William Johnstone - The Doomsday Bunker

Jill stood off to the side but came toward him when she spotted him. Larkin nodded toward the assemblage and said, “Looks like we’ve got some rabble-rousing going on.”

“I’m worried that they’re working themselves up to a riot,” Jill said.

“What do they want now? To have another election?”

Since both of the residents’ elected representatives—Charlotte Ruskin and Jeff Greer—were dead, the idea of the residents having any input into Moultrie’s decisions seemed to have died, too. The whole thing had been a fraud to begin with, Larkin knew, and Moultrie had dispensed with even keeping up the pretense. It wouldn’t surprise him if the Bullpenners started agitating for new representatives, even though it wouldn’t do them any good.

But Jill shook her head and said, “It’s not that. It’s the food.”

Larkin frowned. “What about it?”

“People don’t like the new rationing regulations.”

Larkin’s frown deepened. Everyone down here had known all along that it was necessary to keep track of how much food was consumed. Even with the livestock and the hydroponic garden, their supplies weren’t limitless. Moultrie had estimated that they could have full rations for eighteen months, and if the project remained closed up longer than that, some sacrifices might have to be made. It hadn’t even been a full year yet since the war.

“Nobody told me about new rationing regulations.”

“They just went into effect today,” Jill said. “Supplies for people who live in the Bullpen have been cut by thirty percent.”

“Wait, that’s not right,” Larkin said. “What about everybody else?”

Jill shrugged and said, “Just before I went on duty, Trevor and I received a message that our available supplies were being reduced by 10 percent. I don’t know if there was any change for you and Mom and the other people who live in the silos.”

Anger stirred inside Larkin. Susan hadn’t said anything to him about a change in their rations, but maybe she hadn’t had a chance to. Or maybe they weren’t being asked to give up anything, while the people who lived in the Bullpen and the main halls were. If that was the case, the unfairness of it grated at him.

“That’s what has Holdstock and these other folks so worked up?”

“Yes. Did Graham say anything to you about this, Dad?”

Larkin blew out a breath. “I don’t think he tells anybody much of anything these days, unless it’s his wife.”

“Well, maybe you should say something to these people.”

Larkin didn’t consider himself any sort of public speaker, but he knew Jill was right. Holdstock’s loud, angry complaints were bringing shouts of agreement from the crowd. Larkin couldn’t really blame them for being upset, but there were better ways to deal with that than inciting a riot.

He moved into the rear of the crowd, shouldering a few people aside. “Hey!” he shouted. “Holdstock! Wait a minute—”

Holdstock spotted him—Larkin was taller than most of the people in the crowd—and pointed. “There’s one of Moultrie’s Redshirts now! Tell him what you think of Moultrie trying to starve us out!”

Larkin wasn’t wearing the red vest of the security force. He had left it back in the apartment. But by now everybody in the Hercules Project knew who he was. For a little while, he had been regarded as one of the heroes of the battle against the surface survivors, but that goodwill had faded fast, as it always did where the public was concerned.

The people around him began yelling and shoving at him. Larkin dropped his hand to the butt of the gun on his hip. He had no intention of drawing it; he just didn’t want anybody else making a grab at the weapon.

But somebody saw the move and cried, “Look out! He’s gonna shoot us!”

“Grab him!” another man urged. “Pull him down before he kills us all!”

Larkin kept his right hand on his gun and swung his left arm in an attempt to clear some space around him. His fist backhanded one of the men with a solid thud that sent the man flying backward. But more surged forward to take his place, and suddenly Larkin was surrounded by a crazed melee, with most of the punches directed at him.

“Dad!” he vaguely heard Jill calling to him. “Dad!” He knew she wouldn’t stand by and let him be stomped and kicked to death, which was what the mob seemed intent on doing. And it was a mob now, no doubt about it.

Larkin knew his daughter. She would open fire to save him, and that would escalate the violence even more...

With the suddenness of a sucker punch, darkness fell.

And down here far underground, it was such a complete absence of light that it took the breath away. Everyone froze, stunned by the unexpected blackness that had swallowed them. That shocked silence and immobility lasted a couple of heartbeats, then people began to scream and lunge around blindly. Bodies rammed into Larkin, but at least they were just panicking now, not trying to kill him anymore.

Anyone who fell, though, might wind up trampled to death anyway. Larkin bellowed at the top of his lungs, “Stop! Everybody be still! Just stop where you are!”

The commands seemed to get through to some of the mob. Other voices called out, urging calm. Gradually, the screaming and milling around came to a halt. Larkin heard a lot of harsh, frightened breathing.

What he didn’t hear was worse. The life-support systems gave off a low hum that filled the project around the clock.

But the absence of that hum was like an alarm bell going off. The last time it hadn’t been present was when the computer system had crashed during the attack from the surface. Even then, the lights had remained on.

Now it seemed as if everything in the project had shut down. All the things that kept everyone alive…

Less than a minute had gone by since the lights went out, although it seemed longer. Larkin forced his brain to work and remembered the small, battery-powered flashlight he had in his pocket. It was part of his equipment as a member of the security force, just like the walkie-talkie and his gun, and he always had it either on his person or within reach. He slid his hand into his pocket, found the light, brought it out, and thumbed it on.

His eyes had already had time to react to the darkness, so the shaft of light was a little blinding when it shot out. Larkin squinted and looked away from it. Several people exclaimed reflexively. Larkin aimed the flashlight at the ceiling so the light would bounce and spread out.

A palpable sense of relief filled the air. Nobody liked being stuck in the dark.

At least for the moment, the near-riot was over. Everyone was too worried about the power going off to think about the food-rationing situation.

“Dad!” Jill worked her way through the crowd to Larkin. “What happened?”

“I don’t know,” he told her. “But I intend to find out. You have your light, don’t you?”

“Of course.”

“Then help these people back to their quads. Then go to the apartment and make sure your mother’s all right.”

“Where are you going?”

“To the Command Center,” Larkin said. “I want some answers.”

Larkin had just reached the landing where the staircase turned, halfway between the lower bunker and the main level, when the lights recessed along the top of the walls flickered a couple of times, then came on and stayed lit. He had been guided so far by his flashlight, but he turned it off now.

He stood there for a long moment, listening. When he felt as much as heard the low, powerful hum that meant the generators and the life-support equipment were working again, he closed his eyes for a second and heaved a sigh of relief. They weren’t going to have to evacuate the project, at least not yet. That would have been a nightmare, although it was possible since the blast doors at the main entrance could be opened by hand once Moultrie physically unlocked them with his master key.