Okay, what next? He rolled over to another table further back in the warehouse, and blew the dust off an SSB receiver and fired it up. Rotating the Kenwood’s dials clockwise, his forefinger and thumb eloquently seeking out any human voice, he could find almost no commercial or ham radio stations. He expected this, since geomagnetic storms also adversely disrupted radio signals. The only somewhat discernible station was a French news broadcast. He was somewhat sure the alluring female voice said that Paris was burning, but his French was rusty and the signal was worse.
He searched his shelves for something, anything that was connected to the world. “Cell phone,” he yelped, remembering that he could connect via a Telecell data plan on his phone, which he never used because the cost seemed too expensive. It wasn’t a sense of frugality, but a sense of fairness that prevented him from using his data plan. He did not want to support a company that milked the poor people of Mexico. The end of the world was a worthy exception. He stood up from his desk and reached for his iPhone, noticing then that the phone’s light was on as if a call, email or text had recently come through. It was on the shelf above his desk so he hadn’t noticed it until now and he forgot he still had the mute switch on since El Gordo’s call a few hours ago. More importantly, it occurred to him, he hadn’t checked it since he left the WIFI signal from his ranch. He examined the screen and saw five messages:
> Email (25h ago): Cicada Protocol — Open immediately
> Email (24.5h ago): CMERI Bulletin — A Carrington Event is Coming!
> Breaking News (8h ago): Power out in New York — Fires reported
> Worldwide Alert — Killer solar storm coming (16m ago)
> Text (10m ago): Max my friend we are coming to kill you and your f…
He already read the first message on his computer, which heroically gave its own life to the Cicada cause. He wanted to read the second, third and fourth items, but then saw the last message’s urgency and clicked on it. The text read:
Max my friend we coming to kill you and your friends. We leaving in few minutes. They know you selling guns to Ochoa. Run! God be with you. Pappa.
Ten minutes ago? He grabbed a .45 Glock, one of the many weapons resting atop his workbench. Slipping the clip of the scabbard gloved to the pistol, over back of his pants, under his shirt, where the coolness of the weapon against his back provided comfort. He grabbed an extra clip, shoving it into his back pocket while he ran down the hallway, sliding in his stocking feet. Shit. No time to grab my boots. Punching the door release with his palm, he shoved it open, pivoted and then just as quickly closed it. Stopping for just a moment, thinking of one last thing he might have to do. He grabbed an empty journal book from his bookshelf and walked over carefully to his little Mexican work desk, across from the bookcase, situated so he could do work and see the ocean. Quickly, he scribbled something on the first page, closed it and placed it on top of a shelf just below the desk surface, making sure it was obvious to anyone who looked for it. Finally, he dashed over the threshold of his patio, to reconnoiter hurriedly with Bill, Lisa, and Sally before Rodrigo’s men arrived. He hit a wall of realization, momentarily stopping to assess and let his mind catch up with his eyes. There were two major problems besides their being on a drug kingpin’s hit list.
First, his backyard, patio, and pool area were a mess. Scattered among the debris of what was his tidy patio were the mostly dead carcasses of many various ocean birds. A pelican’s giant body, laid face down, with one colossal bloody wing sticking straight up and through what used to be the glass top of a metal patio table. Blood, glass, and other organic matter pooled below its frame, a memorial to an event that puzzled him. At least a dozen other dead birds lay scattered all over the patio, and another dozen or so in the pool, which had a rosy hue to it. The body of a seagull, floated, its dying twitches causing slight undulations in the pool’s water.
Second problem was that his house and patio lights were out. All should have been on right now even though it was daytime. He flipped a switch confirming there was no power, except of course in his office, which was on a different circuit.
These puzzles were for later.
He leapt into a run, mentally taking an s-shaped route around the debris. His footfalls muffled by their wet sock coverings, made plat-ploof, plat-ploof sounds as he negotiated around the obstacles, slipping slightly around each turn. Passing two stacked chairs overturned in a muddle of reddish water dripping into the pool, he heard buzzing, followed by something sharp biting his wet mop-like feet and right arm, like several pinpricks at once. He bounded past the assault, rubbing his arm, uninterrupted. Leaving wet footprints on the few dry areas of his pool decking.
A noise from the ocean drew his attention. A scream from a kayaker held her paddle up with erect arms, her body convulsing, and her hair more rigid crowned a face locked in pain. Then it hit him, electrical current.
“Lisa, move away from the electrical box!” Screaming over their walls. Lisa, turned towards the scream, her finger poised a foot from their outdoor breaker panel. A snake-like arch of current, inches away, ready to strike at its soon to be newly found ground source.
“Get the fuck back,” Max yelled this time. Lisa obliged, looking at their bushy haired friend as he cleared the coffee gate in one stride — a gold medalist making record time — running and yelling at her.
A glint of light serenaded her eyes over Max’s head. A growing whistle noise, like a train announced its arrival, coming quickly. Its silver coat reflected the sun and the greenish sparkling clouds, fragments of yesterday eve. It was a plane with a tail of black cords, trailing the corkscrewing fuselage. The whistle sound and fuselage were heralding what was now unmistakable.
“The plane is going to crash,” Lisa announced her realization, adding an exclamation mark with her extended right finger and arm, which followed the doomed aircraft’s trajectory until they both met the horizon. Her arm and finger were defeated, unable to save the plane. A bright red-orange mushroom cloud rose in the distance.
Max, now at her wing, and Lisa silent.
Then the words poured out, “Oh God. That hit the port. That could be Darla and Danny. We need…”
Max grabbed her roughly and ushered her to the patio door. “Hey. That hur…”
“Where are Bill and Sally?” interrupting.
Crossing the threshold, he demanded, “Where?”
“Did you flip the switch?” Bill was walking towards them from the kitchen, providing half the answer.
“Where’s Sally?” ignoring Bill’s question.
“I think…” Noticing his wife’s tears, “What’s wrong, honey?”
Shaking like a leaf fluttering on a tree in the wind, she was consumed by grief. “They’re all dead.” .
“Who’s dead?” Bill asked, unsure what Lisa was talking about.
Frustrated, Max yelled, “Where the fuck is Sally?”
Bill went silent, and Lisa was still sobbing, arms crossed around her chest. Both looked at their yelling friend.
“I’m here, Uncle Max. It just happened, didn’t it? We just got hit by a Carrington Flare again, didn’t we?” Sally saw her mother’s anguish and rushed over to her, Bill already there. “Mom, what’s wrong?”