Doomsday

20. Warrior World

Compared to the other towns, Smelterville was strangely quiet. It bothered Slayne. It was always “the unforeseen that sent a combat op south. On the plus side, the few people on the streets were moving about in a leisurely fashion, and he saw no evidence of checkpoints or any Aryan militia. Slayne came to the edge of the forest. Beyond lay a side street lined by frame homes. “Solo is in position.”

“Almost to mine,” Montoya said. Thor said nothing. Slayne was beginning to have his doubts about the man. Anderson had performed admirably during the firelight at the Home, but he had been acting erratically ever since the Armorer had modified his hammer. Slayne wasn’t a psychologist like Professor Trevor, but Anderson was acting more and more as if he thought he was the real Thor, and that was just plain psycho.

“This is Ricco. I’m in position.”

“The son of Odin is where he should be.”

“Use your code name from now on,” Slayne said brusquely. He moved out from the trees. “All right, Alpha Triad. Converge on the truck. Low profile is the key phrase here.” Slayne’s idea of a low profile was to sling the MP5 over his shoulder and stroll along as if he belonged there. An old lady sat in a rocking chair on a porch, knitting. He nodded at her and she nodded back. From somewhere in the distance Slayne thought he heard subdued voices. Montoya was supposed to come in from the east, Anderson from the west, and Slayne was approaching from the south. He had figured that one stranger, walking alone, was less likely to stand out and draw attention than three strangers together.

On the next street some boys were throwing a football. Slayne walked close to the curb. One or two glanced at him and went right back to their game. He was almost to the end of the block when a small dog came out of a yard and yipped at his heels. A woman called, “Here, Sweetiepie!” and the mutt scampered off.

The factory was set well back. Its parking lot had enough parking spaces to accommodate a hundred cars. The sign out front was faded. Slayne guessed that the place had closed years if not decades ago. A chain-link fence surrounded the lot but the gate was open and hanging lopsided. The muffled voices grew louder.

As Slayne entered the parking lot, he realized why; the voices were coming from inside the factory. Some kind of meeting was going on. He made for the semi. “Alpha Triad, report.”

“This is Ricco. Almost there.”

“This is Thor. The same.”

“Hold your positions once you reach the target,” Slayne reminded them. They were to cover him from the perimeter and be ready to render aid if he needed it.

The truck was a regal mechanical beast with the words Semper Fi painted on the doors. The dust that covered it showed it had not seen recent use.

Slayne walked the length of the trailer. He looked around to verify no one was watching. Gripping the handle, he wrenched on the rear door. To his surprise, it opened right up. And there it was: the SEAL. He was surprised the Aryans hadn’t tried to get it out. But maybe they had tried, and couldn’t do it. The locks were ingeniously designed to thwart even the best lock pick, and the windows and body were proof against anything short of a bazooka. “It’s here,” he announced. “Baby is here.”

“Roger that, Solo.”

“I’ll see if I can get the truck started. Hold your positions.”

“Will do.”

Slayne closed the door and hurried to the cab. The door was unlocked. He climbed in but left the door open. The key wasn’t in the ignition, as he’d hoped it might be.

He checked behind the visors, in the glove compartment, and under the seat. He debated trying to hotwire the truck.

“What the dickens are you doing in there, mister?”

The Aryan was short and stocky with close-cropped hair and a beard streaked with tobacco stains. He held a shotgun in his left hand, muzzle pointed at the ground.

“Looking for the key,” Slayne said. “You wouldn’t happen to have it, would you?”

“What? No. I’d guess Mr. Croft or Hardin has it. Mr.

Croft seems to think that van in the back is special. He gave orders that no one is to go near it without his say so.”

“Where can I find them?”

The man bobbed his chin at the building. “At the meeting. Where else?” He blinked. “Wait a minute. Who the hell are you?”

Slayne smiled. “You can call me Solo with your dying breath if you want.” He whipped the MP5 up and around and triggered a three-round burst into the Aryan’s chest. A moment later his earpiece crackled.

“Solo. I saw that. I’m coming over.”

“Hold your position, Ricco. No one has noticed. We’re still good.” Slayne climbed down. Bending, he slid his hands under the dead man’s shoulders and dragged him toward the trailer, intending to shove him underneath and out of sight.

“Solo! You have five unfriendlies coming up on the other side. They’re almost on top of you.” Slayne peered under the trailer and saw boots and shoes. He had no time to hide the body. Unfurling, he turned just as the Aryans came around the end of the trailer. He triggered two bursts and the first two men fell. The others darted back. He backed up, too, toward the cab.

“This is Ricco. I’m on my way.”

A head popped out. Slayne fired, but the man ducked from sight. He saw Montoya racing from the east end of the parking lot, and it hit him that he hadn’t heard from the other member of their Triad in several minutes.

“Thor, do you copy?”

There was no answer.

“Thor, answer me.”

Still no response.

Slayne swore, and almost didn’t hear the patter of running feet coming around the front of the cab. He whirled and let the Aryan have a burst full in the face.

“Solo!” Ricco reported. “One of them has a walkie-talkie!” Slayne could guess what the man was doing: alerting those inside the factory and requesting reinforcements. The situation threatened to go from bad to FUBAR.

“Hurry, Ricco.”

“Almost there.”

Just then double doors at the front of the factory burst open and out spilled a swarm of two-legged hornets. Slayne’s immediate thought was: This is bad.

Soren Anderson reached the west side of the parking lot. He stood at the fence for all of thirty seconds and then did what he wasn’t supposed to do. He wedged Mjolnir under the power belt, jumped up, and caught hold of the bar at the top of the fence. Another moment, and he was up and over and crouched on the other side.

Hundreds of yards away was the truck. Slayne was almost to it.

Soren unlimbered Mjolnir and headed for the factory. He noticed a side door, but when he got there it was locked. Farther on was a window. Someone had cracked it open a few inches. Raising it all the way, he slipped over the sill and found himself in a small office. He moved to a door and listened. All he heard were voices from deeper in the factory.

Soren eased out the doorway. A dark hall led to a stairwell at one end and toward the voices at the other end. He chose the stairwell. At the landing he hesitated. Should he go up or down? His gut said to go down.

The basement consisted of another hallway with doors on both sides. Soren went from one to the next, opening them and poking in his head. The first room contained boxes and crates. The next had shelves lined with medical supplies. The third was crammed with K rations.

Soren decided the building was some sort of supply depot. He opened the fourth door and nearly gagged. The reek was abominable. Urine and worse. It was pitch black. He saw nothing to show the room was in use and went to close the door.

Someone groaned.

Soren pushed the door all the way open. He held Mjolnir in front of him and switched it to its lowest power setting but didn’t press the rune to fire. There was a hum and the weapon’s head glowed just enough for him to see a pile of rags in the middle of the floor. As he looked, the pile of rags moved. It was a black man. He had been terribly, brutally beaten. One eye was swollen shut, the other a slit. His nose was bent, his lips were pulped. His body was even worse. He was bound, wrists and ankles. Soren sank to one knee and gently touched the man’s shoulder. “Are you Ben Thomas?” The slit of an eye twitched. The pulped lips moved. “Yes,” he croaked.

“Odin has guided me to you so that I may save you.”

“Odin?” A dry gourd rattled in the apparition’s throat. “It’s finally happened. I’ve gone nuts.”

“The world is insane, friend Thomas, not you.” Soren pried at the knots. “The human race has had its own Ragnarok. But we will rise anew, and the Ancient Way will be strong again.” He had removed both ropes and was slipping his arm under Thomas to lift him when he heard footsteps in the hall. Turning Mjolnir off, he moved over against the wall near the door.

The footsteps drew closer.

“Whoa. What’s this? Who’s been in here?”

A figure entered, diminutive and female. A hand reached out and the room flooded with light from an overhead bulb. She held a tray with a bowl of soup, and took a step toward Thomas.

“Ben! How did you get free?”

Soren moved between her and the doorway so she couldn’t get away. “Who are you?” he demanded. The girl whirled. She gasped and her eyes grew wide with astonishment. “Damn. They grow them big where you come from.”

“I will ask you again. Who are you?”

Recovering her composure, the girl snapped, “You’ve got that backwards, bozo. Who are you and what are you doing in here with my friend? If you’re here to hurt him…”

“You are Mr. Thomas’s friend?”

“That’s what I said. Don’t your ears work?”

“Then I will take both of you.” Soren strode past her and again bent to lift Thomas.

“Hold on. Not so fast. Who the hell are you? And where do you think you’re taking us?”

“I’m called Thor. I’m here with other Warriors to retrieve the vehicle Mr. Thomas was to deliver to our Home.”

“Others?” Hope lit the girl’s face. “God, I hope you brought a whole army.”

“There are three of us.”

Disappointment replaced the hope. “Only three? Damn, mister. Do you have any idea what you’re up against? This is where the Aryan Army meets. There are pretty near sixty of their soldiers upstairs right this minute.”

“Don’t worry. I have Mjolnir.”

“You have what?”

Soren held out the hammer. “Mjolnir. Crusher. Giant killer. Bringer of the lightning.”

“God, you’re nuts.”

“I am perfectly sane, child. Who are you, by the way?”

“My friends call me Space. I suppose a lunatic can, too.” Soren turned with Thomas cradled under one arm. Instantly, Space set down the tray and was at their side. She slid her arm around Thomas from the other side. Soren was surprised at how light the man was, and remarked as much.

“I sneak him food when I can but it’s nowhere near enough. They keep a close eye on me.” Space shifted so Ben’s head rested on her shoulder. “They have me working in the kitchen. Me! Peeling spuds and chopping carrots. It’s too damn stupid for words.”

“At least they haven’t killed either of you.”

“They’re keeping me around for breeding purposes. Their very words.” Space tenderly touched Thomas’s sunken cheek. “They’ve been trying to make Ben tell them how they can get into that vehicle of yours, but he wouldn’t. That’s the only reason he’s still breathing.”

“We’ll get you to the Home, child. You’ll be safe there.”

“Whose home? Yours? Where is it?”

“I’ll explain later. Right now we must hurry.” They carried Ben Thomas out of the room and down the hall to the stairs. His feet dragged until Soren noticed and raised him higher.

“We’ve got to take it slow, mister. If we run into any of the Aryans and they sound the alarm, you’ll be up to your armpits in racists.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll protect you.”

Space angrily stamped a foot. “Damn it. You’re not taking this serious enough. Didn’t you hear me about the big meeting?”

“Didn’t you hear me about Mjolnir?”

“Listen, nut job. You have a hammer. They have guns. Lots and lots of guns. You won’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell. Our best bet is to sneak out before they notice I’m missing and come looking for me.”

Soren was paying attention to her and not their surroundings. He realized his mistake when they came to the landing and he looked up to find five well-armed men staring at them in amazement.

“Hold it right there!” one of them barked, and leveled a rifle.