Doomsday

by David Robbins

  The speaker crackled with static. It hummed. It squawked. Suddenly a shrill voice blared.

  “Mayday! Mayday! Air Force One is going down! Repeat: Air Force One is going down! We are fifty air miles out of Colorado Springs. I can see a mushroom cloud. Our exact—”

  The transmission died.

  Carpenter turned to the tech. “Can you get that back?”

  “I’m trying. Hold on, sir.”

  “Call me Kurt, Miriem. No one is to call me sir. We’re a Family, not the army or navy.”

  “There’s nothing, si—Kurt.”

  “On that channel?”

  “On any of the channels.”

  “Switch back to the civilian bands, then. Radio will do. AM or FM, it doesn’t matter.”

  “You don’t understand. There’s nothing at all. Anywhere. No AM No FM. No military. No satellite. It’s all gone.”

  “I was afraid of this.”

  Miriem tweaked knobs, flipped switches and pressed buttons. “There should be something. All I get is silence. Everywhere. As if the whole world has been wiped out.”

  “You can stop trying,” Carpenter advised. “Saturation has occurred.”

  “What?” Diana asked.

  “You’re familiar with the EMP effect? Yes. Well, most studies dealt with the effect of a single strategic nuclear blast. Few delved into the repercussions of ten warheads going off at about the same time. Or fifty. Or a hundred. But one study I saw did just that. The scientist who wrote it hypothesized a saturation effect, where so many nukes go off that nothing gets through.”

  “How long will it last?”

  “No telling. It could be months or even years.” Carpenter sat back. “We’re completely cut off from the outside world.”

  “God help us,” Becca Levy said.

  Brave New World

  They stayed in the bunker for thirty days and thirty nights. They could have stayed longer. They were stocked with enough food and water and other supplies to sustain themselves for years.

  Based on the compound’s location and prevailing winds, the experts Carpenter had consulted determined that little fallout from U.S. targets would reach them. And since radiation decayed exponentially, those same experts concluded that it would be safe for Carpenter and his followers to emerge from their reinforced bunkers three to five weeks after the war ended.

  Carpenter wanted to be the first one out, but Patrick Slayne wouldn’t hear of it. “I’m chief of security so the risk is rightfully mine. Besides, we can’t afford to lose you. You built this place. You got all these people together. They look up to you. If you die it would devastate them.”

  Diana Trevor agreed. “Like it or not, Patrick is right. You’re the leader. As much as you might want to, you can’t take unnecessary risks.”

  Reluctantly, Carpenter gave in.

  Slayne donned a type of hazmat suit used by the military. Known as an NBC suit—or Nuclear, Biological, Chemical suit—it was hard for civilians to obtain. Slayne’s status as CEO of Tekco had overcome that hurdle. The suit was fully sealed and had radiation shielding. It was a Level A, which meant it closed the wearer off completely from the outside world. To breathe, Slayne relied on a respirator strapped to his back.

  Slayne picked up a Geiger counter. While some models measured gamma and beta radiation, this one also measured alpha. The sensor was the most sensitive on the market.

  Slayne nodded at the others and climbed the ladder to the trapdoor that separated the underground levels from the upper levels. He went to the airlock, went through the inner door, and closed it behind him. He worked the wheel to the outer door and pushed. The heavy door swung easily on recessed pivots. Through his faceplate, he glimpsed the high walls and the moat.

  The Com link buzzed and Carpenter’s voice blared in his ears. “Are you outside yet? What do you see?”

  “I’m tying my shoes,” Slayne quipped. “And don’t shout. I can hear you just fine.”

  “Sorry. I’m a little nervous. I don’t want anything to happen to you, Patrick. I rely on you more than you realize.”

  “You’d do just fine without me.” Slayne meant it. One of the things that had impressed him when he first met Carpenter was the man’s attention to detail.

  Nothing, no matter how trivial, escaped him. Even on subjects he knew little about, he intuitively asked questions that brought out the most pertinent information.

  “Don’t even joke about a thing like that.”

  “Quiet now. I’m going out. I’ll contact you when I have something to report.”

  Slayne pushed the door all the way open and strode outside. A gust buffeted him. The sky was strange, gray instead of blue with periodic flashes of light. It lent a preternatural twilight to everything. All else appeared normal. Kneeling, he ran his gloved fingers through the grass but found no dust from fallout.

  The Geiger chirped when Slayne turned it on. He adjusted it for maximum gain and began his sweeps, keeping a close eye on the meter. He went all the way to the moat. The readings were only slightly higher than normal, interrupted here and there by a random spike from a hot particle brought in by the wind.

  Slayne climbed the steps over the moat to the rampart on the west wall. Woodland stretched for as far as the eye could see. Undisturbed, pristine, serene.

  Looking at it, one would never guess that a month ago the world had been in the grip of all-out war. He was about to climb back down when he gave a start and faced the woods. He tapped his helmet to be sure his pickup was working properly. It was.

  There was no sound. The wind had died, and the woods were utterly silent.

  Slayne boosted the volume to max. Still nothing, save an eerie, somber stillness. It was if he were listening to a dead world. An earth stripped of life and left empty.

  Again Slayne went to descend. But at the edge of his faceplate he caught a movement on a low rise to the southeast. A dark silhouette was framed against the gray sky. All Slayne could tell was that the figure had two legs.

  He raised his left arm and waved, but the figure didn’t wave back. It just stood there a bit longer, then melted into the trees.

  His helmet crackled.

  “Damn it, Patrick. How long are you going to keep me waiting? Are you all right? Is it safe or not?”

  “Bring the kiddies and have a picnic.”

  “Be serious.”

  “I am.”

  Carpenter wasn’t satisfied. Each bunker had two hazmat suits, and over the next several days, teams went over every square yard of the thirty-acre compound. The air was tested. The water in the moat was tested. The soil was tested. Finally Carpenter had to admit the obvious.

  “It’s safe enough. But I’m still uneasy. We’ll let small groups go out for a few hours at a time.”

  “Guards need to be posted on the walls,” Slayne said. “I’ll break open the armory and pass out weapons to the men I choose.”

  “Actually,” Carpenter said, “I have an idea along those lines. Let’s see. It’s Wednesday. On Sunday we’ll have the first official gathering of our Family and I’ll detail my plans.”

  “You never have told me why you keep calling us that.”

  “On Sunday, Patrick. On Sunday.”

  Everyone was excited at the prospect of going outside. Anxious, too, since no one knew what to expect. They accepted that it was safe—but for how long? Doomsday had occurred. Even though they had hoped to survive, the fact that they had was no small miracle, and for some, it was difficult to wrap their minds around.

  Diana Trevor wasn’t surprised by their reaction. It was a common enough psychological phenomenon. Survivors of disasters were often bewildered and emotionally numb. She cautioned Carpenter to take things slow and give his charges time to adjust to their new reality.

  It didn’t help that nearly everyone had been bombarded with the media’s dire predictions. Fallacies had been paraded as fact and accepted by the public at large.

  Carpenter addressed the issue. An interco
m system linked the bunkers, and it was his habit to speak a few words of encouragement before retiring. This night his subject was the aftermath of the war.

  “Let’s take a look at some of the claims that were made. First, that everyone on the planet would die. Realistic projections were that the war would kill 20 percent of the human race in the first few days. Another forty to fifty percent would die from radiation poisoning, starvation, violence, what have you. That still leaves billions. Yes, you heard that right. Billions.

  “Another claim was that lethal radiation would blanket the earth for centuries. But our compound only received a small amount, and many other areas received as little or none at all. In other words, whole regions are as habitable now as they were before the bombs were dropped.

  “It was claimed that no crops would grow and that all vegetation would wither and die. But the grass and the trees here are fine, and are undoubtedly fine elsewhere. Think of the Amazon, or the taiga of Russia and northern Canada. Think of the vast tracts of the United States where there were no military targets. Other than fallout, they are untouched, and will go on as they have been for countless ages.

  “The point of all this is to soothe your fears. Yes, we must take precautions. Yes, we must be on our guard when we are outside the walls. We can’t drink or eat anything unless we know it is safe. But overall, all things considered, we are doing fine.”

  The next morning Patrick Slayne needed two men to help him make a quick walk-through of the compound. He chose Soren Anderson and Alf Richardson.

  Richardson wasn’t an official member of the group but when he heard Slayne ask Anderson, he eagerly volunteered to come along.

  “I’m tired of being cooped up. I want to feel the sun on my face and breathe real air again.”

  Slayne conducted them to the armory. He chose an MP5 fitted with a shoulder strap. It was compact and held a 30-round magazine. For a sidearm he selected an Astra A-75, in 9mm. He was strapping on the holster when he looked up and saw the other two standing there, staring at him. “What are you waiting for? I recommend a pistol or revolver, and either a rifle or an SMG.”

  “SM-what?” Alf said.

  “Submachine gun.” Slayne patted the MP5.

  Alf gawked at the racks of weapons. “Where did you get so many? There must be hundreds.”

  “There are,” Slayne with a trace of pride. “I picked every one. Kurt wanted a wide variety, and we have guns from just about everywhere. A lot of other weapons, too, like knives and swords. Even a genuine tomahawk.”

  “I don’t know what to take,” Alf confessed. “I know as much about guns as I do about physics.”

  “I’ll help.” Slayne turned to Anderson. “What about you?”

  Soren held up Mjolnir. “This will do.”

  “A hammer?” Slayne repressed a grin. “I understand you’re in construction, but isn’t that carrying it a bit far? A hammer against a gun will lose every time.”

  “This isn’t a tool.” Soren held it out so they could see the intricate detail and the runes. “This is Mjolnir, the special weapon of the God of Thunder.” He hefted it so the light played over its massive head. “It’s the best replica ever made.”

  Slayne looked at him. “It’s still just a hammer. If you want to take it, fine. Stick it under your belt. But you need a gun, and that’s final.”

  Soren didn’t argue. Slayne was responsible for the safety of the compound and the welfare of their loved ones. He would do as the man wanted. But Alf Richardson was right; there were so many.

  Soren had fired guns when he was younger, but he wasn’t an expert. He knew a .45 used a bigger bullet than a .22, but that was about it. He walked past several racks until he came to one with a sign that read shotguns. Soren’s grandfather had owned a fine double-barreled shotgun, and Soren had gotten to shoot it a few times. It had taught him the truth of the statement that a shotgun was the next best thing to a cannon.

  One in particular caught Soren’s eye. It was shorter than the rest, and had a pistol grip instead of a stock. A label under it told him it was a Mossberg Model 500 12-gauge. It came with a sling, which would free his hands to use Mjolnir if need be. He took it down and tried to work the slide but it wouldn’t budge. Closer inspection revealed a stud under the breech. Printed next to it was Release Lever with Thumb Only. Soren pressed the lever and jacked the slide and it worked fine.

  In a drawer under the rack were boxes of ammunition. He had his choice of slugs, buckshot, or birdshot. Folded with the boxes were several bandoleers.

  He helped himself to one and filled half its loops with slugs and the other half with buckshot. Then he rejoined the others.

  “What do you think?” Alf Richardson asked, and grinned uncertainly. Two semiautomatics were strapped to his ample waist and he clutched a bolt-action rifle. “This is a .30-06, what ever that is. Mr. Slayne says I can drop just about anything with it.”

  “Remember to aim like I told you.” Slayne had debated giving him an SMG but the man was a bundle of nerves. He could just see Richardson panicking and cutting loose with the SMG on full auto, taking down friend as well as foe.

  Soren showed him the shotgun. “Is this all right?”

  “What ever you feel comfortable with. But if you load it with double-ought, don’t fire anywhere in our direction.”

  Nodding, Soren fed slugs into the magazine and pumped a round into the chamber.

  They went out through the door instead of the airlock. The somber gray sky gave both Soren and Alf pause.

  Slayne had brought a Geiger counter. He took readings and informed them the radiation levels were no higher than last time.

  “Spread out and we’ll have a look around.”

  “What are we looking for?” Alf asked. “It’s not as if anyone or anything can get in here with the drawbridge up.”

  “We make sure anyway. I want you to climb up on the wall and see how things look. Mr. Anderson, if you would be so kind, patrol the perimeter of the moat and check for tracks.”

  Slayne started on a circuit of the concrete bunkers, which were arranged in a triangle.

  Soren did as he was told. He walked to the north until he came to the edge of the moat and then bore to the east. The steep bank was thick with grass and wouldn’t bear tracks well. He stopped once he was out of Slayne’s sight, slung the Mossberg over his shoulder, and slid Mjolnir from under his belt. He felt more comfortable using the hammer than the shotgun. He went on and abruptly realized how deathly still it was. There should have been birds chirping, squirrels chattering, insects buzzing. But there was nothing—nothing at all—save the gurgle of the water and occasional spurts of wind.

  Over at the bunkers, Slayne had passed B Block and was nearing C. He saw no reason for alarm and decided that as soon as Soren got back he would let Kurt know it was safe to send up surface parties.

  “Mr. Slayne! Mr. Slayne! Up here!”

  On the west rampart, Alf was hopping up and down and waving.

  Slayne wondered if he had seen a deer. Amused by his little joke, he hurried to the stairs and climbed to Alf’s side. “This better be important.”

  “You would know better than me.” Alf pointed. “Is that what I think it is?”

  Attached to the top of the wall was a grappling hook.

  First Blood

  Patrick Slayne saw the grappling hook and remembered the figure he had seen silhouetted against the sky. He put two and two together and came up with extreme danger. He whirled.

  A man in jeans and a T-shirt was crouched on the inner bank of the moat. He had a rifle. Even as Slayne spun, the man fired.

  The rifle was a Weatherby. The caliber was .340 Magnum. The slug, traveling at 3,260 feet per second when it left the muzzle, cored Alf Richardson’s head from front to back before Alf could blink. It entered squarely in the center of his forehead and burst out the rear of his cranium with such explosive force, much of his skull and a lot of his brain were splattered over the rampart. The last soun
d he heard was the thunder of the shot. The last sight he saw was the gray sky as his head was snapped back.

  Patrick Slayne dived flat, rolled, and came up into a crouch with the MP5 tucked at his side. He didn’t need to aim. He fired on full auto and stitched the man from crotch to throat.

  Another rifle opened up, from a corner of C Block, and then two more, from behind other bunkers.

  Slayne dived flat again, swearing at himself for his carelessness. He’d liked the simple, sincere, and eager-to-please Alf. It was why he hadn’t tossed Alf out of the Hunster that first day in New York City.

  A slug whined off the wall, reminding Slayne he couldn’t afford to make the same mistake twice. He wondered where Soren Anderson had gotten to and hoped the man wouldn’t do anything stupid like rush out into the open and get himself shot. He frowned as he remembered that Soren had chosen a shotgun. Shotguns were fine at close range but as useful as slingshots at any great distance. He risked a peek to see if he could spot Soren and nearly lost an eye.

  One of the hostiles could shoot.

  At that moment, Soren was sprinting back along the north arm of the moat. He didn’t know what was going on. At first he had thought it was Alf, shooting for some reason. But then he heard the submachine gun and more rifles. A pitched battle was taking place. But who was the enemy?

  Soren gave no thought to his safety. His friends needed his help. He was staring toward the bunkers and the west wall of the moat, and he almost missed spotting the man in a flannel shirt crouched behind an oak not thirty feet away. He threw himself headlong just as the bolt-action rifle the man was aiming went off.

  Soren cut loose with the Mossberg, pumping twice. The slugs hit the tree, not the man, but caused him to jerk back. Soren heaved to his knees to take better aim. He saw the man tugging frantically at the bolt. His rifle had somehow jammed.