Doomsday

21. Brothers in Arms

Robert Montoya was within twenty yards of the trailer. He had angled across the lot to come up on it from the rear. The Aryans behind it hadn’t seen him, and their backs were to him, which made no difference. Raising the Jati-Matic, he cut loose, felling them in their tracks. Montoya started around the trailer to join Slayne. He had only taken a few steps when the front doors of the factory slammed open and out rushed more Aryans. Caught in the open, he had no choice but to dive flat and spray lead.

Slayne did the same. Their combined hailstorm drove the Aryans inside, leaving half a dozen on the ground. “Get up here, Ricco. I’ll cover you.”

Montoya didn’t hesitate. He had a lot of open space to cover, but he had confidence in Slayne. He’d seen Slayne at target practice; the man seldom missed. He ran flat out. Slayne saw a head appear in the doorway and let off a burst to discourage any attempt to shoot Montoya. He watched the windows, too, and when a shadow filled one of them, he gave the shadow some slugs to chew on.

Montoya was almost to the cab when a single shot cracked. He felt the sting of impact and his left leg was nearly knocked out from under him. Limping, he returned fire and reached Slayne’s side. Slayne downed the shooter, an Aryan who had popped out of the open doorway. “Where are you hit?”

“The calf, I think. But I can manage.” Montoya fired at a window. “What do we do? We can’t stay here.” Slayne agreed. They were too exposed. They could take cover under the trailer, but the bottom was too high off the ground. Only the tires offered any protection, and he didn’t want them shot out. He pointed at a pair of large metal trash bins at the near corner of the building. “There,” he said. “You first. I’ve got your back.”

Montoya nodded. His leg pained him with every step and he hopped more than he ran but he made good speed. The possibility of taking a round in the back lent extra incentive. No shots rang out. Slayne kept expecting the Aryans to barrel from the factory in pursuit, but either they were regrouping or they had some other tactic up their sleeve. He reminded himself these weren’t professionals. They were ordinary citizens with little if any combat training. The Warriors were almost to the bins.

That was when men poured from the double doors, all of them firing at once. Slayne and Montoya snapped off bursts but couldn’t drive the Aryans back. Montoya reached a bin and crouched. Slayne darted behind the other one so they had a wider field of fire. One Aryan was barking commands and the rest were spreading out. The smart ones flattened and fired from prone positions.

Slayne did a scan and count. There had to be thirty or more. The odds were much too high. “Grenade.” Montoya quickly leaned the Jati-Matic against the bin and slipped off his backpack. He took out an M67, pulled the grenade away from the pin, and cocked his arm. “Frag out!” he yelled, and threw the grenade in a high loop.

Then he pressed against the bin.

Slayne did the same. He counted off four seconds in his head.

The M67 went off. It had a blast radius of forty-five feet but could hurl shrapnel out to two hundred or more. There were screams and curses, and in retaliation the Aryans poured a withering firestorm into the trash bins.

Slayne could hardly get off a burst for all the slugs pinging and whining past. Montoya clipped a man running toward them and nearly had his own ear taken off. The growl of an engine caused him to glance toward the front gate and the street beyond. A pickup loaded with reinforcements was hurtling toward the factory. “Incoming hostiles!”

“I see them.”

“God, I wish I had that battle suit you showed me back at the Home. I’d lick these bastards single-handed.”

Slayne’s mouth became a grim slit. Here they were, pinned down, one of them wounded, and they were about to be flanked. They needed to get out of there, but they wouldn’t get fifty feet in the open parking lot. They needed help and they needed it now. He said out loud what he had been thinking for some time:

“Where the hell is Thor?”

Soren was in motion before the words were out of the Aryan’s mouth. He smashed Mjolnir into the man’s face and was rewarded with a crunch and a spray of scarlet. Without breaking stride, Soren swung at a second enemy and caught him on the ear. The crunch this time was louder. A third Aryan tried to draw a revolver, but Soren pivoted and slammed Mjolnir against his skull. Now there were only two. Until now they had been too stupefied to move, but they started to bring up rifles just as Soren reached them. He shattered a knee, and when the Aryan screamed and doubled over, crushed a cranium. The last man fumbled with the lever on his rifle. He looked up and bleated in stark terror, “No!” Mjolnir was a streak in Soren’s hands. He stood over the five bodies, surveying them for signs of life.

“Dear God.” Space came over, holding Ben Thomas with both arms.

“Damn, you got moves, mister. That was slick.”

“We must hurry. My friends are in trouble.” Soren could hear the sounds of a firefight out in the parking lot. “Can you keep up?”

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll be right behind you.” Space hefted Ben, who mumbled something she couldn’t make out.

“What is the shortest way out the front?”

“Down this hall and take a left and then a right and you’re there. But we’ll run into the Aryans.”

“I want to run into them.” Soren pressed the rune that activated Mjolnir. The hammer hummed to life and he felt the throb of its power. He set it to Arc, at two million volts. The gunfire grew louder. They met with no opposition, and when they rounded the last corner and he saw the open double doors, he broke into a run. “Stay back until I clear the way.”

The parking lot was a kill zone. Some Aryans were down but many more were converging on a pair of trash bins.

Soren stepped into the open. He needed to be closer. The Aryans were focused on the bins to the exclusion of all else. He raised Mjolnir aloft and gave voice to his battle cry, roaring at the top of his lungs, “Odin!”

Some of them heard. Some of them spun.

Lighting arced in vivid bolts that crackled and writhed. The very air flared bright. Men screamed, and died. Hearts burst. Brains were fried. Blood boiled in veins.

Behind the trash bin, Robert Montoya felt his skin itch all over. “Madre de Diosl It’s Thor!”

“About damn time.” Slayne saw that not all the Aryans were down. He dropped two. Several others were fleeing. He ignored them and turned toward the front gate just as a pickup hurtled into the parking lot. There had to be a dozen men in the bed and three more in the from seat. Soren pointed Mjolnir. He set the hammer to Bolt instead of Arc, at the same power level, two million volts. He didn’t know what effect it would have, but he thought it would at least stop the pickup. He pressed the rune and fired.

A white-hot bolt a foot wide leaped from the hammer to the pickup’s hood, and the entire vehicle was enveloped in a crackling corona. The pickup skewed and slowed as screams filled the air and the men in the front seat and the men in the bed went into spastic fits. Bodies sagged or slumped or fell over the side. The pickup coasted to a halt, smoke rising from under the hood and from the dead.

“Jesus,” Montoya breathed.

Soren switched off Mjolnir. There was no one left to slay. He turned, and the girl was in the doorway, incredulity on her face.

“Who are you?”

“I’ve already told you. I’m called Thor.”

Patrick Slayne lent a shoulder to Montoya. He was as impressed as they were by the spectacular display, but he was also simmering mad. “Where the hell have you been? We nearly bought the farm.” Soren indicated the girl and the man she was holding. “This is Space and Ben Thomas.”

“Thomas?” Slayne could see what the man had been through but it didn’t blunt his fury. “Let me get this straight. You disobeyed orders. You left your post. You violated every rule of a combat op and put your fellow Warriors at risk without any warning to them. All on the off chance this man might still be alive and you might be able to find him and might be able to effect a rescue?”

“Lighten up, grump,” Space said.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m with Ben. The guy who wouldn’t tell those butt wipes that Thor just smacked down how to get into your stupid van. Ben nearly died for you and still might if you don’t get your head out of your ass and help him, and I mean right now.”

Slayne did a double take. He couldn’t recall the last time anyone had talked to him like that. “Little lady—” He started to give her a verbal blistering, and then he looked at Ben Thomas, really looked at him, and his anger evaporated.

“What? Don’t stand there like a lump. Help him, damn it. He needs water. He needs food. He needs a doctor.” Space swallowed and coughed, and said, “Damn. Don’t die, Ben.” Montoya said, “You care for him, pretty one.”

“He’s my friend. My only friend. Wait. Did you just call me pretty?”

Slayne came to a decision. “Thor, help her get him to the truck. Ricco, can you manage with that leg?

Cover us while I revive him and then I’ll tend to you.”

It took half a canteen, but Ben Thomas came around and squinted at them through the eye that wasn’t swollen shut. “Kurt Carpenter sent you, you say? I figured he gave up on me.” Quickly, Slayne explained the situation, ending with, “The important thing now is for us to get out of here before they reorganize or help arrives from other towns. Where are the keys to your truck?” Ben explained that a spare key was stuck to the bottom of the brake pedal. “I used that new epoxy paste so it will pry right off.”

A Klaxon was sounding somewhere in Smelterville when Slayne triumphantly held up the key. “Bingo. Everyone in. I’ll drive.”

“The hell you will. No one drives my rig but me.” Ben straightened and stepped cleat of Space. “Hand them over.”

Space grabbed his arm. “What do you think you’re doing? Look at you. You can hardly stand up. Let Grumpy do it.”

“How much experience do you have?” Ben asked Slayne.

“With a truck this size? None. But it shouldn’t be hard. I drove a few convoy trucks when I was in the service.”

Ben wriggled his fingers. “Gimme.” They boosted him in and he inserted the key. With a silent prayer he turned it. The engine coughed and belched smoke, then died. Ben tried again with the same result.

“Maybe the battery is dead,” Space said.

The third time, Semper Fi rumbled and shook and Ben kissed the steering wheel. It hurt his lips, but he didn’t care. “Pile in, people. Space, you crawl up in the bunk and leave the seat for us men.” There was a short delay while Slayne examined Montoya’s wound. The slug had missed the bone and gone through. Slayne cleaned it with peroxide and applied a Quick Aid bandage. They climbed in. Thor took up so much space that Slayne and Montoya had to sit sideways. Ben noticed their expressions, and for the first time in many a day, he laughed. Then he thrust his hand out at the big man with the big hammer.

“I understand I owe my life to you. Thanks.”

“You are most welcome. But you should thank Mjolnir.”

Ben quirked an eyebrow, and even that hurt. “All right, gents and lady. Let’s get this show on the road. Thor sat on the edge of the seat, his legs wide, and pressed Mjolnir’s handle to the clamp in the center of the power belt.

“What are you doing?” Space asked.

“Recharging.” Thor pressed a stud and the belt made a noise like a thousand bees. “I might have need of Mjolnir again before we are out of this.”

No one tried to stop them on their way out of Smelterville. In four miles they came to Kellogg and were confronted by a hastily arranged barrier of cars and a tractor.

Ben Thomas never slowed. He told everyone to get down and Space to curl into a ball up in the bunk. Semper Fi was doing eighty when Ben wheeled onto the left shoulder and the tires churned gravel. Lead whanged off the hood and pinged the grille. The windshield was hit several times, but the shots were high. With the roar of some mammoth beast, Semper Fi swept around the barrier. Next was Osburn, but they had no trouble. They made it past Wallace, too. Last was the barricade east of Wallace. Unlike the other barrier, this one stretched the width of the highway and then some. Ben braked well out of rifle range. “I’m open to suggestions.”

“Let us out,” Slayne said. “We’ll deal with them and when it’s safe you bring your rig.”

“There are an awful lot of them,” Space said.

Thor checked a meter on the power belt. He turned the belt off and opened his door. “I’ll handle this.”

“What?” Slayne tried to grab him but Montoya was between them. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Making up for leaving you two alone back at the factory.” Thor slammed the door. He made no attempt to seek cover but walked down the center of the highway toward the barricade. Slayne was practically beside himself. “He’s going to get himself killed!” He went to slide past Montoya but Montoya grabbed his arm.

“Wait. They’re not shooting. They’re as puzzled as we are.”

It was true. The Aryans were pointing and talking but not firing. One of their number climbed up onto the bed of a pickup and cupped his hands to his mouth. “Halt or we’ll cut you down!” Thor smiled and raised Mjolnir over his head. “In Odin’s name I greet you!” Ben had his head out his window and heard every word. “That man is stone cold crazy.” Thor continued to advance, Mjolnir held high so the Aryans could see it. The man on the car cupped his hands again. “What is that you’re holding? A sledgehammer?”

“I am Thor and this is Mjolnir.”

Some of the Aryans looked at one another and several laughed. The man on the car laughed, too, and then shouted, “Mister, we have you covered with machine guns and rifles and a bazooka. You just keep coming with that silly hammer of yours.” Still smiling, Thor did. When he was close enough, still smiling, he set the hammer to Arc. Still smiling, he set the power level to four million volts. Still smiling, he gripped Mjolnir with both hands and held the hammer overhead.

“In Odin’s name, I greet you!” he repeated. “And in Thor’s name I send you to the halls of Valhalla.” He pressed the rune that would call down the lightning.

“God in heaven!” Ben Thomas blurted.

The bolts were too many to count. Some were as thick as a man’s arm. Others were pencil thin. Leaping and arcing and crackling and sizzling, they sought out the living conductors they were programmed to seek.

In the cab, Space gasped and put a hand to her throat. She had seen what Thor did to the men in Smelterville. She had seen him stop the pickup. Neither fully prepared her for this. She saw men contort and shriek and burn. She saw smoke rise from their twisted bodies and blood gush from their mouths. And when it was over, as Thor went among them finishing off” those still alive, she giggled and said, “That there is one sweet hunk of manhood.”