Doomsday

10. Fractured Lives

It got worse the farther west they went.

The National Guard had been called in to quell the panic and the looting, but most soldiers were sent into the bigger towns and cities. Rural America was left largely on its own. It was only a hundred miles or so from Trudale to Harrisburg, but it might as well have been a thousand. The interstate was a mess. Twice, early on, Soren had tried taking 76, and each time, within a dozen miles, he had come upon tangles of vehicles. The secondary roads were mostly clear, but they took a lot longer.

Toril wouldn’t stop fretting. “What if something has happened to her? What if a mob ransacked her house like they did our neighbors?”

“I very much doubt it,” Soren sought to soothe her. “Your mom lives in the country. She should be fine.”

“It’s near Interstate eighty-one,” Toril reminded him.

“Half a mile, at least.” Soren couldn’t see anyone tramping that far just to loot an old farmhouse. Freya and Magni were strangely quiet. Normally they bickered and teased but now they sat staring fearfully out the windows.

Soren had tried to get them to play “I see…” where one tried to guess what the other was looking at. He had tried to get them to play the license plate game, where they got points for each out-of-state license. He had tried to get them to sing. They declined and went on staring.

The radio started acting up. Now and then static and strange sounds drowned out the announcers. Soren wanted the latest news and kept switching stations. Late in the afternoon he stumbled on a pair of bombshells.

“…It is officially confirmed that San Diego has suffered a nuclear strike. It has also been confirmed that the Vatican has been destroyed. Initial reports indicate a backpack nuke was used. In the Mideast, Israel has launched multiple air strikes. Tehran has been hit hard, and there is word that much of that city is radioactive waste. From the U.S. Navy comes word of a fleet of warships bound for the eastern coast of the United States. It’s believed that New York and Philadelphia…” Static cut in. Soren tweaked the dial, but it did no good. He had lost the signal. They swung east of Harrisburg. Their route took them neat Indian Echo Cave, which Soren had visited as a boy, and on through Hummelstown to within a mile of 81. A turnoff took them along a country road past several farms.

At last the familiar white stucco farmhouse atop a hill came into sight. Toril sat forward and clasped her hands. “If only we could have gotten through to her. She could be ready to go.”

“We’ll spend the night,” Soren offered. The sun was already perched on the horizon, and a night’s sleep in comfortable surroundings would do the children good.

Gravel crunched under their tires as Soren wound up a long drive flanked by stately maple trees. He braked next to a lilac bush and everyone piled out. He brought Mjolnir with him. The rocking chair on the porch was empty, the house quiet. Toril dashed up the walk and knocked eagerly. When there was no reply, she tried the doorknob. “It’s locked.”

“Maybe Sigrid is watching television and didn’t hear you.

“Or she doesn’t have her hearing aid in.” Toril went to a potted plant, lifted it, and produced the key. The house always smelled of food. Today Soren would swear it was oatmeal. He followed his wife into the living room, but Sigrid wasn’t there. A dark hall led past the dining room, with its mahogany table and chairs, and into the kitchen.

“Where can she be? She wouldn’t go anywhere at a time like this.” Suddenly stopping short, Toril raised a hand to her throat. “Mother!”

Sigrid Uhlgren sat slumped over the kitchen table, one arm under her head, the other dangling. Toril ran over and grabbed her by the shoulders. “Mother? What’s wrong? Speak to me!” Soren confirmed that Sigrid would never speak again. She wore a peaceful expression, as if dying had been a pleasant passage from here to the hereafter. He looked at his wife and shook his head.

“But bow?” Toril cried. Bending over her mother, she began to sob. Soren suspected a heart attack or stroke. Sigrid had been in her late seventies and in failing health ever since her husband had died. She simply hadn’t cared to live without her Karl.

“Mom?”

Soren quickly ushered the kids to the living room and told them to stay put. Then he went out to the truck. He still intended to stay the night, and they would need their backpacks. When he returned, Toril had stopped crying, but her cheeks and chin were wet. Sniffling, she tenderly stroked Sigrid’s hair. “I loved her so much. She was as good a mother as anyone could ask for.” Soren agreed. Sigrid had accepted him dating her daughter long before Karl had. Maybe her intuition had told her he was the one. Or maybe it was that they were so much alike. She had been steeped in the old ways, and while she hadn’t believed as he did, she’d respected his right to do so. “Do we burn her according to the old ways or bury her? She’s your mother, so the decision should be yours.”

“What if someone saw the smoke and came to investigate? Burying is fine.” Soren doubted anyone would come, but they were pressed for time. “Okay.”

“Give me a few minutes. I want to pay my respects.”

Soren went out and over to the garden shed. Inside was the shovel he needed. Where to dig was the next question. He chose a spot near the rose bushes. Roses had been Sigrid’s passion. Toril insisted on a service. She brought the children outside and they stood around the fresh mound of earth with their heads bowed.

“‘I know where stands a hall brighter than sunlight,’” Soren quoted. “‘Gleaming better than gold in Lee-of-flame. Hosts of the righteous shall inherit it, and live in the light everlasting.’” Supper was a sorry affair. Toril made soup, but only Soren was hungry. The kids asked to be excused. Toril put down her spoon, leaned her elbows on the table, and placed her face in her hands.

“I’m sorry. I’m too broken up.”

“She was your mother,” Soren said quietly. “The healing will take time.”

“Thank you for saying the words. I couldn’t think.”

Soren reached across and gently placed his hand on her arm. “Don’t be so hard on yourself.” He couldn’t help wondering, though, if maybe a different passage would have been more appropriate. One, in particular, had stuck in his mind most of the day. The sun will go black and the earth sink into the sea. Heaven will be stripped of its bright stars. Smoke will rage, and fire, leaping living flame, will lick heaven itself.

Toril looked up and said, “My father had a gun.”

“What?”

“A shotgun. In the closet in their bedroom. He didn’t shoot it much, but it should still be there.” Soren glanced at Mjolnir on the table beside them. “I’ll rely on my hammer.”

“What if we run into looters with guns? You’re not Thor. You can’t call down the lightning and the thunder.”

“Would that I could.” Everyone had a secret yearning they rarely revealed, and Soren’s was that he would dearly love to be the true and real God of Thunder. Childish, but there it was.

“What will happen to us? What will happen to our children?” Toril gazed out the window at the gathering darkness. “What will the world be like when this madness is over?

Soren didn’t say anything but he was thinking, Maybe it never will be over. Professor Diana Trevor had no hope of getting to the corn-field before Hercules caught her. She veered toward the barn and ducked around its wide door, pressing her back to the wall. She heard the dog’s heaving breathing and the pad of its paws, and the next second it hurtled past her and slid to a stop in the dusty barn. She held her breath, afraid the sound of her own breathing would give her away, as Hercules stalked toward the rear. He didn’t think to look behind him.

Diana needed something to defend herself with. Her eyes took a few more moments to adjust, and then she could see the straw that littered the floor and a ladder leading to the hayloft. Propped against the ladder was a pitchfork.

Diana would be damned if she were going to let the old farmer throw her into his root cellar. She had somewhere to be, and she would get there no matter what it took.

Boots pounded, and Amos Stiggims entered. He was still holding his folding knife. He ran a dozen steps farther, then stopped. “Where is she, boy? Where did that tricky bitch get to?” Diana gauged the distance to the ladder. It would put her near Stiggims, but it couldn’t be helped. The mongrel was halfway to the rear of the barn and posed no immediate threat.

“Find her, boy,” Stiggims urged. “I saw her come in. She has to be here somewhere.” Girding herself, Diana bounded toward the ladder. She was almost to it when both Stiggims and the dog heard her. Hercules spun and growled. Amos bleated an oath and lunged, trying to grab her. Diana barely skipped aside in time. Another long stride and she had the pitchfork, then she turned to confront them. Amos stopped cold, a twisted smile on his face. Hercules stopped, too, but only for a few heartbeats. Then he slunk forward.

“Stay, boy! Stay!” Stiggims commanded. To Diana he said, “Be reasonable. Put that down. I don’t want to hurt you. All I want is your company.”

“For how long?” Diana shot back. “A year? Five years? A lifetime? No thank you.”

“It won’t be so bad. I’ll treat you decent. I’ll keep you fed and let you take baths and everything.”

“You’re all heart.”

The farmer stiffened in indignation. “No need to take that tone. You could be worse off. You could be on the road with no one to look after you.”

“I don’t need babysitting. I’m a grown woman.” Diana was keeping an eye on Hercules. He was still in a crouch and could spring in a twinkling.

“All the more reason for you and me to stick together, girlie. Like I told you, I don’t intend no frisky business.”

Hercules took another step and Diana turned, the pitchfork in front of her. “Warn him off or so help me I’ll stick him.”

“Stay, damn it!” Stiggims spread his arms in appeal. “Let’s talk this out, you and me. We can work things out so they benefit both of us.”

“You’re crazy, old man,” Diana said flatly. “I don’t care if it is the end of the world. You can’t do as you please with every female who comes along.”

“There’s only been you. It won’t be so bad. I have plenty of food stored. The rest of the world will starve, but we’ll have full bellies.”

Diana had to get out of there. The dog was inching toward her. Then Amos moved so he was between her and the door. “Out of my way. I’m leaving.”

“I’m more spry than I look, girlie. And Hercules, there, is a regular lion when he’s mad. Make it easy on yourself. Drop that thing and come along without a fuss.”

“Please, Mr. Stiggims. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“That’s damn decent of you. It truly is. But you’re putting the cart before the horse.”

“Please.”

“Beg all you want. I’ve made up my mind.” Stiggims crouched and showed his yellow teeth.

“There are limits and I have reached mine.”

“Is that so? Then it’s root hog or die, girlie.”

“Call me that one more time.”

“What? Girlie?” Stiggims chuckled. “Gets your dander up, does it?” Diana clenched the pitchfork harder.

“Are you one of those feminazis I hear about on the radio?”

“No, I’m a pissed-off woman.” Diana lunged, bur it was only a feint. She expected him to do what he did, namely, spring back and bawl at the dog.

“Get her, Hercules! Attack, boy!”

Whirling, Diana braced the long handle against her side, the pitchfork angled up. The dog was already in midair. It came down right on the tines, yipping as they tipped through its body like knives through butter. The dog weighed as much if not more than she did, and she was knocked back.

“Hercules!” Amos Stiggims cried. He stared at the dead dog, then screeched and came at her like one possessed.

Letting go of the pitchfork, Diana evaded a wild slash. She backpedaled and Stiggims came after her, his eyes lit with maniacal fury. He swung the blade at her throat, her chest, her face. She bumped into something and nearly fell. Reaching back to steady herself, she realized she had collided with the ladder. Darting around it, she tried one last time.

“It doesn’t have to be like this.” She tried to stay calm. “Drop the knife and let me leave.”

“Bitch!” the old man shrilled, and thrust his knife between the rungs. Diana had her biweekly volleyball sessions to thank for the reflexes that enabled her to grab his wrist, wrench with all her might, and break the bone with an audible crack. He screamed and slumped, and she came around the ladder and landed an uppercut any boxer would envy. It nearly broke her hand, but it left him on his knees, too woozy to resist as she dived a hand into his pocket and palmed the keys. Five minutes later the truck was roaring down the country road, raising a thick cloud of dust in its wake. Diana Trevor gripped the wheel tightly. She had a long way to go and nothing was going to stand in her way.

Except dying.