David Robbins - Doomsday

“Which enemy?”

“Damned if I know. I doubt he did, either. Probably just another rumor. Reminds me of World War Two, when people were seeing Japanese subs all over the place and blowing fish out of the water.” McDermott shook his head. “It’s a mad world out there and getting madder by the moment.” Ben handed back the clipboard and slid the pen into his pocket. Turning in the driver’s seat, he made sure his duffel bag was there. He patted it, saying, “I can’t leave without my babies.”

“Did you hear something?”

Suddenly the building shook to a concussive blast. The windows rattled so hard, several cracked.

“What the hell?” McDermott blurted. “That was an explosion.”

“I need to go.”

McDermott nodded. “I’ll hurry things along.” He ran toward the rear of the trailer. Ben switched on the radio to an all-news station.

“Citizens are being advised to remain indoors. The streets aren’t safe. Unruly mobs are on the loose. Gun stores have been broken into. People are taking food and water from stores without paying. The police report that outside agitators are at work, but they haven’t explained exactly what they mean by that.”

The announcer took a breath.

“Incredible as it sounds, our social structure is breaking down. It has become every man, every woman, for him or herself.”

He paused.

“In other news, Turkey, Italy, and Greece are now embroiled in the spreading conflict, which the secretary-general of the United Nations has described as the beginning of the end for Western civilization unless world leaders can agree on an immediate ceasefire. England and France are mobilizing troops, while in…”

Ben turned off the radio. He nearly jumped at another pounding on his door. “What?”

“Geez. Bite my head off, why don’t you?” McDermott smiled. “You’re good to go, buddy.” The warehouse reverberated to Semper Fi’s roar.

Rollers squeaking, the bay doors rattled open.

Ben Thomas shifted into gear, put the pedal to the metal, and rumbled out into madness.

The drawbridge was down. Kurt Carpenter had called ahead and they were ready for him. As Holland drove the long black limousine along the dirt track that was their only link to civilization, Carpenter peered ahead and nodded in satisfaction.

His brainchild was a thirty-acre compound surrounded by twenty-foot-high brick walls. Aqueducts at the north-west and southeast corners diverted a stream into an inner moat, a secondary line of defense should the brick walls ever be breached.

The limo didn’t stop once it was across the moat. Holland made for the closest of six concrete bunkers. C Block, Carpenter had designated it, where the Communications Center was housed. Becca Levy was waiting. As always, she was smartly dressed. She spoke into a wafer-thin mouthpiece attached to an ear jack in her left ear. She stopped talking as he emerged from the backseat of the limo, and she held out her hand for him to shake. “Good to see you made it, boss.”

“Give me a breakdown.”

“Twenty-seven are here already. We expect another forty-one to show up in the next eight hours.”

“And the test?”

“They’re aware of the deadline. They know what it means if they don’t make it.” Carpenter strode toward the entrance to C Block, Becca keeping up with his brisk pace. “Any word on the SEAL?”

“The transporter was just leaving Seattle the last time 1 spoke to him.”

“I’m counting on him. The SEAL is my gift to those who come after us. Provided we survive, that is.” Carpenter stopped and scanned the compound. Two men with rifles were on the west wall near the drawbridge. To the east were trees and a row of cabins. Beyond that were fields he planned to devote to tilling. “God. I hope I’ve covered every contingency. One mistake, and we’ll be no better off than those pour souls caught in the cities.”

“You’ve done a remarkable job, sir. You have every reason to be proud.” Carpenter entered C Block. The Com Center boasted the best equipment his money could buy, all of it state-of-the-art, complete with satellite linkups and GPS. A large screen was flagged with dots, one for every person Carpenter had selected. “Many of them have a long way to come.”

“We estimate a 97 percent success ratio,” Becca Levy reported. “Provided that most of them are clear of the major population centers before the missiles start to fly.”

“What’s the latest on the war front?”

“The United States has responded to the nuking of its Mediterranean Task Force with strategic nuclear strikes against two Middle Eastern countries. China has denounced that as an act of war. Chinese and North Korean forces have been mobilized.”

Carpenter sadly shook his head. “It’s only a matter of time before one of our cities is taken out. That will be the beginning of the end.”

“Not for us,” Becca said. “You’ve stocked enough provisions to last a thousand years. The Blocks are reinforced to withstand everything except a direct nuclear strike. We’re not near any city or prospective military target. We’ll be just fine.”

“You don’t understand, Ms. Levy. Yes, I expect we’ll survive. That’s the whole point behind the millions I’ve invested in this project. But what then?”

“Sir?”

“The world as we know it is about to come to an end. My experts inform me that the mix of nuclear, chemical, and biological weapons will wreak havoc with our planet.”

“Need I remind you, sir, that the world survived all those test bombs and the bombs that were dropped on Japan?”

“This time there won’t be a dozen nuclear explosions over twenty years. There might be hundreds, and all that radiation will interact with the chemical and biological agents, with unforeseen results. Mutations will be the norm, not the exception. Creatures and conditions we can’t begin to imagine.

“You make it sound like nothing will ever be the same again.”

“It won’t.”

“I don’t want trouble,” Soren Anderson said while easing his right hand around his tool belt. The five gangstas spread out. Four held knives. The fifth had a blackjack. The tall one crouched and came toward Soren, who balanced on the balls of his feet.

“Give us the keys, man. Don’t make us do you.”

“I can’t. I have a family. I must get to them.” Soren’s fingers closed on the handle of his ball-peen hammer. “Leave me be or I’ll hurt you.”

“Can’t count, can you, sucker?”

The tall one nodded at two others. They came at Soren in a rush. He waited until the last possible instant, until the quicker of the pair thrust a blade at him. Then, sidestepping, Soren whipped his hammer out and around. He was a big man and it was a big hammer. It weighed three pounds; the head alone was thirty-six ounces. Dropforged and heat-treated, it made for a formidable weapon. Soren caught the gangsta on the temple. There was a crunch of bone yielding to metal and the youth dropped at Soren’s feet, convulsing violently.

The second gangsta barely slowed. Swearing viciously, he lunged at Soren’s groin. He was so focused on Soren that he tripped over his fallen friend. Before he could recover, Soren swept the hammer against his skull.

The remaining three stood tooted in disbelief. Then the tall one snarled, “Get him, yo!” All three came at Soren at once.

Backpedaling, Soren swung the ball-peen hammer from side to side to keep them at bay. They weren’t eager to share the fate of their friends and held back. But it was only a matter of time before one of them would bloody his blade. They knew it, and Soren knew it. Which was why Soren did what he did. He charged them.