“Actually,” Carpenter said, “I have an idea along those lines. Let’s see. It’s Wednesday. On Sunday we’ll have the first official gathering of our Family and I’ll detail my plans.”
“You never have told me why you keep calling us that.”
“On Sunday, Patrick. On Sunday.”
Everyone was excited at the prospect of going outside. Anxious, too, since no one knew what to expect. They accepted that it was safe—but for how long? Doomsday had occurred. Even though they had hoped to survive, the fact that they had was no small miracle, and for some, it was difficult to wrap their minds around.
Diana Trevor wasn’t surprised by their reaction. It was a common enough psychological phenomenon. Survivors of disasters were often bewildered and emotionally numb. She cautioned Carpenter to take things slow and give his charges time to adjust to their new reality.
It didn’t help that nearly everyone had been bombarded with the media’s dire predictions. Fallacies had been paraded as fact and accepted by the public at large.
Carpenter addressed the issue. An intercom system linked the bunkers, and it was his habit to speak a few words of encouragement before retiring. This night his subject was the aftermath of the war.
“Let’s take a look at some of the claims that were made. First, that everyone on the planet would die. Realistic projections were that the war would kill 20 percent of the human race in the first few days. Another forty to fifty percent would die from radiation poisoning, starvation, violence, what have you. That still leaves billions. Yes, you heard that right. Billions.
“Another claim was that lethal radiation would blanket the earth for centuries. But our compound only received a small amount, and many other areas received as little or none at all. In other words, whole regions are as habitable now as they were before the bombs were dropped.
“It was claimed that no crops would grow and that all vegetation would wither and die. But the grass and the trees here are fine, and are undoubtedly fine elsewhere. Think of the Amazon, or the taiga of Russia and northern Canada. Think of the vast tracts of the United States where there were no military targets. Other than fallout, they are untouched, and will go on as they have been for countless ages.
“The point of all this is to soothe your fears. Yes, we must take precautions. Yes, we must be on our guard when we are outside the walls. We can’t drink or eat anything unless we know it is safe. But overall, all things considered, we are doing fine.”
The next morning Patrick Slayne needed two men to help him make a quick walkthrough of the compound. He chose Soren Anderson and Alf Richardson.
Richardson wasn’t an official member of the group but when he heard Slayne ask Anderson, he eagerly volunteered to come along.
“I’m tired of being cooped up. I want to feel the sun on my face and breathe real air again.” Slayne conducted them to the armory. He chose an MP5 fitted with a shoulder strap. It was compact and held a 30-round magazine. For a sidearm he selected an Astra A-75, in 9mm. He was strapping on the holster when he looked up and saw the other two standing there, staring at him. “What are you waiting for? I recommend a pistol or revolver, and either a rifle or an SMG.”
“SM-what?” Alf said.
“Submachine gun.” Slayne patted the MP5.
Alf gawked at the racks of weapons. “Where did you get so many? There must be hundreds.”
“There are,” Slayne with a trace of pride. “I picked every one. Kurt wanted a wide variety, and we have guns from just about everywhere. A lot of other weapons, too, like knives and swords. Even a genuine tomahawk.”
“I don’t know what to take,” Alf confessed. “I know as much about guns as I do about physics.”
“I’ll help.” Slayne turned to Anderson. “What about you?” Soren held up Mjolnir. “This will do.”
“A hammer?” Slayne repressed a grin. “I understand you’re in construction, but isn’t that carrying it a bit far? A hammer against a gun will lose every time.”
“This isn’t a tool.” Soren held it out so they could see the intricate detail and the runes. “This is Mjolnir, the special weapon of the God of Thunder.” He hefted it so the light played over its massive head. “It’s the best replica ever made.”
Slayne looked at him. “It’s still just a hammer. If you want to take it, fine. Stick it under your belt. But you need a gun, and that’s final.”
Soren didn’t argue. Slayne was responsible for the safety of the compound and the welfare of their loved ones. He would do as the man wanted. But Alf Richardson was right; there were so many. Soren had fired guns when he was younger, but he wasn’t an expert. He knew a .45 used a bigger bullet than a .22, but that was about it. He walked past several racks until he came to one with a sign that read shotguns. Soren’s grandfather had owned a fine double-barreled shotgun, and Soren had gotten to shoot it a few times. It had taught him the truth of the statement that a shotgun was the next best thing to a cannon.
One in particular caught Soren’s eye. It was shorter than the rest, and had a pistol grip instead of a stock. A label under it told him it was a Mossberg Model 500 12-gauge. It came with a sling, which would free his hands to use Mjolnir if need be. He took it down and tried to work the slide but it wouldn’t budge. Closer inspection revealed a stud under the breech. Printed next to it was Release Lever with Thumb Only. Soren pressed the lever and jacked the slide and it worked fine. In a drawer under the rack were boxes of ammunition. He had his choice of slugs, buckshot, or birdshot. Folded with the boxes were several bandoleers.
He helped himself to one and filled half its loops with slugs and the other half with buckshot. Then he rejoined the others.
“What do you think?” Alf Richardson asked, and grinned uncertainly. Two semiautomatics were strapped to his ample waist and he clutched a bolt-action rifle. “This is a .30-06, whatever that is. Mr. Slayne says I can drop just about anything with it.”
“Remember to aim like I told you.” Slayne had debated giving him an SMG but the man was a bundle of nerves. He could just see Richardson panicking and cutting loose with the SMG on full auto, taking down friend as well as foe.
Soren showed him the shotgun. “Is this all right?”
“Whatever you feel comfortable with. But if you load it with double-ought, don’t fire anywhere in our direction.”
Nodding, Soren fed slugs into the magazine and pumped a round into the chamber. They went out through the door instead of the airlock. The somber gray sky gave both Soren and Alf pause.
Slayne had brought a Geiger counter. He took readings and informed them the radiation levels were no higher than last time.
“Spread out and we’ll have a look around.”
“What are we looking for?” Alf asked. “It’s not as if anyone or anything can get in here with the drawbridge up.”
“We make sure anyway. I want you to climb up on the wall and see how things look. Mr. Anderson, if you would be so kind, patrol the perimeter of the moat and check for tracks.” Slayne started on a circuit of the concrete bunkers, which were arranged in a triangle. Soren did as he was told. He walked to the north until he came to the edge of the moat and then bore to the east. The steep bank was thick with grass and wouldn’t bear tracks well. He stopped once he was out of Slayne’s sight, slung the Mossberg over his shoulder, and slid Mjolnir from under his belt. He felt more comfortable using the hammer than the shotgun. He went on and abruptly realized how deathly still it was. There should have been birds chirping, squirrels chattering, insects buzzing. But there was nothing—nothing at ail—save the gurgle of the water and occasional spurts of wind. Over at the bunkers, Slayne had passed B Block and was nearing C. He saw no reason for alarm and decided that as soon as Soren got back he would let Kurt know it was safe to send up surface parties.