M. Banner - Stone Age

“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.

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.”

Carrington was shocked that there was no review by some committee first. He expected a delay of at least a few minutes. While those that oversaw the money made a decision that could affect the human race. Just like that, Carrington put the wheels into motion. He clicked on the “CLICK HERE” link, which opened the following message onto his screen:

Attention! The Cicada Protocol has been initiated. You are to report immediately to The Cicada Project. The time is at hand. Your instructions have been sent to your desktop, ready to be opened and then printed. This message, your instructions, and your computer’s hard-drive will be destroyed within 15 minutes, enough time to sort out your affairs. Do not forward this message to anyone. We will be monitoring your computer and methods of communication.

Do not take anyone with you except your immediate family. Unfortunately, space is limited.

If you deviate from your instructions, you will be turned away from The Cicada Project.

We offer our prayers and thanks to you and your family for your commitment and for your safe travels here.

Cicada 3301

First checking his watch, Carrington did as instructed and opened the pdf that pulsated on his desktop and printed the three pages of instructions. Making sure that he had everything, he then opened up his bulk mail program for CMERI.

He quickly typed out his last bulletin. Doing a rapid review and correcting only one typo, he hit the “Send” button, broadcasting the bulletin only via email, afraid he would run out of time if he attempted to also post it to their website. The 24,000 people who subscribed to CMERI’s email bulletins would receive this. He wondered how many of those followed his directions. Six years and millions of dollars, with the main point of getting the word out, and only 24,000 people subscribed.

“So few,” he lamented out loud.

However, a few dozen of those were reporters, many of whom had already reported his dire warnings. They would certainly report this. Few would take heed to the warning reported until it was too late. Of course, it was already too late unless you were a prepper of some sort.

Or a Mormon , he chuckled at the thought.

His computer began to make a strange noise and then he smelled smoke. Turning his wrist, so that the watch his wife had given to him for their twentieth anniversary showed it was exactly fifteen minutes from when the message first appeared on his screen. He slid his rolling chair back, thinking that maybe it would explode. Instead, it sizzled and something popped in the computer case, and then the monitor went dark.

To: Maxwell Thompson