How should I survive the cicadapocalypse?

Two broods of periodical cicadas—Brood XIX on a 13-year cycle and Brood XIII on a 17-year cycle—are slated to emerge together in central Illinois this summer for the first time in over two centuries.

After 13 or 17 years (depending on the brood), countless inch-long adults dig themselves out in sync, crawling out of the ground en masse for a monthlong summer orgy

“Illinois is going to be ground zero. From the very top to the very bottom of the state, it’s going to be covered in cicadas.”

Entomologists around the world already have their flights booked for May. “We’re like cicada groupies,”

Cicadas are shockingly chill, protein-packed, and taste like high-end shrimp—easy, delicious prey. “Periodical cicadas are sitting ducks,” says Lill. They don’t bite, sting, or poison anyone, and they’re totally unbothered by being handled. Dogs, raccoons, birds, and other generalist predators will gorge themselves on this flying feast until they’re stuffed, and it barely makes a dent in the cicada population. It’s their secret weapon, Lill says: In the absence of other defense mechanisms, “they just overwhelm predators by their sheer abundance.”

Once mating season winds down, so does the cicada’s life. “In late summer, everybody forgets about cicadas,” Lill says. “They all die. They all rot in the ground. And then they’re gone.” By late June, there will be millions of pounds of cicadas piling up at the base of trees, decomposing. The smell, Kritsky says, “is a sentient memory you will never forget—like rancid Limburger cheese.”