David Robbins - Doomsday

“It’s the middle of the summer,” Soren teased, and then saw her eyes. Setting Mjolnir on the bed, he took her in his arms. She pressed her forehead to his chest and trembled.

“I’m sorry. I’m scared, Soren. I’m worried about Mother, and I’m worried about us.” Toril looked up, her eyes brimming with tears. “Most of all I’m worried about Freya and Magni. They’re our children, Soren. They shouldn’t have to go through this.”

“No one should,” Soren said. He held her close, her body warm against his, his heart filled near to bursting.

Magni dashed into the bedroom, yelling, “Dad! Mom! Come quick! There are people outside. People all over.”

Soren grabbed Mjolnir. His long legs brought him to the picture window ahead of the others. Freya was there, horror on her face. He looked down, and his skin crawled.

Trudale had been breached. Defying all reason, the mob had broken through the gate and was running amok through the development. Residents were being attacked, car windshields smashed, windows hit with bottles and rocks. Down the block several men threw their shoulders against a door and it buckled. As they disappeared inside, a woman screamed.

Toril’s hand found Soren’s arm. “What do we do? What happens when they reach our house?” Even as she spoke, half a dozen human wolves came bounding up Wyndemere Circle.

To Dr. Diana Trevor, the seconds it took to disengage the autopilot were eternities of dread. The plane bearing down on her was an older Beechcraft. She couldn’t imagine why the other pilot didn’t realize their peril. She went to dive out of danger when the other plane sheered off, passing uncomfortably close to her wing. She tried to call it on the radio. Angry, she watched it dwindle in the distance until it was a speck in the sky.

Diana returned to the routine of her flight. She had a long way to go. Her flight plan called for stops at small private airfields where she was less likely to run into the problems she foresaw for the larger public fields once panic set in. She’d worked it out in meticulous detail and was confident she would reach Minnesota, barring the unforeseen.

The reports on the airwaves painted a disturbing image. The attack on the task force had shattered any complacency people felt about the onset of the conflict in the Middle East. For more than a century there had been minor wars and terrorist attacks and political upheavals; this time it was all or nothing, the war to end all others. On Diana flew.

Eventually Arizona was behind her. She made it across Colorado. Each stop was routine. She stayed well away from large cities like Colorado Springs and Denver.

The news reports grew more and more alarming. Panic was spreading. People were beginning to realize that things they took for granted wouldn’t necessarily be available. Simple things, such as where their next meal was coming from. The illusion of security was being shattered. Diana had long wondered why so many of her fellow citizens took so much for granted. They assumed that filling their bellies would always be easy, that the corner grocery would always be open and their favorite fast-food orders or restaurants would always have food for the buying. They assumed they could always get fuel for their vehicles. They assumed the police would always be a phone call away, ready to serve and protect. Now they were learning the depths of their delusions. Civilization was a house of cards. Knock away one card and the entire house came undone, collapsing in on itself of its own pretensions. That was her opinion, anyway, and it was a view Kurt Carpenter shared. Diana made it to Nebraska. Flying over the state stirred memories of her childhood. She had been born and raised in Elkhorn, outside Omaha. Her childhood had been apple pie and Sunday school. Her parents had been surprised when she announced that she intended to enlist in the navy after high school. They didn’t understand her desire to see something of the world.

Her hitch had opened her eyes. She had served onboard a destroyer that called at various Pacific ports. Some— Australia, for instance—were a lot like home. Others—

Southeast Asia—showed her how wretched human existence could be. She saw people living in abject misery. People so malnourished, they were literally skin and bone. She saw children swim in water contaminated by human feces. She saw bodies left to rot.

Diana had realized a great truth. Life owed no one a living. Life owed no one their next meal, or a roof over their head, or even the clothes on their back. Life owed them nothing but life. The rest was up to them to procure any way they could.

So-called basic human rights were not part of the natural order. A person wasn’t born with the inherent right to free speech. A man-made document made that possible. The “right” was as flimsy as the paper it was written on.

After her navy stint, Diana had used the GI Bill to attend college. She had majored in psychology because the human mind fascinated her. Not so much how it worked as the delusions it fostered. Its capacity to deceive itself was boundless.

Diana had become interested in how the mind and its beliefs affected personality. That had led her to her research on dominance, which, in turn, led Kurt Carpenter to her. And here she was, on her way to his compound, hoping to ride out the end of the world in one of the few places on earth designed to do just that.

Diana smiled, thinking of how nice it would be to see Kurt again. She reached for her thermos. And her plane died.

The Boena bucked as if hit by a gust of wind. The electronics blipped out and the props stopped spinning. Far to the west, a strange luminosity lit the sky. There was no sound other than the shear of wind as the Boena dipped and began to lose altitude.

Diana fought down a spike of fear. She knew what to do in a situation like this. She still had control, limited control, but there was every chance she could bring the plane in for a safe landing. She was over western Nebraska, somewhere in the vicinity of North Platte. The country below was mostly farmland. Nebraska had never suffered from a lack of flat ground, so she should be able to find a spot to set down. Flying a plane without power was a lot like driving a car without power. It took concentration and strength and iron nerves.

Diana banked slightly and peered out of the cockpit. She needed a field or a road or highway. Patchwork squares of farmland grew in size. A green patch became com and a yellow patch became oats. A ribbon of brown was a dusty country road.

She decided to try for the road. A straight stretch looked long enough. There were no cars or trucks. Provided she didn’t hit a rut or pothole, she should be able to bring in her bird. Her angle of descent was just right. She aligned the plane with the middle of the road and braced for the bump of her wheels setting down. She was so intent on the road that she didn’t pay much attention to the fences on each side.

She landed perfectly. She was moving fast, but she had plenty of space. Already she was thinking of what she would do when she got out. Too late, she saw a dip that ran the width of the road. The nose dropped, there was a shriek of mangled metal, the plane bounced, and then it slowed and went into a spin.

Diana had fleeting glimpses of sky and field and road. The Boena hit the fence and she heard metallic twangs that reminded her of guitar strings being plucked. A pole loomed, and she shrank into her seat and covered her head with her arms. The impact jarred her. Her tail rose and she thought the plane would flip over, but it crashed back down.

Then all was still.

Diana lowered her arms. The plane was in a ditch. The broken pole lay over a partly crumpled wing. Strands of wire were tangled everywhere. But she was alive. She unstrapped herself and climbed out, then stood on the wing and sniffed. She didn’t smell fuel.