The Doomsday Bunker

by William W. Johnstone

  For a moment, there was a bitter, sour taste under Larkin’s tongue. He had stood for Moultrie murdering those people, because he’d considered it a time of war. The survivors had wanted to break into the project and slaughter anybody they could. That was war, damn it, and Larkin would never lose a second of sleep over the men he had killed in combat.

  But what Moultrie had done was over the line, and Larkin could see now that was just the first step in the man’s descent into madness.

  He remembered reading Conrad’s Heart of Darkness many years earlier, and he had seen Apocalypse Now, as well. He was murmuring, “The horror,” when someone knocked on the door.

  Everyone in the room stiffened. Larkin swung his rifle toward the door. Trevor picked up a semi-automatic pistol from a table. Larkin motioned for him to stay beside Jill and Susan and told Bailey and Chris, “You kids go back in the bedroom.”

  Crandall had been standing guard in the corridor and Larkin hadn’t heard any shots, so he figured the man from the surface was the one who’d knocked on the door. But he didn’t take any chances, holding the rifle ready as he went to the door and swung it open.

  “You got company,” Crandall said. He stood there alertly with the deer rifle in his hands as he leaned his head toward the woman who was next to him.

  Deb Moultrie.

  “Deb,” Larkin said. “What the hell—”

  “Graham sent me to talk to you, Patrick,” she said. “Can I . . . come in?”

  “We can talk out here,” Larkin said, his voice curt. He stepped into the corridor and swung the door closed behind him. “What does he want?”

  “He’s hoping you can put an end to the trouble.”

  “Funny. I was hoping the same thing about him. I was gone less than twelve hours, Deb. What happened down here in that time?”

  Her face was pale and drawn into tight lines under the red hair, which was pulled back at the moment and fastened into a ponytail that hung halfway down her back. In a plain shirt and jeans, she didn’t look like a fashion model anymore. She said, “Graham was trying to postpone this confrontation for as long as possible, but someone—probably one of the workers in the commissary—found out about the supply situation and leaked the information to Chad Holdstock.”

  “Then it’s true?” Larkin asked tautly. “The food is running low?”

  “Dangerously low. I . . . I knew there might be a problem, but even I didn’t know how bad it really was . . .” Deb took a deep breath. “Graham wasn’t cutting corners, Patrick. I swear he wasn’t. He just didn’t have time to get as ready for the disaster as he led everyone to believe.”

  “Because that would have meant he’d failed, and he didn’t want to admit that.”

  “I don’t know what he thought, and anyway, it doesn’t really matter, does it?”

  Larkin shrugged. “I guess what’s important is that folks are going to start starving to death, unless your husband gets rid of a bunch of them.”

  Anger flashed in her eyes as she said, “It’s not like he’s going to line them up against a wall and shoot them!”

  “He will if it comes to that,” Larkin said with utter conviction that he was right about Graham Moultrie. He thought about Jim Huddleston and added, “He’s probably got enough guys backing his play to make that happen, too.”

  Deb shook her head, but Larkin could tell that she wasn’t completely convinced she was right about what her husband would or wouldn’t do. Whether she wanted to admit it or not, the fear that Larkin was right lurked within her.

  “So what does Graham want from me?” Larkin went on. “Why did he send you here?”

  “To ask you to come and talk to him. He knows you have a lot of friends here. He wants to convince you that he’s only doing what’s necessary, so that you can make everybody else understand.”

  Larkin snorted in disbelief. “I’m not going to do his dirty work for him.”

  “You can make people see that they need to negotiate, though, instead of trying to kill each other.”

  Was that really worth a try? Larkin was dubious, but he supposed anything that might prevent more bloodshed shouldn’t be ruled out.

  “All right,” he said, “but you’re coming with me. Your husband’s bunch won’t start shooting if you’re in the line of fire.”

  “He doesn’t have a bunch,” Deb snapped. “We’re all still on the same side. We’re all residents of the Hercules Project.”

  Larkin wished that were still true, but he couldn’t make himself believe it.

  Just like he hoped he was right about how having Deb with him would keep Moultrie’s men from gunning him down.

  Chapter 48

  August 21

  Susan tried to talk him out of going to parley with Moultrie. Trevor and Jill both wanted to come along. Larkin just hugged the grandkids, shook hands with Trevor, ruffled Jill’s hair like he had done when she was a little girl, and kissed his wife.

  Then he and Deb walked toward the Command Center, with Earl Crandall following and keeping an eye out behind them.

  An air of tense, hushed anticipation still hung over the project. Larkin didn’t know what was going on down in the Bullpen, but he would have been willing to bet they were nursing their wounds and trying to figure out a plan for attacking the Command Center. He wanted to head that off if he could.

  He had an ace in his hand to play. He knew that conditions on the surface were suitable for human survival, despite the hardships they would encounter. The solution seemed simple enough to him: let anyone who wanted to leave the project do so, giving them enough provisions to hold them for a while. Larkin had a hunch quite a few would choose that option. Then the ones left behind would have enough supplies to hold out for a few more months.

  Maybe by then, the ones who had left would have a settlement established somewhere west of here. They could come back for the others and lead them to their new home . . .

  Larkin was getting ahead of himself and knew it, so he shut down that line of thought. Stopping the killing here today, that was the main thing.

  The three of them went through the doors at the end of the corridor and turned toward the Command Center entrance. Several guards in red vests were posted there. Instantly, they tensed and lifted their weapons.

  “Hold your fire,” Deb called. “I’ve brought Patrick Larkin to talk, just like Graham wanted. Let him know we’re here.”

  “That’s one of those mutant survivors from the surface with him, Mrs. Moultrie,” a guard said. “We can’t risk—”

  “What the hell is it with you people and mutants?” Larkin interrupted. “This is a friend of mine, Earl Crandall. He’s as human as you or me, and he knows about conditions on the surface. I do, too. I’ve been up there, damn it. Bring Moultrie out here and I’ll tell him about it.”

  One of the guards spoke low-voiced into his walkie-talkie. He listened to the squawking response, then said, “Graham says we’re to bring you in.”

  Larkin shook his head and put his left hand on Deb’s shoulder as she started to take a step forward. He still held the AR-15 in his right. “We’re staying here,” he said. “Moultrie can come out and talk to us.”

  The guards didn’t like that. They were all men that Larkin knew, men he had worked alongside. But there was a subtle difference now, a slightly different cast to their faces. He knew that was because they had all made a decision that put them on the opposite side from him.

  Even so, he’d been right about their unwillingness to shoot as long as Deb was with him. One of them ducked back through the doors while the others continued to point their weapons toward Larkin and Crandall.

  A couple of tense minutes went by. Then the doors opened again and Graham Moultrie stepped out.

  He wore his usual friendly smile as he said, “It’s good to see you again, Patrick. I was hoping to hear your report from the surface under better circumstances, but at least we can move forward from here.”

  Moultrie sounded as affable and
reasonable as ever, but Larkin knew better now. It was a pose, pure and simple, to get what he wanted.

  “Why don’t you let Deb come back over here,” Moultrie went on, “and then you can tell me all about what you found up there.” He looked past Larkin at Crandall and added, “I see you brought a . . . souvenir.”

  “I’m no damn souvenir, mister,” Crandall snapped.

  “This is Earl Crandall,” Larkin said. “He’s the one who translated the Morse code for Nelson Ruskin. And he helped us find a tanker truck nearly full of gasoline.”

  Moultrie’s eyes widened. “That much gas? That’s wonderful. It’ll keep the generators going for a long time. Assuming you got the parts we need for them, too.”

  “Maybe,” Larkin said. “Don’t know for sure yet. But there’s a good chance of it. I’d say the generators and the life-support system are less of a problem now than the food supplies.”

  Moultrie’s expression tightened. “That’s not my fault,” he snapped. “I’ve been trying to figure out a way to fix the situation. But the only way—”

  “Is to cut down on the number of people depending on those supplies,” Larkin said. “Isn’t that right? And you’ll get rid of the extra folks any way you can, whether it’s booting them out of the project or putting them in the incinerator.”

  Moultrie took a step forward and clenched his fists. “Damn you,” he grated. “You don’t know what it’s like, having all this responsibility. Having to decide who has to die so that others can live.”

  “Having to be a god, you mean? Since this is the Hercules Project, I guess that would make you Zeus. You’re all powerful, and the rest of us are just puny mortals.”

  “If that’s what it takes!” Moultrie shouted as his control began to slip away from him. “I’ve said all along, I’ll do anything I have to in order to protect this project.”

  “Even if it means killing everybody, one by one, until you’re sitting down here by yourself, lord of all you survey.” Larkin paused. When Moultrie didn’t say anything, just stood there red-faced and glaring, Larkin went on, “Luckily, you don’t have to do that. I’ve been to the surface. People can live up there, Graham. It won’t be easy, but they can live. Let me take the ones who want to go. That’ll give you some breathing room down here and time to figure out what you want to do next.”

  That proposal sounded eminently reasonable to Larkin, but he could tell by the look on Moultrie’s face that he wasn’t going to agree. That would mean splitting up the residents, with him in charge of one group and Larkin, however reluctantly, leading the other. Moultrie wasn’t going to relinquish even that much power.

  Moultrie shook his head and said, “I’ve already announced who has to go.”

  “Some of them may not want to, and some of the folks you didn’t pick might decide they’d rather take a chance up on the surface. You have to let people decide for themselves.”

  “No!” The cords in Moultrie’s neck stood out from the vehemence of his reply. “No, I’m in charge here. I make the decisions. I created this place. I made it happen, nobody else. You’d all be dead without me!”

  “That’s true,” Larkin said, “but now it’s time to move on.”

  Moultrie shook his head. “Never!” He twisted abruptly and snatched a rifle from one of the guards. “Never!”

  “Look out!” Crandall yelled. He started to lift his deer rifle, but Deb turned and grabbed the barrel, lunging against him and forcing the weapon up. Flame spat from the barrel of the rifle Moultrie held as he sprayed shots along the foyer. Larkin heard slugs whine past his ear and threw himself forward. From the corner of his eye, he saw Deb slump against Crandall. A crimson flower bloomed on the back of her shirt.

  Then he landed on the floor and the AR-15 bucked against his shoulder as he fired. He squeezed off three rounds, saw Graham Moultrie jolted back as the shots slammed into his chest. Moultrie lived long enough to drop the rifle and gasp, “Oh, God! Deb . . .”

  Then his eyes rolled up in their sockets. He fell to his knees, swayed there for a second, and pitched forward onto the floor.

  The guards stared in disbelief. By now Deb had sagged to the floor as well. Her blood stained Crandall’s old army jacket where she had fallen against him. Crandall had his rifle pointed at the guards, and Larkin covered them with the AR-15, as well.

  One man sighed, bent over, and put his rifle on the floor. The others set their weapons aside as well.

  “I guess it’s over,” one of them said bitterly.

  “You’re wrong, hoss,” Crandall said. “I got a hunch the new world’s just getting started.”

  * * *

  It had been a showdown Patrick Larkin never wanted. But in that split second as he lined his sights on Moultrie and squeezed the trigger, he had realized that it never could have ended any other way. Everybody was the hero of his own story, Larkin had read somewhere, and he was sure Moultrie felt the same way, that he was only doing what was necessary, no matter how many people died in the process.

  Time would tell which of them was right, Larkin supposed.

  He looked around the basement at the 197 people assembled there, all of the adults and most of the kids wearing backpacks. Many of the adults were armed, as well. All of them had decided to take their chances on the surface. Everyone left down in the corridors and silos and the lower-level bunker had decided to remain. It was a free choice, influenced by no one. Larkin had made sure of that as much as he possibly could.

  He’d had a chance to take inventory of the food supplies. He had split it up, 50 percent for the people leaving the project, 50 percent for those staying behind, even though more than half of the residents were heading for the surface. Larkin was confident they would find food up there. As soon as they located a good place, they would plant crops, and they were taking along some of the rabbits and chickens, as well. There would be some lean and hungry days ahead, no doubt about that, but they would make it.

  The engineers had replaced the failing parts on the generators, and the project’s gasoline supplies had been replenished from the tanker truck. Larkin and his group would be taking the truck and the rest of its valuable cargo with them, though, because they needed gas for the older, still-working vehicles they had scavenged to make the pilgrimage westward. Right now, those vehicles were fueled up and waiting for them.

  Earl Crandall had come from a small town called Cross Plains; that would be their destination starting out. They would move on from there, if and when they needed to.

  Larkin had sent the service elevator back down once everyone was here, so he was a little surprised when he heard its door open. He turned around and saw Jim Huddleston standing there. Huddleston’s face was set in grim lines.

  “Decide to come with us, Jim?” Larkin asked.

  “You know better than that. I just wanted to tell you . . . some of the people in the group staying behind have been talking about organizing and electing a new leader. Beth wants the job.” Huddleston took a breath. “And you and I both know, when Beth wants something . . .”

  “She usually finds a way to get it.” Larkin shrugged. “If that’s what she wants, I wish her luck. She may wind up regretting it, though.”

  “I just thought you should know that if she’s running things down in the project, you and your people . . . well, you won’t be welcome back here. If you try to come back, there’s liable to be trouble.”

  “Jim, if there’s one thing I can promise you, it’s that nobody’s going to want to come back here, unless it’s to help you folks out. You’re going to have to move back to the surface eventually. If we can, we’d be glad to give you a helping hand.”

  “I guess we’ll have to wait and see when and if that day comes. Until then . . .”

  Huddleston stuck his hand out.

  Larkin hesitated; he couldn’t deny that. He didn’t like Huddleston, had very little respect for the man. But there was no point in being a jerk, either. He gripped Huddleston’s hand hard for a
second and meant it when he said, “Good luck.”

  Huddleston nodded and went back into the elevator. The door slid closed. For the brave souls here in the basement, the Hercules Project was over. They were moving on to something they hoped would be better.

  As they left, they would walk past two graves. Larkin hadn’t wanted to put Graham and Deb Moultrie into the incinerator. He and some of the others had dug the graves, fashioned markers for them. Moultrie and Deb rested on a hilltop, looking out over the project. Someday, grass and flowers would grow again on that hill, Larkin hoped. He would probably never see it, but that day would come.

  He looked around again. Susan was there, summoning up a smile. Jill, still looking a little pale from the wound she had suffered, but strong and determined anyway. Trevor and the kids, setting off into what was a vast unknown for them, but unshakable in their family bond. The widow, daughter, and son-in-law of Larkin’s old friend Adam Threadgill, reminding Larkin that he wished Adam was here to see this day. It might never have come without him, because he was the one who had told Larkin about the Hercules Project in the first place. Wade, Rodriguez, Adams, and the other men who had gone with Larkin on that first mission to the surface were here, too. Like him, they knew they could make it up there. And Earl Crandall, who would show them the way on his motorcycle, a new friend, but one of them now.

  “Patrick,” Susan said. “Look at the sky.”

  Larkin tipped his head back and gazed up through the ruined building at the thick gray clouds overhead. At first, he didn’t see what Susan was talking about, but then . . .

  There was the smallest of gaps, a tiny crack in the overcast, really, but behind it for a second, maybe two, Larkin saw a sliver of blue sky before the clouds came together again.

  That was enough to tell him it was still there. Hope was still there.

  Larkin stepped out to lead the way up the ramp into the light.