He was home.

Final Words

I hope you enjoyed this short story as my gift to you for reading my first two books. I am so grateful for your support.

I have just finished one more short story and I’m working on another. Both are set within the Stone Age world and will be released exclusively on Amazon. They will be very different than this short, but will still reveal further details about what is to come in the release of Cicada. The first one, Time Slip will be released on 3/30/15. The Stick, the next short, will be release sometime later.

You will probably ask, so when is Cicada coming? Although it will be delayed from my earlier estimates, it will be released sometime in 2015. I promise.

For more information about these and my other writings, watch your email.

Cheers,

Michael

Time Slip - A Stone Age Short is the newest short (novella size) story in theStone Age world and is scheduled for release on March 30th, 2015.  Time Slip chronicles scientist Dr. Ronald Stoneridge as he accidently discovers time travel by opening up a controlled time slip in his laboratory and then decides to use it to try and save his dying wife. Expecting to find a medical breakthrough in the future and bring it back with him, he instead finds a desolate world trying to survive a new Stone Age. Ironically, Dr. Ron must find his wife's cure before he runs out time.

Besides new revelations about the future new Stone Age, leading up to the series conclusion in Cicada(coming in 2015),Time Slip offers a new set of characters in this unique spin on time travel.

http://stoneageseries.com/short2

About ML Banner

ML Banner founded more than a dozen companies over the past thirty years, before he found his passion for writing. Quite by accident after reading about solar flares, he searched for a fictional book on the subject that was also strong on science. It didn’t exist, so he wrote STONE AGE (the prequel to DESOLATION), which became a #1 Best Seller (in Post-Apocalyptic & Dystopian Fiction) in only three weeks. DESOLATION (also a #1 Best Seller in both genres) and Time Slip are his newest installments to the Stone Age World.

He and his wife split their time between Tucson, Arizona and Rocky Point, Mexico. If he is not penning his next novel or short story in apocalyptic fiction, you might find him on the beach reading a Kindle, with his toes in the water (the name of his publishing company).

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