M. Banner - Stone Age

“Bueno, Señor Max. I am calling you as a favor. Rodrigo knows what is in those boxes we helped you with,” El Gordo said very cryptically knowing the Mexican government was probably listening. Max glared at the half-opened crate by the wall, while still listening. “He has control of your webcam and can see inside of your house. So-” Max jerked his head to his left, away from the phone to his largest computer screen and the webcam resting above, pointing directly at him . The light wasn’t on, but he read that once you had control of someone’s webcam, it was easy to turn the light off. “…open the box in front of the camera and be careful.”

“Chingado,” erupted the Mexican profanity from his lips before he could stop it. “Compermiso, Señor Luis. It is too late.”

“Am sorry to hear that, my friend. I must protect my investment then. Do not leave your house. I have two men in front, watching you now. I will call again soon.” With that, El Gordo hung up.

Completely unnerved, Max roughly put his phone down.

His computer yelled some sort of warning tone out to him, unlike any of its normal announcements. He shakily walked over, first grabbing the violating webcam cord and pulling it out of the computer. He focused on the screen and recognized the warning he never wanted to see. “Chingado,” he said once again, vocalizing his dread while tossing the dead webcam away from him. It skidded across the floor, coming to a rest up against the same crate of guns it was so interested in earlier.

Grabbing his mouse, he clicked the large “CLICK HERE” below the red pulsating warning, knowing what would come next. “Attention! The Cicada Protocol has been initiated…” Max dropped into his leather work chair. He had no time to lose now. He knew what the rest said. Hell, he wrote the first protocol message, and he doubted it changed that much.

But the information wasn’t for him. So, he played along and reviewed the message, opening the instructions and map and printing them. After examining both printed pages, he reached under his desk beside where his soon to be dead computer currently resided. He grabbed a satchel and placed it reverently on his desk. He blew on the top, disbursing a thin layer of dust above and behind his desk. Opening the satchel with his left hand, he reached in, grabbed the wrapped package with his right hand, and pulled it out. It looked just as he left it a few years ago. Quickly opening up the flaps of the package, he opened the book it sheltered, admiring it for just a moment, and then slipped the pages into it. He wrapped everything else up and placed it back in the satchel, leaving it there for the moment.

“Time for that Mission Impossible thing,” he announced. He reached down and yanked the cords out of the computer, and dragged the computer case to the middle of the floor, its little rubber feet trying to hold onto its position on the floor, screeching its discontent.

He opened a recently purchased MacBook Air, booted it up, opened Microsoft Word — he still never liked using Apple’s equivalent — when it was fully booted, a message he had never seen popped open. It said, “Your computer has been infected with the Zombie Computer Virus. It will now eat itself and all of your other computers…”

A smirk broke out on his lips. “Sally? Dammit. I wish I could enjoy this.” He remembered her borrowing his laptop the last time she was here at the house to install some new software she was able to get free. “Zombie virus?” He shook his head once more.

The smile ebbed as he refocused on the job at hand. Closing the window on the fake program, he chose his “From the Desk of…” template and started to write, “To my family (William, Lisa & Sally)…”

The computer in the middle of his concrete floor started to emit a hissing sound, mimicking the deflating mood he felt as he continued to write. A small cloud of smoke, no more than a puff or two from a good cigar, exhaled out of the back, signaling his trusty computer’s exit from this world.

Turning away from the show, Max finished his letter, printing it out. He re-read it to make sure it said what he wanted it to say, scratching his nickname they all used rather than his initials on the bottom — his normal method of signing to make it “official”. Then he placed the letter on top of the wrapped package, slipped both into the satchel, and then placed it in its normal resting place under the desk.

“What am I forgetting?” He asked his laptop, before closing it. He spun around in his chair 90 degrees to look out into his secret workshop, hoping something would stand out.

He stared first at his dead computer, close to a small organized pile of things he heaped onto the floor taken from other parts of the house. He hoped Bill had a similar pile in his “protected” room. A couple of Mexican cell phones, a watch, a few solid metal sculptures, his favorite alarm clock — anything with value that was electronic or had a large amount of metal or other conductive material.

“It should be anytime now.” He blew out a large breath. He felt a large weight bearing down on him. In addition to the end of the world occurring any moment, enough for anyone, he knew it was a matter of minutes or hours before one or both of the two drug lords he knew considered him too much of a liability. He just hoped that he thought through this scenario enough to protect his best friend, his family, and with a little luck, himself.

So intent was he that he didn’t even notice his muted phone was attempting to give him other warnings.

Stacy Jenkins’ face crinkled into a smile, the recognition of her phone speaking to her, alone in a sea of people at the airport. Five passengers from the next flight sat behind her at the gate’s waiting area, each engaged with their devices, while also disconnected with everyone else they were sitting with. Stacy stood outside the area in the path of hurried travelers, who breezed by her as if she didn’t exist. She watched intently for an signs of her friends.

She pulled her phone up to her face, trying to see if it was Dar calling or texting, but it was only a spam email, “You may qualify for low priced term insurance. Get a quote now before…” She ignored the rest, clicking the phone’s hibernate button. Her face and shoulders hung in disappointment.

She expectedly scanned the throngs of people coming at her from all directions. Dar texted her an hour ago saying that she was running late and they’d see her at the gate. But her subsequent texts went unanswered. She tried calling Dar too, but she never picked up. “Where are you, Dar? I need you,” she said to the crowd, who never acknowledged her pleas. The thought of flying without Dar to hold her hand brought her close to panicking. She wasn’t sure how she was going to fly, and even considered cancelling, but when Dar said she would be on the same flight, Stacy was ecstatic.

“Last call for flight three-six-three to Dallas.”

“Oh no. What am I supposed to do now? Maybe I can get a later flight.”

“Stacy Jenkins, is that you?” An out of breath but familiar voice emerged from the crowds in front of her, dragging a little boy behind.

A big grin broke out on Stacy’s lips, “Thank God.”

From a porthole, R.T. stood, arms tightly crossed, glaring at the auroras blanketing the Earth below. Those damned CMEs ruined everything, dooming his last mission in space. If it was possible to hate something inanimate and ethereal, he did. The ISS had gone dark for almost 24 hours now. He and the other astronauts onboard had tried everything they could think of to jumpstart their systems, but nothing worked. There was no help for them below, as the Earth had its own problems now. R.T. knew they were hours away from death if they did nothing further. The only unknown was whether they would freeze to death, run out of oxygen, or burn in a fire. His money was on freezing to death. For warmth, each wore every layer of clothing brought on board; perhaps four total and their suits, without helmets. Regardless, deprived of any electronics, there was no way to heat what was left of the ISS.