Doomsday

by David Robbins

  Soren acted without thinking. He let the Mossberg swing at his side by the shoulder sling, and was up and running toward the stranger, as fast as he could run. As he charged he yanked Mjolnir free of his belt and held the heavy hammer in both hands.

  The man was still tugging. He heard Soren’s footfalls and glanced up.

  “No!”

  By then Soren was on him. He swung Mjolnir in an arc. Flesh and bone were no match for metal; a third of the man’s skull became pulp.

  Soren didn’t linger. He raced toward the Blocks and spotted another man at the rear corner of C Block, firing up at the west wall. The man’s back was to him.

  Soren pumped his legs, hoping the boom of gunfire would drown out the slap of his boots.

  The shooter had a lever-action rifle and was firing spaced shots. Suddenly he stiffened and half turned.

  Soren had only ten feet to go. He covered it in two long bounds. The rifle went off, but if he was hit he didn’t feel anything. He swung at the man’s forearm and heard a crack. The man screamed and sought to flee, but Soren swung again, slamming Mjolnir against the side of the man’s head.

  There was no need to confirm the man was dead, not when one eyeball was where his nose should be.

  Soren ran on, but cautiously. As best he could tell, two more riflemen were firing from somewhere south of him. It puzzled him that he didn’t hear Alf and Slayne shoot back. He came to the far corner of C Block, stopped, and peeked out.

  Up on the rampart, Patrick Slayne had set his gun selector from full auto to three-round burst. Now he reared up just high enough to trigger a trio of leaden hornets at a man who had been shooting at him from behind B Block. The man ducked back, and Slayne dropped flat again. Soren realized Slayne and Alf had been pinned down.

  One hundred yards separated C Block from B Block but Soren didn’t hesitate. He raced toward B Block. The rifleman was at the far end, the south end, so there was every chance the man wouldn’t spot him. Still, he prickled with the expectation of taking a slug. Relief washed over him when he reached the north wall. As careful as could be, he peered around the corner.

  The man was at the other corner, looking up at the west rampart, his back to Soren.

  Soren went to reach for the shotgun but changed his mind. Mjolnir hadn’t failed him yet. With a silent prayer to Odin, he slipped from concealment and ran in a crouch.

  The man fired another shot.

  Soren was close enough to see him clearly. An older man, hair streaked with gray, his chin covered with stubble. Around his waist was a cartridge belt. The rifle was another bolt-action. Soren had no idea what kind it was.

  Up on the wall, the SMG burped.

  Soren shut all thought from his mind and firmed his grip on Mjolnir. Moving slowly now, making no sound whatsoever, he came up behind the man and raised Mjolnir over his head. He almost uttered a war cry but remembered that there was at least one more enemy to deal with. Instead, he said quietly, “Give my regards to the Valkyries.”

  The man glanced around. Fear twisted his features, and he tried to bring his rifle to bear.

  Soren swept Mjolnir down with all his might. The splat, the blood, the dead husk at his feet were nothing compared to the tingling sensation that shot through him, as if he had gripped a live electrical wire by mistake. It was a sensation he had only ever felt twice before: once when he slew the last gangsta; and again when he slew the looter. It was exquisite beyond belief, a feeling of raw potent power such as he had imagined only in his wildest fantasies. He attributed it to one source. Holding Mjolnir aloft, he gazed at the gray sky and said with fiery passion, “Lord Thor, I thank you!”

  The bang of a rifle brought Soren back to the here and now. There was that one foe yet to deal with.

  The last invader was at the near corner of A Block. He was firing at the west wall, but he was facing B Block.

  It would be impossible for Soren to reach him unseen. He pondered what to do. He could try the shotgun, but he wasn’t sure he could hit him. He needed to get closer. But how? He glanced behind him at the man he had just laid low, and he grinned. Bending, he dragged the body close to the corner and positioned it so that only part of a shoulder and one arm showed. Then, squatting with his back to the wall, he covered his mouth with his left hand to muffle the sound and let out with a long, loud groan. He waited, then repeated it. He waited some more, and taking a chance, he mouthed a muffled, “Help me!” Then he jiggled the arm that stuck past the corner, careful not to show his own hand when he did it.

  A rifle spanged once, twice, three times, and feet thudded in swift cadence, drawing closer.

  The rifleman came flying around the corner. He was looking down at the body. “Frank? Where were you hit?”

  Soren was ready. He swept Mjolnir up and around and caught the man full in the face. The impact lifted the invader off his feet and stretched him out flat on his back with his life’s blood gushing from his shattered mouth and nose and seeping from his eye sockets. The man gasped and gulped and struggled for breath, his fingers clawing for the rifle he had dropped.

  “In Thor’s name,” Soren said, and brought Mjolnir crashing down. He stared at his handiwork, then stepped back and shook the bloody hammer to rid it of its gore.

  No more shots pealed. No shouts rose.

  Soren peered around the bunker. He saw no other riflemen but he needed to be sure. He let several minutes go by. When nothing happened, he cupped his hand to his mouth. “Alf! Slayne! Are you all right?”

  Up on the rampart, Patrick Slayne swore. “Look out! Keep quiet! There are at least three of them and they have rifles!”

  “There were four.”

  Slayne took this to mean Anderson had killed one. “Stay down, damn it! I don’t want you shot!”

  “There is no one left.” Soren stepped from behind the Block. “It’s safe to come down if you want.”

  Risking a quick look, Slayne saw the big construction worker standing in the open, holding his hammer.

  “They’re all dead,” Soren said.

  Slayne slowly rose partway. Could it be? he wondered. When he didn’t draw lead, he stood fully erect. “They’re dead, you say?”

  Soren nodded.

  Still not convinced, Slayne descended the stairs. He held the MP5 ready, swinging right and left, alert for movement.

  Soren stayed where he was and motioned. “Back there are two of them.”

  “Two?” Slayne moved past and drew up short at the sight of the prone forms. He saw their brains leaking out and noticed the blood on the hammer. “Sweet Jesus.”

  Soren held Mjolnir high in the air. “Odin has protected and delivered us.”

  “You don’t believe that?”

  “I follow the Ancient Way, Mr. Slayne. The Way of the Elder Gods. I worship Odin. I revere Thor. If you understand nothing else about me, understand that.” Soren paused. “Wait? Where’s Alf?” He looked toward the west wall.

  “Mr. Richardson didn’t make it, I’m afraid.”

  “A shame. From what I saw this past month, he was a decent man.”

  “Mourn him when we bury him. Now we need to collect these bodies and their hardware and organize a burial detail.”

  Soren nudged one of them. “Who were they? Why did they try to kill us?”

  “You’d have to ask them.”

  “It makes no sense. Why did they sneak in here and take potshots at us when they could just as easily have waited outside the walls until we saw them and then ask to be admitted?”

  “I suspect they were scavengers, looking for what ever they could steal. They were probably trying to figure out how to get into the bunkers when we came out and caught them by surprise.”

  Voices and a commotion caused them to turn. Kurt Carpenter and five others were hurrying toward them from A Block. All except Carpenter were armed with rifles or shotguns.

  “Sorry it took us so long, Patrick. The bunkers are soundproof, as you well know. If I hadn’t told one of the techs to
switch on an outside audio pickup, we wouldn’t have known anything was wrong. We heard the shots and had to get guns and load them and—”

  Slayne placed a hand on Carpenter’s shoulder. “It’s all right, Kurt. We’ll rig cameras out here so from now on when we’re in the bunkers we can see as well as hear.”

  Carpenter gazed about them. “I don’t see Mr. Richardson.”

  Slayne gave an account of the clash. He stressed that Soren had had more to do with the outcome than he did.

  “I’m extremely sorry to hear about Mr. Richardson. As for you, Mr. Anderson, excellent work. We must protect our own at all costs.” Carpenter gave instructions to two of the others to bring shovels and picks. Then he turned back to Slayne. “A grappling hook, you say? That’s how they got in?”

  “Not exactly a common house hold item, is it? And not something a person carries around with them unless they intend to use it.”

  Carpenter’s brow furrowed. “So they had to have known the compound was here.”

  “No mystery there. You had a dozen or more contractors working on your dream at one time or another. The excavation crews. The brick layers. The concrete pourers. The electricians. The plumbers. Then there are hunters and hikers who must have happened by. Throw in any locals who wondered what in God’s name was going on out here, and there must be a hundred people who know where the compound is.”

  “And here I thought that building it in the middle of nowhere would ensure some degree of security.” Carpenter sighed and regarded the dead men. “We’ll see more like these, and perhaps worse. But we can’t let them prevail. If we must fight for our right to exist, so be it. But let’s not do it haphazardly. Just as our country had its army and navy and marines, we must do something similar.”

  Soren broke his silence. “Excuse me for saying so, sir, but you make it sound as if the United States no longer exists.”

  “It very well might not. And call me Kurt, please.”

  “What was that about doing something similar?” Slayne prompted.

  Carpenter gazed solemnly out across the compound. “What we need, gentlemen, is a fighting force of our very own. Men and women pledged to keep intruders like these at bay.” He smiled. “What we need are our very own warriors.”

  Sowing Seeds

  Sunday dawned cloudy and chilly. Before anyone ventured outdoors, Patrick Slayne donned a hazmat suit and conducted his routine morning tests. The previous evening, he had huddled with Carpenter and Deepak Kapur and worked out how they would go about installing remote sensors on the walls. The sensors would be linked to the computers and relay radiation readings as well as the data from bio and chem sniffers.

  When Slayne deemed it safe, Carpenter gave the word and everyone emerged from the six bunkers and converged on a grassy area between B Block and the moat. Carpenter encouraged them to bring food and drink and to relax and enjoy themselves, but there was an air of tension. He mentioned it to Diana Trevor, who said it was perfectly normal, given the uncertainties they faced.

  Carpenter intended to set some of those uncertainties to rest. It was a few minutes before ten when he came out of C Block and stood under a maple tree, the leaves of which were turning brown earlier than they should. The buzz of conversation stopped. He smiled, then began what he believed to be the most important speech of his life.

  “Good morning, brothers and sisters. For that is what we are, you know. We are all of us brothers and sisters in adversity. The greatest adversity the human race has known in modern history.

  “We’re not just a collection of strangers culled from all walks of life and thrown together to sink or swim as the whims of fate decide. We share a common bond, a common goal, a common need. The bond is that of survival, the goal is to continue to survive, the need is for us to continually adapt to what ever challenges our drastically changed world throws at us.”

  Carpenter stopped and gazed at every one of their upturned faces. “I would like to cement that bond. I would like for each of you to start thinking of those around you not as strangers but as your family.” He waited for snickers or objections, but there were none.

  “The Family,” he repeated. “I have been calling us that for some time now. Look at the person next to you and you will see why. We are all in this together. We are all a family in adversity. So from this day on, that is how we will refer to ourselves. The Family.

  “A great writer once wrote a book about three Musketeers. You might have heard of it or seen any of the many movies made. There is a line from that book and from those movies that applies to us, as well. One for all, and all for one. It sums up all that we are. A Family, one for all and all for one.”

  Carpenter gestured to encompass the Blocks, the moat, and the high wall. “Look around you. If we’re a Family, what does that make our compound? From now on we will call it our Home. Start to think of it as that. Say it in your head. Get used to the idea. We are the Family and we live in the Home.”

  Someone spoke up. “That’s all well and good, but what if we don’t like some of our brothers or sisters?”

  “What’s unusual about that? Every Family has conflict. They work around it as we’ll work around it. The important thing to keep in mind is that we can work anything out if we put our minds to it.”

  Carpenter waited so they could absorb all that he had said so far. Then he went on to the next phase. “Think of it. We have lived through the end of the world. All that we knew is gone. We are starting over, literally, and I would like to do some things differently from how they were done before.”

  “You’re our leader,” a woman declared.

  “By default, yes. If you want to bestow that title on me, I accept it. But only under the condition that each of you accepts a title of your own.”

  “What do you mean?” This question came from a man on the far side.

  “One of the problems that led to the hell we have lived through was the belief by some that they had the right to lord over everyone else. That they could decide what was right and wrong and how we should live our lives—or lose them, if need be—to keep them in power. Power mongers, they were, and they set themselves up above the rest of us.

  “There will be none of that here. We are all equals. No one—and I emphasize this—no one has the right to set himself or herself above the rest of us. To prevent that, to keep anyone from getting a swelled head, all of us will be equally important. All of us will have titles of our own.

  “So yes, call me the Leader if you want. But in a few days, when we begin to assign jobs based on your specific skills, each of you will have a title, too. Our doctor and nurses will be known as Healers. Our agricultural experts, those who will raise the crops that will sustain our Family over the long haul, will be called Tillers.”

  A man interrupted, “Is this really necessary? It strikes me as absurd.”

  “We are all equals, remember. There will be no artificial distinctions in the Home. No presidents, no senators, no kings or queens, and by extension, no commoners or average citizens. We are as the ancient Spartans were, peers. We will honor that equality with titles for each of us.”

  “I guess that makes sense.”

  Carpenter saw nods and smiles and forged on. “In the days to come I’ll talk more about how I hope to see our Family organized, with your approval, of course.

  “But there is one issue that won’t wait, one we must deal with now for the safety of all.” He paused. “You know about the incident in which our Home was invaded and we lost one of our own. You know that if not for the heroism of Mr. Slayne and Mr. Anderson, more lives would have been lost.”

  Out on the grass, Toril took Soren’s hand in hers and gave him a tender squeeze. Magni grinned and patted his leg. Freya looked troubled.

  “The attack has demonstrated a need. I blame myself for Mr. Richardson’s death. I should have foreseen this contingency.”

  Diana Trevor spoke up. “Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

  “I’m the Lead
er, aren’t I? It’s on my shoulders.” Carpenter stopped. “But enough of my oversight. What we need is a small group whose sole purpose will be to defend the Home and protect the Family. I believe nine should do to start, but we’ll add more as conditions warrant. In keeping with our new rule about titles, we’ll call them Warriors.”

  Someone laughed. “Isn’t that a tad pretentious?”

  “No more so than calling me the Leader. And if you’ll recall, the concept of the warrior has a long and noble history. The Spartans I’ve already alluded to. There were the samurai. The Minutemen. Special Forces. I could go on and on. Calling our fighters Warriors is more than appropriate.”

  No one disputed him.

  “We’re agreed? Good. I hereby choose Patrick Slayne to appoint the team of Warriors. With his military and security background, he is ideally suited to the task.”

  A woman raised her hand. “Is that all they’ll do? Fight? What if he picks someone who is one of those Tillers you talked about? Who will fill the Tiller’s shoes?”

  “We’ll make do as best we can. The Warriors are crucial to our survival. We can’t just pick people and shove guns in their hands. They’ll need to practice working together, so if and when the Home is attacked, they’ll mesh as a team. If it develops that we don’t need the Warriors to be on alert 24–7, then of course they can perform other duties as required. Does that answer your question?”

  The woman nodded.

  Carpenter glanced at Slayne. “Patrick, is there anything you’d like to say? Do you want to choose your people now or later?”

  Slayne stood. “Brothers and sisters,” he began, and grinned as he said it, “as head of security—pardon me—as a Warrior, I’ll do my best to safeguard the life of every Family member. As we’ve already learned the hard way, the job calls for constant vigilance, and as our Leader pointed out, and Alf Richardson found out too late, it takes more than good intentions. For the Warriors to be effective, they must be true warriors in every sense of the word. They must be fighting machines.”