Bill took aim and once again shot at the dirt in front of the first man, who was coming close to them. This time the man shot back.
Sally screamed, then Lisa. Max kept honking code and thumped the gate again.
Bill aimed and took another shot at the leader who’d shot back, and this time hit him square in the shoulder. More shots sang out. A bullet hit the back of their vehicle.
“Max, we’re sitting ducks here!” Bill flipped the switch to automatic and sprayed bullets in the group’s direction.
The gate cracked open for a minute, and then it opened just wide enough for them to drive through before it clanged shut right behind their rear bumper.
Several men with guns surrounded their truck, and everyone put their hands in the air.
“Mr. Thompson? Oh, thank God it’s you. We thought you were dead when you didn’t return after the Event.”
“Thank you, Preston,” said Max warmly, shaking his old friend’s hand. “Please meet my old friends, the Kings.”
“Gladly,” said Preston with a wide smile. “Welcome to Cicada!”
Steve and Darla stood on the rock ledge about five feet from the sand and rock floor of the oval-shaped open area they called home. Steve was holding his son and Dar had her arms around them both. They looked out admiringly at this amazing place, then at each other.
“This is home, little Toma,” Dar told her son. “This is where your father will stand up and tell stories and the whole tribe will listen with bated breath as he regales us all. Sounds like a wonderful life to me,” she said, kissing her husband.
“Me too.”
60.
The Storyteller
Stepha stood on the rock ledge that many in the community had stood on before him, to make announcements or to teach. This ledge had been carved in a time long ago, before the Event, that moment that separated the time of now from what most call the Time Before. The view from here was always magical, even after all these years. They were outside, but it felt like the large atrium of a luxury hotel still part of his memories. This oval area was perfectly enclosed by rocky cliff walls that shot upward almost thirty arm spans. Hewn into the cliff walls was a walkway that wound all the way around the oval several times to the very top of the opening, like what some in the Time Before called a corkscrew. Every few feet was an opening to a residence, almost all of these occupied by the one hundred people that made up their tribe. Many of their tribe were sitting on the walkway’s edge at various heights, their legs dangling over. Others sat on the rocky and sandy ground of the oval.
Tonight, Stepha was doing what all in his tribe loved. He was telling stories about the old world, the Time Before. He and his wife, Dar, were the oldest in the tribe and had many stories to tell. Dar was sitting next to their two sons and one daughter, and her grandchild, Gord, was attentively sitting in her lap. All the tribe loved Stepha’s stories about the Time Before when objects smaller than your hand spoke to you and you spoke back; where you would climb into a moving cave that took you to faraway places; when the people of the broken monuments ruled the earth; and when all of this went away, when the great gods of the sky took everything from the people.
Stepha thought about this time before the Event, when people would assemble at drive-ins or movie theatres and watch a movie staring up at a screen, waiting for it to entertain them. He missed those times, but he also didn’t. Back then people assembled, but not in community. No one knew anyone else staring at the screen, necessarily, and they never discussed the story with the others, only noisily talked on their phones, and texted their friends, or Facebooked their experience instead. The movies themselves didn’t provide much mental engagement either, leaving nothing to the viewer’s imagination. Now, without the electronics of old, or even many books from the old way, people relied on oral stories, where their imaginations would soar into the winds, and the story was discussed with everyone in the community. He relished these times as much as his tribe did.
When everyone was quiet, he spoke. “A time long ago”—he started each story this way—“I was called Stephen and my wife was called Darla. During that time, I operated a giant bird, which I could control and fly through the sky, faster than the birds of the sky you see today.” He then shot his arms out like wings and made engine sounds, turning his body from side to side. They loved this part. “Back then, we traveled great distances in these flying containers, flying over many tribes to get to other tribes we had never been to before. Then the gods of the sky took all of that away.” He paused and looked at the children. They stared at him with rapt expectation, knowing this story, but almost unable to wait for him to tell it. The eyes of his audience reflected the aurora light above, making it feel like there were a hundred or so pairs of soft green fireflies, flying in formation, their lights flickering with each blink.
“Grandpa, tell us about Grandma and the wars,” Gord said, barely able to contain himself. He could hear about his grandma and grandpa over and over, without ever getting bored.
61.
The Promised Land
When Gord awoke, he was assailed by the acrid smell of death, decay, and defecation. It was worse than the stench from the waste pond outside his family’s cave on even the hottest of days. His nostrils burned and his eyes watered, but he didn’t dare blink the tears away. Instead relying on his other senses, he listened carefully, unmoving so as to not draw attention to himself. Behind him were the rhythmic sounds of someone sawing through something both solid and soft and a heavy man’s foot-falls on the metal floor; each step caused the heated surface beneath him to shudder. His arms were still tightly bound at his wrists, and his legs were numb from the bindings digging into his ankles.
The footsteps dragged something heavy and dropped it directly in front of him. Therrrump.
The ground shook, and so did his insides. The smells that made his stomach turn somersaults worsened, becoming more pungent. He knew he shouldn’t look, but he had to confirm with his eyes what all his senses were telling him. He slowly ushered them open, but one held, abated by swelling and his own dried blood. Now his vision suffered the same gut-churning assault. It was a dead woman, her slack mouth wide open and her eyes devoid of all life. Her face was a mask permanently locked in a silent scream of terror and pain. She was naked, broken, certainly abused in ways he didn’t want his mind to entertain, and she had been discarded right in front of him, like useless trash.
The sawing stopped. “No, get that one: the clothed one next to the female. It’s fresher, less soiled,” said a scratchy, almost squeaky voice from behind him.
Gord kept still, feeling a chill, even though it was very hot.
“One day or two days, what’s the difference?” answered another voice right behind him, beefier but gentler. “Ohhh, you mean the one brought in today by Snort and that other bad man I don’t like.”
“That’s the one, Moby.”
Gord felt this Moby grab his feet and drag him sideways across the floor. He had to think quickly. His one eye scanned this odd rounded room with bodies everywhere and small holes in the walls filling the inside with dirty light. His chance, coming up, was a sharp piece of metal stuck up at an angle from the floor. He waited as he was pulled closer, controlling his breathing. When Moby dragged him around some other bodies and toward the side of the structure, Gord pretended to be slightly jarred and let his bound hands be pulled by the floor past his head. Reaching out, he thrust the bundle of twine around his wrists on top of the sharp piece of metal, careful not to cut his hands or wrists, and pushed down with all his might, all the while still pretending to be unconscious.