David Robbins - Doomsday

At seven thousand feet Diana leveled off. She listened to the radio for a while. It was confusion times ten. A near-hysterical announcer declared that the West Coast had been attacked, but he didn’t say where or by whom and the signal gave way to static. Another said that federal resources had been strained to the point of collapse. A parson on a religious station intoned that the end times were upon them. Diana realized her palms were sweating and wiped them on her pants. She had a long flight ahead of her. She put the plane on autopilot. Then she opened her briefcase and took out a laptop and a disc marked Endworld . She got the computer running and inserted the disc. Scrolling down the contents screen, she clicked on a file labeled Correspondence with Carpenter . A list of letters, e-mails and dates appeared. She clicked on the letter she wanted.

Dr. Trevor,

It is with the greatest satisfaction that I can inform you of the results of your screening. You have passed the physical and background check with impressive scores. I feel you will make a most worthy addition to the enterprise I am undertaking.

You posed a few questions when last we talked on the phone. I didn’t have the time to go as deeply into detail as I would have liked, so now I’ll remedy that.

The idea for a survivalist retreat first came to me seven years ago. There have always been wars and rumors of wars. Despite the global conflicts that took such terrible tolls in lives lost, I became convinced the worst was yet to come. A proverbial “war to end all wars,” as it were. To put it more frankly, I became so cynical as to not put any stupidity past the human race—and that included another world war.

With me to think is to act. So I put into motion the plan that has resulted in the compound you visited, and my grand scheme to salvage something worthwhile from the ruin of modern civilization. I’m not boasting when I state that I’ve amassed a considerable fortune from my movies. I used some of it on research and development of what I came to call the Endworld Protocol. I needed to find an isolated spot as far from military and civilian targets as feasible. The property near Lake Bronson State Park is ideal.

Construction of the compound came next, and I don’t need to tell you how costly that proved. I refused to skimp. The concrete bunkers—the Blocks, as I call them—are architectural marvels. Each is a self-contained survival habitat. Barring a direct strike, they should withstand any calamity to come. Next was the step that proved most daunting: finding those I’d invite to come live in my new Eden once war broke out. I consulted experts in every field. It was at this phase that I came into contact with you, principally due to your studies in the field of dominance as it involves human personalities and societal interaction.

That was when another idea occurred to me. The brave new world I envisioned demanded a brave new type of person to adapt and thrive. The key, as I saw it, was to find people who embody that dominant factor you have written and lectured about. Imagine, if you will, a group where the ratio isn’t one in twenty—but a group where everyone is a dominant personality. Some would call that an invitation to friction and disaster. I believe it will result in a group dynamic that will enable us to perform beyond all expectations.

This is where the test you have developed for identifying dominant personalities will prove invaluable.

There was more but Diana went back to the list, scrolled down farther, and clicked on an e-mail. She was particularly interested in certain paragraphs.

You expressed amusement when I told you some of the finer details of exactly what I have planned.

“Hokey” I think, was the word you used, although to your credit you smiled when you said it. But remember, we’re dealing with a gathering of dominant personalities. By their very nature, they tend to be highly independent. They tend to do as they please and resist authority. We need a common bond for them to share, a sense of belonging that will knit them into a seamless whole. The keys, as I see it, are the two basic building blocks of every social structure. Without them, few societies, few governments, last. For those I’ve invited to the compound to mesh as well as I want them to, they must be convinced of a commonality they share. That common thread is brotherhood. I know, I know. You’ll say I’m too much of an idealist. You’ll say I’m not being practical. But I respectfully submit that unless we learn to work together as individuals, we won’t survive as a group.

Diana would have read more, but the proximity alarm sounded. Startled, she looked up. Another plane was on a collision course with hers.

Ben Thompson could hardly believe it. The radio announcer was saying there were unconfirmed reports of a nuclear strike on San Diego. There were also sightings of enemy submarines off the West Coast. Add to that word from Canada that a large enemy force had pushed through Alaska into northern British Columbia, and it explained why Seattle had gone nuts.

The streets were a madhouse. Guns popped and crackled.

Screams pierced the air. Smoke spiraled toward storm clouds gathering overhead. Ben hadn’t counted on anything like this. But when he gave his word, he kept it. When he took a contract, he saw the contract through. Accordingly, when he came to the end of the block near the warehouse, he braked and opened his duffel bag. His babies lay on top. When he had gotten his honorable discharge from the Marines, one of the first things he had done was buy a pair of Colt Double Eagles customized with nickel plating and wood grips instead of rubber. He was old school, and he liked the feel of wood under his fingers.

Ben took the pistols out of his duffel and placed them on the seat. A pair of clips was next. Then a box of .45 ACP ammo. With practiced skill he quickly fed cartridges into each magazine, then slapped a mag into each of the Double Eagles. He chambered rounds. Setting one pistol next to him, he wedged the other under his belt.

“I’m good to go.”

Ben shifted and pulled out, the big rig sluggish until he got up to speed. The first few blocks were strangely deserted. Not a living soul in sight. Then he came to an intersection, started to turn, and slammed on the brakes.

Ahead was trouble. A man with a rifle was waving it at every vehicle. Drivers had stopped, some hunched over their steering wheels in what Ben took to be fear, as the man screamed and raved. Ben had no idea what was going on but he couldn’t afford a delay. He gave Semper Fi gas. The man heard him and raised his rifle. Ben waited until he was close enough to be sure and then braked. He smiled to give the impression he was friendly. His window was already down so all he had to do was lean out and holler, “What’s going on,

“I shot them and I’ll shoot you if you’re not careful!”

Ben looked at the stopped vehicles again, at the drivers hunched over their steering wheels, and a sick feeling came over him. Blood dripped from the chin of an elderly woman. A man had had one eye and part of its socket blown away. “Why?”

The man cackled. “Haven’t you heard? It’s the end of the world.” And with that, he aimed his rifle at Ben.

Deepak Kapur was as astonished as everyone else when Patrick Slayne drew a pistol. Deepak had no idea what kind it was. His knowledge of firearms was limited to those he saw on TV and at the movies. Most of the time he had no idea what they were.

A woman was the first to find her voice. “Are you a policeman?”

“No.” Slayne punched a button on the elevator panel. “Then what gives you the right to tell us we can’t take the elevator?” the same woman demanded. Slayne wagged the pistol. A man with thick sideburns shoved to the front. “I have