Doomsday

4. For Love of Family

The Trudale Subdivision was a gated community in the heart of Richter Downs. High walls, cameras, guards on duty every hour of the day and night, hourly patrols; Trudale was a secure island of well-to-do in a sea of squalor.

Richter Downs, however, was considered a blight on urban sprawl. Once a mix of residential and business zones, it had sunk into disrepair and disrepute. Gangs claimed the parks, drugs flooded the streets and the alleys, and law-abiding folk stayed behind locked doors at night. Poverty became its middle name.

Some critics thought building an oasis of wealth in the middle of so much want was asking for trouble. But the moneymen behind Trudale had confidence in their security force. Soren Anderson had driven through Richter Downs a thousand times. It was the only way to reach Trudale. But he had never seen it like this. Normally, the streets were quiet if squalid. Kids threw balls or played on the sidewalks. Teens hung out on street corners looking tough. Oldsters sat on their stoops or in rocking chairs.

Today there were three times as many people as usual. A lot were listening to the latest news on radios. They cast scowls and glares his way. It didn’t help that many were standing in the middle of the street, forcing Soren to use his horn to get through. Traffic, thankfully, was light, and had been since he’d left the freeway. Again and again, he’d tried to reach Toril. He suspected that the phone lines were so overloaded, it would be a wonder if he got through.

Soren turned onto Ballard Street. Ahead was the imposing gate that led into Trudale. Most days, few people were in the vicinity. The dilapidated buildings usually sat neglected and grim. Today Soren had to brake.

People were shoulder to shoulder in the street. The side-walks were jammed. Where they had all come from, Soren couldn’t imagine. Nor could he guess what they were all doing there. It seemed a strange place to come. He started forward and they got out of his way, but many gave him ugly looks, and one man flipped him the finger.

“What did I ever do?” Soren asked himself. He smiled at a woman holding two small children and she scowled.

Half a dozen uniformed guards were just inside the gate. In addition to the batons they carried, sidearms were strapped to their hips.

Captain Jeffors came out of the guard station and motioned for the gate to be opened. “Good afternoon, Mr. Anderson.”

Soren pulled through the gate and stopped. “Any trouble?” he asked. “I haven’t been able to get through to my wife.”

“Everything is fine, sir,” Jeffors said, but his tone and the look he gave the lurkers outside the gate suggested otherwise.

“It’s a madhouse in the city. I was lucky to make it out.”

Captain Jeffors absently nodded while still staring at the people thronging Ballard Street. “You made it just in time. There’s been talk on the news of closing down the city as soon as the Guard is brought in.”

“How do you close down an entire city?” To Soren the idea was preposterous.

“By whatever means necessary,” Jeffors said, then snapped his head up at the wail of a siren in the distance. “That one’s an ambulance. Just a while ago it was the police.” The sound jarred Soren. “Well, I better be going. My family will be worried.”

“Good luck, Mr. Anderson.”

“Odin preserve you.”

Captain Jeffors tore his gaze from the street. “Oh. That’s right. You’re the one they call the Norse nut.” He smiled good-naturedly.

Soren could have explained that there was more to it than that. A lot more. He could have told Jeffors that to him the Norse gods were more than myth; they were his religion. But he didn’t. It would only result in the same amused regard he was used to. He shifted his foot to the gas pedal and drove up the hill to Wyndemere Circle.

Three faces were pressed to the picture window. They were out the front door before he came to a stop in the driveway. Toril held back so he could hug Freya and Magni, then she was in his arms, warm and soft and smelling wonderful.

Soren had to swallow to speak. “I was so worried.”

“So were we. There’s been more shooting.” Toril looked toward the far-off high fence. “Are we safe, Soren?”

“Why wouldn’t we be?” Soren yearned to smother her with kisses, but they were right out in the open and the kids were there. “Come on. Let’s go in.”

“I still can’t reach Mother.” Soren held the door for them. He thought he heard a loud cry from the vicinity of the gate. He looked, although he couldn’t see the gate for the intervening buildings. He listened, but the cry wasn’t repeated.

“Did you forget something?” Toril asked.

“No.” Soren closed the door and locked it. He followed them up the stairs to the living room. A picture window ran the length of one wall. Below spread the city. He liked the view. Most days it relaxed him. But today it filled him with unease. Or maybe it was the smoke and the sirens.

“I’m happy you came home early. The news makes it sound bad out there.”

“It is.”

Soren put his arm around Toril and she rested her cheek on his chest. For all of a minute they stood there, alone and complete and safe. Then, faint but unmistakable, came the sound of a scream, and Soren shook himself and straightened. “There’s something you need to know.”

“You look so serious. What can it be?”

Soren told her everything. How he had seen an ad in the back of Popular Mechanics. Someone needed skilled craftsmen. The pay was a onetime lump sum. A large sum. The specific job wasn’t mentioned. Dollar signs floating in his head, Soren answered the ad. To his surprise, he was sent a psychological exam, as well as an application form. He filled them out and sent them in. To his greater surprise, about ten weeks later he was notified by certified mail that he had been selected. Soren met in Philadelphia with a woman named Becca Levy. She apologized for the secrecy, then dropped the bombshell that she worked for Kurt Carpenter, the famous filmmaker, and that Carpenter had constructed a survivalist compound in the wilds of northern Minnesota and was looking to invite people to live there, should the unthinkable become real.

“Not just anybody,” Becca Levy had said. “Only special people who fit special needs. People like you, Mr. Anderson.

Soren had asked the question uppermost on his mind. “When will we be paid the money promised in the ad?”

Levy had produced a checkbook. “I’m authorized to disburse funds once you’ve signed our standard contract.”

Now, standing at the picture window with his wife, Soren gazed down at the driveway. “That’s how I was able to afford the truck.”

“And you never told me?”

The hurt in her tone cut Soren deeply. “I never thought anything would come of it. I honestly never really expected there would be another world war.”

“So what now?”

Before Soren could answer, Freya called out from the far corner where she and Magni were watching TV.

“Mom! Dad! You need to come see this.”

Soren clasped Toril’s hand and went over. Both children were on their bellies on the wood floor. On the flat screen a visibly shaken announcer had paused to collect himself.

“What is it?” Soren asked.

“He just said—” Freya began, but stopped when the newsman started to speak.

“I repeat. This just in. There have been three nuclear attacks on the West Coast. San Diego, San Francisco, and Portland have been hit. The footage you are about to see is from San Diego. We warn our viewers this will be deeply disturbing to watch.”

The scene displayed San Diego as captured on video from somewhere east of the city. The bright sun, the blue of the bay speckled with boats, the gleaming skyscrapers, the streets and flow of traffic were all normal and peaceful. The person who had taken the video was talking, but the voice had been muted. Suddenly the scene erupted in a spectacular flash of light. With stunning swiftness, a mushroom cloud formed, rising in the sky. The boats, the buildings, the cars, the people, all were obliterated in a span of heartbeats.

Soren felt Toril’s nails dig into his flesh. His mouth went dry, and he had to try several times to swallow. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. But it had happened, really happened. The newscaster came back on. He was as pale as paper.

“No word yet on fatalities. Communications along much of the West Coast and as far east as Utah have been disrupted. As yet we don’t know if these were missiles or bombs or possibly backpack nukes planted by terrorists.”

The man paused.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have just received word that the president is about to announce a declaration of war. We expect to switch to our Washington bureau in a few minutes for the announcement. In the meantime, people are urged to stay in their homes and to stay calm. Contrary to rumors, there are no reports of enemy troops on U.S. soil. Stay tuned to this channel for breaking developments as they occur.”

Soren had heard enough. “I want all of you to pack whatever you want to take. We’re leaving in ten minutes.”

“Leaving?” Freya said in surprise.

“Where are we going?” Magni asked.

“I’ll tell you all about it on the way. Right now it’s important you do exactly as I say and go pack.” Soren struggled to keep his voice calm. How did he explain to a twelve-year-old and an eight-year-old that Armageddon had been let loose, and their world would never be the same?

“My mother?” Toril said.

Soren nodded. “We’ll pick her up on the way.” He shooed the kids off to their rooms, then went to the stairs and down to his workshop. It occurred to him that he needed a weapon. He didn’t own a firearm. Toril disliked guns and wouldn’t allow one in the house.

Soren didn’t mind. He wasn’t into guns, anyway. As a believer in the Ancient Way, he had long been fascinated by the weapons of the gods. In particular, he was intrigued by the weapon of his favorite, the god he most admired, the god he worshipped as truly and really as his neighbors worshipped Jesus or the Moslems worshipped Mohammed or the Buddhists revered Gautama.

On a wall of the workshop hung a sword, a shield, a dagger, and a mace. All were reproductions of actual Norse weaponry.

But it was the weapon in a position of honor at the center of the wall that Soren took down and held in his big hands. It was a replica of Mjolnir, the hammer wielded by Thor, the God of Thunder. Soren smiled as he held it up to the light.

“Crusher,” he said fondly.

The short handle was made of lignum vitae, one of the hardest woods known to man, and wrapped in leather strips. The head had been forged of high carbon, heat-treated steel, cast in a mold. It was an exact copy of a Mjolnir on display at the Swedish Museum of National Antiquities. Soren swung it a few times, his muscles rippling. It was as heavy as a sledgehammer and required great strength to wield. Toril had bought it for him as a gift years ago. Knowing how much it had cost, he had been in shock for days afterward. He kept telling her she shouldn’t have, but the truth was, he had been delighted beyond measure.

Soren glanced at the other weapons. The sword was too long and heavy for Toril. The dagger, though, might be of use. He took it down and hastened upstairs to the living room. The others were in the bedrooms, getting ready. He paused in front of the TV.

“…asking all citizens to remain calm. The United States military is on full alert. The National Guard has been mobilized. Police forces and sheriff departments are coordinating with state and federal officials to ensure our streets are safe. Stay in your homes. Stay off the phone unless in an emergency.” Toril was throwing clothes into an open suitcase on the bed when Soren walked in. She ran a hand through her hair and said in mild exasperation, “I need more time. I can’t seem to think straight. You said this place is in Minnesota, right? Should I go into storage and get some of our winter clothes?”

“It’s the middle of the summer,” Soren teased, and then saw her eyes. Setting Mjolnir on the bed, he took her in his arms. She pressed her forehead to his chest and trembled.

“I’m sorry. I’m scared, Soren. I’m worried about Mother, and I’m worried about us.” Toril looked up, her eyes brimming with tears. “Most of all I’m worried about Freya and Magni. They’re our children, Soren. They shouldn’t have to go through this.”

“No one should,” Soren said. He held her close, her body warm against his, his heart filled near to bursting.

Magni dashed into the bedroom, yelling, “Dad! Mom! Come quick! There are people outside. People all over.”

Soren grabbed Mjolnir. His long legs brought him to the picture window ahead of the others. Freya was there, horror on her face. He looked down, and his skin crawled.

Trudale had been breached. Defying all reason, the mob had broken through the gate and was running amok through the development. Residents were being attacked, car windshields smashed, windows hit with bottles and rocks. Down the block several men threw their shoulders against a door and it buckled. As they disappeared inside, a woman screamed.

Toril’s hand found Soren’s arm. “What do we do? What happens when they reach our house?” Even as she spoke, half a dozen human wolves came bounding up Wyndemere Circle.