Doomsday

17. Alpha Triad

Patrick Slayne instantly assumed command. “Everyone into their assigned bunkers! On your feet! Do it quick but do it orderly! Move, people! Move!” He touched Carpenter, who was staring upward as if mesmerized. “That means you, too, Kurt. Get in C Block.”

Carpenter tore his gaze from the deluge. He blinked and said, “The Family first.”

“A lot of us are expendable. You’re not.” Slayne motioned to Diana Trevor. “Get him in there. Push him if he won’t walk.”

Diana nodded and took hold of Carpenter’s wrist. “He’s right. Your safety is paramount.” The Family made an orderly dash for sanctuary as more and more flakes fluttered down, a dark snowfall, growing thicker and darker, moment by moment.

Slayne was furious with himself. He should have posted lookouts with orders to keep a watch on the sky as well as beyond the walls. His lapse might cost lives.

By now the ground was completely covered. Visibility was limited to twenty feet, at best.

“Faster!” Slayne shouted. “As fast as you can!” He moved among them, hastening them along. “Hold hands and call out if you lose your way!”

To their credit, no one panicked. Mothers clasped children and fathers shielded their young ones with their own bodies.

Slayne was the last to make for the Blocks. By then visibility was down to five feet. Cupping his hands, he bellowed, “Have someone standing next to each Block yell so the others can get their bearings.” Almost immediately, some of those who had already reached the bunkers began calling out. Slayne reached C Block. But he didn’t go in. He stood just outside, the fallout so thick he could barely see his hand at arm’s length, and listened to the shouting until it stopped. Then, shaking himself and brushing off flakes, he entered and nodded at two men waiting to shut the door. He made straight for the Com Center and contacted each of the other Blocks.

Everyone was accounted for.

A man ran up with a Geiger counter. “I’ve been checking like you said we always should when we come back in. The needle is jumping.”

Slayne confirmed it for himself. The fallout read high but not so high as to be life-threatening, except for a few hot particles. He barked commands. Everyone was to strip off the clothes they had worn outside and the clothes were to be piled in a corner of the laundry. Cleanup details were to go from room to room, sweeping up ash. Hot particles were to be isolated and disposed of.

Slayne relayed his instructions to the other Blocks. He could only hope no one came down with radiation sickness. When he had done all he could, he went in search of Carpenter and found him seated at his desk looking distraught. “It could have been worse,” he concluded.

“A lot worse,” Carpenter agreed. “I didn’t react fast enough. You did, though. You assumed change quickly and efficiently.”

Slayne shrugged. “It’s my job.”

Carpenter thoughtfully drummed his fingers on his desk. “Another lesson learned. From here on out, in times of emergency you’re to assume charge of the Family.”

“Don’t go overboard.”

“I’m not, Patrick. In fact, I intend to ask for a vote of general approval so that in the future, whenever the Home is threatened, the Warriors will take over until the crisis has passed.” Diana Trevor came in. She had changed into a light blue blouse and jeans. “I think that went well, all things considered.”

Slayne frowned. “We were caught napping. But I’ll be damned if I’ll let that happen again.”

“I guess I should have listened to that girl. Maybe it wouldn’t have happened.” Diana sank into a chair.

“What girl? What are you talking about?

“Megan Franchone. She’s, what, fifteen? This morning I was talking to her family at breakfast and the mother mentioned Megan had a dream last night that something terrible would happen today. I told her dreams like that are perfectly ordinary.”

“I wonder,” Carpenter said. “Have the mother and the girl come see me later. I’d like to find out if she has dreams like that often.”

“Oh, she does. The mother tried to convince me that Megan is some kind of psychic. Which is perfectly ridiculous.”

“Is it?” Carpenter leaned back. “I read an article on it once in a Fortean magazine. Empaths, such people are called.”

“Kurt, please.”

“I know, I know. But there have been documented cases that can’t be explained.”

“I’m surprised at you. Usually you take a more rational approach.”

“I try to leave myself open to all possibilities,” Carpenter said. “I had a college instructor who used to say that the only thing that keeps us from solving the challenges we face is a closed mind.” Slayne changed the subject. “I’m going to get on the horn and announce that anyone interested in being a Warrior should contact me. I’ll conduct personal interviews later, after the fallout stops and we know it’s safe.”

“I wonder how many will apply?”

Fourteen men and women were interested. Slayne weeded out those whose hearts were in the right place but who lacked the most essential attribute for the job. As he explained it to one of the volunteers,

“Anyone can learn to shoot. Anyone can learn to fight. But that’s not enough. True Warriors must have a certain mindset. They must be devoted to combat. They must live it, eat it, breathe it. They must learn to live on the cusp of death. The deaths they cause, and their own.” The candidate asked for Slayne to elaborate.

“When all is said and done, the essence of being a Warrior is death dealing. If a person isn’t comfortable as a death dealer, they lack the most essential quality a Warrior needs. So far there are only two Family members who I can say with complete confidence have that quality, and one of them is me.”

“Who is the other one?”

Soren Anderson strode over to a corner table in the cafeteria, set Mjolnir down, and took a seat across from the man who was eating. “Do you mind if we talk?”

“Not at all.” Sam Richter paused with a piece of meat-loaf halfway to his mouth and stared at the hammer. “So that’s what you used? A mallet against rifles. You have guts.” He bit the meatloaf off the fork and chewed. “Word is that you’ve been selected to be a Warrior. Congratulations.”

“Thank you. That’s why I’m here. Mr. Carpenter says you’re the Family Armorer.” Richter chuckled. “Him and his titles. I’m a blacksmith, Mr. Anderson. Before that I had a gun shop for a few years. I can take a gun apart and put it back together again.”

“I’m not here about a gun.” Soren placed a big hand on Mjolnir. “I’m here about this.” Richter put down his fork and picked up a glass of water. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“The Warriors are required to carry at least two guns. One must be a rifle or a shotgun or a submachine gun. The other must be a sidearm. I don’t want a sidearm. I want to use Mjolnir.”

“I still don’t understand.”

“Can you turn Mjolnir into a gun? Can you rig it so I can shoot a bullet out the handle?” Sam Richter reached across the table to lift the hammer using one hand. “Dear lord.” He used both hands. “How can you swing this thing? It must weigh fifty pounds.”

“To me it is a feather.”

“Maybe you should listen to Slayne.”

“But I want Mjolnir. All I need is to find a way to give it more range and he’ll let me use it. I’m sure.” Richter examined the hammer closely. He ran his fingers over the runes and thumped the head and then the handle. “Mr. Anderson, this thing is solid. A gun requires parts to operate. Where would I put them?”

“I was thinking the handle.”

Richter turned the hammer upside down and placed it on the table with its handle sticking up. “What kind of wood is this? Whatever it is, it’s as hard as rock. I could try to core it out, but even then I’m not sure I could fit a trigger mechanism inside.”

Soren didn’t hide his disappointment. “There must be something. Maybe it could fire a shotgun shell if you put in a firing pin and I pound it a certain way.”

“The pounding might break the pin. And it would only work at extremely close range.” Richter shook his head. “I’m sorry. I truly am. But I don’t see how I can be of help.”

“I was afraid of that.” Soren sadly picked up Mjolnir and held it high. “If only I could be like the son of Odin and call down the thunder and lightning.”

About to resume eating, Richter looked at him and then at the hammer. “Lightning, you say?”

“Yes. Surely you’ve read of Thor’s exploits?”

“Can’t say as I have, no. But you’ve just given me an idea. Ever used an electroshock weapon like a Taser or one of those new Voltz? I sold them back when I had my gun shop.” Soren shook his head. The only time he had ever seen them was on television and in the movies.

“They made great strides in miniaturization right before this damn war. The Voltz looked like a pen, but it packed quite a wallop. Up to two million volts, if I remember correctly.”

“What are you suggesting?”

Richter came around the table and examined the hammer more closely. “Would you trust me to replace this handle? Say, with a titanium alloy, hollowed out so I can fit it with those new solarium capacitors and a selector switch? All insulated, of course, so you only fry those you’re fighting and not yourself.”

“I’ll be able to stun people?” Soren liked the idea, but it wasn’t what he had had in mind and certainly wouldn’t convince Slayne to let him use Mjolnir.

“Oh, I think we can do better than that.” Richter circled the handle with two fingers, gauging how thick it was. “There’s this young man named Allan Timm. He’s the Assistant Armorer, as Carpenter calls him. Allan is a gun nut, but he’s also quite good at electronics. With his help we should be able to outdo the commercial models.”

“How would it work, exactly?” Soren asked. “I’d shoot little darts out of the handle?” Even that didn’t appeal to him.

“Oh, no, Mr. Anderson. Didn’t you ever read Popular Mechanics? The latest versions use the air as a conductor.”

Soren drummed the table in mild impatience. “Spell it out for me, Mr. Richter. What exactly will I be able to do?”

The Armorer smiled. “You’ll be able to shoot lightning bolts.” A tingle ran from the nape of Soren’s neck to the base of his spine. He said, almost breathlessly, “You’re kidding me.”

“Not at all.” Richter scratched his chin. “Let’s see. If I make the new handle longer, we can rig it so you can trigger a discharge several rimes without recharging. I should guess it would give you a range of twenty or thirty feet.”

“Dear Odin.”

Richter was absorbed in the challenge. “As added protection we should come up with special gloves. Rubber would work. Maybe even a whole suit. Like one of those wet suits that divers wear.” He paused.

“I wonder if Carpenter has one stockpiled somewhere?”

Images danced in Soren’s head. He grabbed the Armorer’s hand and enthusiastically pumped it. “If you can do this, Mr. Richter, I’ll be forever in your debt.”

“Don’t get excited yet. I have to run it past Allan. He’s the one who can make it work. Why don’t you bring your hammer by my workshop in an hour or so for him to look at?”

“I’ll be there.” Soren grabbed Mjolnir and hurried out to break the news to Toril. In his excitement he nearly collided with someone coming the other way. “Oh. Sorry, Mr. Carpenter. I didn’t see you.” Kurt Carpenter was consulting a digital clipboard. “Mmmm?” he said absently, and looked up. “Mr. Anderson. How are you? I want to personally thank you for volunteering to be a Warrior. Patrick tells me you’re one of his most promising recruits.”

That reminded Soren of something. “Did he talk to you about my code name?”

“Your what?”

Soren explained that Slayne had insisted each of the Warriors use a code name.

“He says they are common, that Special Forces use them when on combat ops, as he calls it.” Soren hesitated, then came out with it: “But when I told him the name I want to use, he called it silly. Inappropriate, was his exact word.”

“What do you want to be called?”

“Thor.”

Carpenter coughed, then said, “It’s rather unusual.”

“I just don’t want anyone to forget,” Soren said.

“Forget what?”

“The God of Thunder.” Soren let out his passion. “Think about it, sir. The world has pretty much come to an end. All those cities destroyed. All those millions and millions killed. Civilization has to start over. But without electricity and with all the schools closed and a lot of the libraries destroyed, who will remember the things of the past? Who will remember Thor? Or those Spartans you were talking about? Or anything having to do with history? It will all be forgotten.”

Kurt Carpenter gave a start. “I hadn’t thought of that.” He gnawed his lower lip. “Mr. Anderson, you’ve given me an inspiration. I must think on it more, but I thank you.” He started to go on by.

“Wait. What about my code name?”

Carpenter smiled. “From this moment on we’ll call you Thor.”