David Robbins: Doomsday

They were going to do it.

They were going to destroy the world.

Kurt Carpenter stared at the TV screen in the back of his limousine and tried to wrap his mind around what he was seeing. Mushroom clouds. Mushroom clouds in the Middle East. A third of Israel, reduced to cinders. She had retaliated with her own nuclear arsenal, of course, and now the announcer was saying that there were five confirmed nuclear explosions in the country that had attacked. Five cities, wiped out. Carpenter leaned back and closed his eyes. He willed himself to relax but couldn’t. How could anyone relax with the end of the world about to take place? He swallowed, or tried to, but his mouth was too dry. “God in heaven.” He clenched his fists so hard, his fingernails dug into his palms. “We’re really going to do it.”

The “we” was all-inclusive, as in “the human race.” Carpenter had long believed that humankind would shoot itself in the head, but he’d also hoped, desperately hoped, that his fellow humans would prove him wrong. “Do we turn back, sir?” Holland was looking at him in the rearview mirror. As usual, the chauffeur could have been carved from stone for all the emotion he showed.

“Back to the airport?” Carpenter shook his head. “No. We go on to the compound. The word must go out.”

“Will there be time, sir, for everyone to get there? What if the government grounds all flights?”

“We keep our fingers crossed.”

Carpenter mentally crossed his own. He had planned for so long. He had worked so hard. A lot of people thought he was nuts. They sneered and snickered behind his back. A few laughed at him to his face. “What a waste of your money!” was the common sentiment. But the way Carpenter saw it, what good was a fortune if it wasn’t put to good use? And what better use than to salvage what he could so that humanity would survive to build a new world from the ruins of the old?

The news channel cut to world leaders reacting to the crisis. Every last one was deeply shocked. Every last one was determined that whoever was to blame would pay. Saber rattling George Armstrong Custer would be proud of.

It was a long drive from the Twin Cities to Lake Bronson State Park. Normally, Carpenter used the time to go over scripts and note camera angles and special lighting and lens effects. Or he might do paperwork for financing an upcoming project. Or any number of things related to his work as a movie director.

But not today. All Carpenter could think of was the apocalypse and those he could save if only they were able to reach the compound before it was too late.

Soren Anderson was working on the thirtieth floor of a skyscraper under construction in the heart of the City of Brotherly Love. He handled the one-shot rivet gun with an ease few men could match. His size had a lot to do with it. Soren was a few inches shy of seven feet tall, with broad shoulders and arms bulging with muscle. Add to that his shoulder-length blond hair and his blond mustache and neatly trimmed beard, and it was no wonder most who saw him thought he was Scandinavian or Danish. Soren was Norwegian. Or his great-great-great-great-great grandfather had been. Not that it mattered to Soren; he saw himself as American, born and bred. He knew as much about Norway, except in one respect, as he did about, say, Outer Mongolia.

Soren was bent over the rivet gun, checking the air regulator, when someone clapped him on the back. He turned and was surprised to find the foreman, Carl Nestor. “I’m going as fast as I can.” Nestor had a strange look about him and kept glancing at the sky.

“It’s not that. We’re calling it quits for the day. Get your stuff and get out of here.” Soren didn’t hide his surprise. “But it’s only two. Three hours yet until quitting time. Why so early?”

“You wouldn’t have heard on account of this.” Nestor tapped the rivet gun. “We all need to leave.” Soren noticed that nearly every other member of the crew was gone and the few still left were making for the elevator. “What in Odin’s name is going on?”

“Hurry,” Nestor urged. “You have a long ride to reach your family before it hits the fan.”

“Before what does?”

Carl Nestor didn’t answer. Instead, he did a strange thing. He held out his hand, and when Soren shook it, Nestor said, “In case this is the real deal, it’s been a pleasure knowing you, you big lug. You’re one of the good guys.”

“What are you talking about?”

Bewildered, Soren watched the foreman join those leaving. He set the rivet gun down, took off his work gloves, and pushed his hard hat back on his tousled mane of blond hair. Only then did he hear the sirens. His bewilderment growing, he moved to the edge of the girder and stared down at the city where he’d grown up. To the northeast, the Benjamin Franklin Bridge gleamed in the sunlight. If not for the smog, he’d be able to see clear to Camden.

Something was wrong. Soren had never seen so many people on the sidewalks. The streets were bumper to bumper. Horns blared in constant cacophony, punctuated by the shrill scream of scores of sirens.

“Has everyone gone mad?” Soren wondered aloud. He thought of his wife and children, the three people he loved most in the world, and alarm spiked through him.

Soren picked up his tool belt on his way to the elevator. He strapped the belt around his waist as he waited. No one else was around. He was the last to go down. He listened to the whine of the cable and the grind of gears as the lift climbed to his level. The car rattled to a stop. Anxiously, he exited, muscles tensed. He was mildly shocked when he reached the parking lot to find that his half-ton pickup was the only vehicle left. He was reaching into his front pocket for his keys when his phone chirped. Soren answered it.

“Mr. Anderson, this is Becca Levy. This isn’t a test or a drill. I repeat, this isn’t a test or a drill.”

“All-Father, no,” Soren said. So he had been right. His worst fear was about to be made real.

“What is your password, sir?”

“Sif.”

“I am instructed to tell you that the Endwotld Protocol is active.”

“How much time do I have?”

“One hundred hours, remember? Can you make it to the compound in that amount of time, Mr. Anderson?”

“I’ll get my family there or die trying.”

“I wish you luck, Mr. Anderson. You have farther to travel than most. If at any time we can be of assistance, contact the Communications Center. We’ll have people manning the phones 24-7.”

“Thank you.” Soren closed his phone and again reached into his pocket for his keys. Nearby, someone coughed. He turned, his eyes widening slightly. He hadn’t expected anything like this so soon. There were five of them, gangstas sporting their colors, cold arrogance stamped on their young faces. The tallest bobbed his chin at the pickup. “Hey, man. That yours?”

“Yes,” Soren admitted.

“We want it. Hand over the keys and everything will be cool. Give us a hard time and we’ll waste you.” And with that, he flicked out a knife.