Clyde was looking a little ashen. Everyone else was silent, listening intently. “This was Max at his finest,” Bill thought.
He continued the assault.
“Worse yet, I’ve only mentioned a rather common solar event that happens every two to four generations and the next one will happen during this very one, while we are alive. In fact, scientists estimate better than a fifty-percent chance it will happen before your next girlfriend’s boob job.”
Clyde just glared at him. His girlfriend, awaking from her catatonic state, realized some attention was on her, but didn’t know why.
Max, smiling continued, “But there is the potential for an event which is so much worse than this.”
“Every few thousand years or so, the Earth gets pummeled by solar super storms that are hundreds of times worse than what it experienced in 1859. We’re talking months of fire and brimstone, the likes of which the Bible talks about with the destruction of evil Sodom & Gomorrah. Know this; when that happens, your ass is toast. You will not survive.” He was speaking to all the guests now.
“But, I just may. Not because I’m smarter than any of you… aside from Clyde here.” A few chuckles erupted around the room. “It’s because I have planned for the end of the world. I’ve hedged my bets, while you, Clyde sit on your lazy butt watching MSNBC on your satellite TV, worrying about such trivial issues as what politician sex’d pictures of his lower anatomy to some young intern. I’ll be ready Clyde when our world comes to an end. What will you do?” Max ended confidently.
“Mmmm. What about all those preparations for the coming Zombie Apocalypse, Max? I seem to recall a similar tone of certainty emanating from you about five years ago. How’d that work out for you?” Clyde’s rebuttal was quick and damning, to be sure.
“Come on, Clyde, I vanna go now. Dis talk is boring,” Clyde’s very pretty Slavic sounding girlfriend said, while tugging his arm towards the door. “I vanna go dancing at On The Beach.”
“Okay, fine. Thanks, Bill and Lisa, for the wonderful party.” He leaned over to kiss Lisa.
“Bye Sally,” waving across the room to her.
“Both your women get sexier each time I see them,” to Bill while shaking his hand.
They were gone just as suddenly.
Not long after everyone left, Max did his best to stay awake while Bill & Lisa cleaned up. It would have been a good time to tell the Kings what was coming, but he was in no shape to do it now. After two days of no sleep, rigorous manual labor, worry about the end of the world, and now the alcohol from Bill’s margaritas, Max was done.
“Family, I need to call it a night,” Max said, looking somewhat pale. He arose from the loveseat in the open den and walked into the kitchen to offer his goodbyes.
“No, Uncle Max,” Sally stood up from one of the kitchen bar seats and pleaded, “You can’t go yet. I’ve been trying all night to speak to you about what you said to Mr. Clydeston, and the solar storms we’re having.”
His head felt like it was about to pop like an overripe grape in the sun. He turned to her, “I’m sorry. I’m just a little too tired right now. Let’s try tomorrow?” He gave Sally a hug and kiss on the cheek.
“Yeah, sure. Sleep well, Uncle Max,” Sally conceded, for now.
“Tired from the Clyde Clydeston throw-down?” Lisa couldn’t help but goad him a little before he left. She handed Bill the last dish to dry, both of them standing behind the kitchen island.
“Ha. That damned Clydeston is a pretentious asshole.” Max then gave his puppy dog look, “Lisa, I’m sorry if I embarrassed you. I’m just tired and shouldn’t have said what I did. Especially when it’s obvious in the coming da…” He stopped himself. “Truth is, I really hate that guy. What he needs is a good physical ass kicking, or better yet, a 50 cal round to the skull.”
Bill was imagining Max on the roof of his house taking Clyde out from a mile away, having difficulty repressing his smile.
“Max, enough,” Lisa insisted. “You never embarrass me. I just thought you were a little heavy, considering the otherwise festive occasion,” Lisa rebutted. “What did you mean when you said when it’s obvious?”
“Tomorrow. Now sleep,” Max said, kissing Lisa on the check and then hugging Max. “Thanks, Bill,” he offered upon releasing him, quietly exiting out the patio door before he said anything else he shouldn’t.
19.
Dr. Reid
His eyes were bloodshot and tear-filled from lack of sleep and from his “goodbyes” to his daughter and grandson over the phone. He knew he would never see them again, but felt a little hope that they might make it. They lived in a very rural area in France, where his son-in-law managed a four hundred year old vineyard in the Burgundy valley. They were smart and had paid attention to his warnings years ago, stocking up about four years’ worth of food and water.
His wife had long since passed, and so he had no more family about whom to worry. His concerns were broader now. They were for the human race.
Carrington reviewed his report one more time before closing it and dragging it to the secure Dropbox they gave him several years ago when he started receiving the bulk of his funding from CMERI.
He opened his wallet and pulled out a well-creased piece of paper, folded in quarters. He opened it, smoothed it out with the palm of his right hand, holding it with the forefinger and thumb of his left. Squinting to make out the somewhat faded writing, he hadn’t looked at for almost six years now. He typed in the IP address and waited for the secure website to boot.
Carrington considered his next move; the one described to him by his handler on that faithful day he accepted their money. From what he remembered, back then, less than 50 people held the same instructions he had, but none had ever used them, until now.
He typed in the password at the prompt and hit his “Enter” key.
The others like him, gladly jumped at the money, which was substantial, simply to do what they wanted to do, their own research. Additionally, they had to report their findings periodically, and most important, one of them would announce the end of the world.
Most were like him, scientists, doctors, and researchers all in fields that studied and/or prognosticated about the end of the world. He was sure there would be one or two astrophysicists who searched the heavens for Earth-bound asteroids or malevolent ET’s, or volcanologists who waited for the tell-tale sign of a new ring of fire erupting from the Earth’s fragile mantel, or surely a cacophony of microbiologists and epidemiologists watching for the newest deadly bird flu or Ebola. He tried to imagine what his fellow scientists would say when they saw it would be auroras signaling humanity’s downfall. Would they be jealous or relieved that they were not the Paul Revere of this ensuing global apocalypse?
His fingers found the keyboard and typed in what his instructions commanded. He pressed the “Enter” key once more.
A blinking light instructed, “Thank you Dr. Reid. Please submit to retinal scan.”
Carrington leaned forward to the special webcam attached to his monitor. A red light passed left to right and then up and down over his right eye, for which he concentrated on not blinking.
“Accepted,” flashed on his screen. Then, almost instantaneously, the software he, other paid prognosticators, and other benefactors of Cicada’s benevolence, had loaded on their computers, opened up a pulsating red warning screen that ordered he “CLICK HERE.”