Doomsday

8. Day of Wrath

Trudale was being looted. From his picture window on the second floor of his home, Soren Anderson saw men and women emerge from homes carrying laptops, stereo equipment and TV sets. One of the women carried a jewelry box under one arm and held a sparkling necklace.

“Why are they doing that?” Freya asked. “It’s not right.” Magni raised wide eyes to his parents. “Will they come in here, Dad? Will they take all our stuff?” Soren came to a quick decision. As yet, the looters were only at the turnoff into Wyndemere Circle. It would take them minutes yet to reach his place. Or so he hoped. “Grab your things and get in the truck. We’re leaving.”

“I haven’t finished packing,” Toril objected. “There’s more I’d like to take. Especially if we’re never coming back.”

“What?” Freya said.

The looters approached the Simmons residence. Soren knew the family well; they often came over. George Simmons blocked his front door and tried to prevent the mob from entering. Simmons was pushed and shoved but refused to give way. Finally a burly man in grubby jeans and a T-shirt knocked Simmons down and others kicked and punched him senseless. Another moment and they were in his house. A scream wavered on the air.

“Odin protect us,” Toril breathed. “Kids, do as your father says. Grab what you can and get to the truck.” She dashed off with them in tow.

Soren ran down the stairs and out into the driveway. More screams and wails came from all quarters. A window burst with a tremendous crash. In the distance gunfire crackled. He considered going to the Simmonses’ to see if he could help, but it would be folly to leave his own family unprotected. He turned to go back in.

Three human wolves were bounding along the hedge that bordered the next yard. In the lead was the same burly brute who had knocked down George Simmons. They came around the hedge, spotted Soren, and stopped.

“Nice truck you’ve got there, buddy,” the burly one said.

“Leave.”

The leader glanced at his companions, and the three spread out. One of them had a baseball bat. The third man flourished a folding knife with a six-inch blade.

Smiling smugly, the leader advanced and held out his hand. “Give us the keys and we’ll let you be.”

“No.” Soren brought Mjolnir from behind his leg.

All three of them stopped.

“What the hell is that? A hammer?” The burly man laughed a hollow laugh that was echoed by his friends.

“Mister, you give us any trouble, I swear to God I’ll take that from you and beat your brains out.”

“Go away.” Soren held Mjolnir low in front of him and turned slightly so he could keep his eye on all three. The other two had started to circle. “I’m warning you.’’

A piercing shriek testified to the spreading savagery.

“You hear that?” the burly man said. “You got a family? You want that to happen to them? Hand over the damn keys and you can walk away.”

Toril came running out, toting her suitcase. She stopped short and gasped. “Soren, what…?”

“Stay where you are,” Soren warned.

The three regarded her with glittering eyes. The burly one licked his lips and chuckled. “Well, now. This changes things. She’s a looker, your woman. Might be I want a taste of that for myself.” Toril said angrily, “You’re a pig.”

“Look around you, lady. This ain’t Disneyland no more. It’s everyone for himself. We take what we want, when we want it, and I want you.”

Soren had listened to enough. The insult to his wife made his blood boil. He moved between them and Toril. “This is your last chance.” The burly man reached behind him and when his hand reappeared he held a butcher knife. “Cutting you will be fun.”

Soren waited. His senses were incredibly acute: he could hear Toril’s heavy breathing behind him; he could see beads of sweat on the burly man’s brow; he saw the muscles on the arms of the man with the baseball bat tighten as the man prepared to attack.

They came in a rush. The bat arced at Soren’s head. Sidestepping, Soren swung. Mjolnir and the baseball bat smashed together and the bat shattered and splintered.

The man with the pocketknife tried to stab Soren in the neck, but spinning, Soren caught him in the ribs. Swearing luridly, the burly man darted in.

“Soren!” Toril cried.

Soren had seen him. Whirling, he swept his hammer up and around. The heavy steel head caught the man flush on his jaw. A loud crunch, an explosion of teeth and blood, and the burly man was down. Soren swiveled to face the guy who’d had the baseball bat, but he was fleeing pell-mell down Wyndemere Circle. A warm hand touched his.

“Are you all right? Did they cut you?”

Soren could barely think for the throbbing in his temples. “No,” he said thickly. “Get the kids. We’ve got to get out of here.”

Toril nodded and took a step but looked back at him and smiled. “You were magnificent.” Blood dripped from Mjolnir. Soren wiped the hammer clean on the burly man’s T-shirt and held it up to the sunlight so the metal gleamed brightly. “Sweet Asgard.” He shook himself and held Mjolnir higher.

“To the son of Odin I give thanks. Protect and deliver us from our enemies. A true son of Thor asks this in your name.”

Smiling grimly, Soren scanned Wyndemere Circle to be sure none of the other looters were near, then hurried inside to help Toril. He felt strangely elated. Newfound vitality coursed through his veins. Toril was shooing the kids ahead of her. Both had bulging backpacks and Magni was protesting, “But, Mom, I want my GamePro. And what about my skimboard?”

“Enough,” Soren said sternly. “You will do as your mother says without argument. Is that understood?” Magni was startled. “Sorry.”

Freya had been gnawing on her lower lip. “Where are we going, Dad? Do you know somewhere safe?”

“Anywhere is safer than here.” Soren hustled them to the pickup. He gave Magni and Freya a boost into the backseat.

A man holding a busted chair leg came running toward them but stopped at the sight of the crumpled forms in the driveway.

Soren climbed in. Toril had her hands clasped on her knees, her knuckles white. He set Mjolnir between them and gunned the engine.

“What will happen to us, Soren? Will we be all right?”

Soren patted Mjolnir. “We’ll be fine.”

Professor Diana Trevor reacted without thinking. In the blink of an eye she had the mace up and out and had pressed the stud.

Amos Stiggims had started to raise the tire iron when the spray caught him full in the face. He staggered back, screeching. “My eyes are burning!” Blinking and coughing, he stumbled, fell to one knee, and let go of the tire iron. “You had no call to do that.”

“You were about to hit me.” Bending, Diana grabbed the tire iron and skipped out of his reach. “I was defending myself.”

Stiggims couldn’t stop shedding tears. Hiking his dirty shirt up around his scrawny chest, he daubed at his eyes. “Are you loco?” he demanded between swipes. “I was taking that inside is” all.”

“Sure you were. You need to change the tires on your couch. Is that how it goes?”

“Damn, you’ve got a suspicious nature. My freezer jams sometimes and that iron is how I pry it open.” Diana refused to take him at his word. “Why would you want to open your freezer?” Stiggims stopped blinking long enough to glare. “I was thinking of inviting you to supper. But you can starve for all I care.”

“I’d like to believe you. I really would.” Diana was awash in a distinct sense of the absurd. “Here.” She slid a hand under his arm and hoisted him to his feet. The skin-and-bones old goat was lighter than a feather.

Stiggims tore loose and moved toward the house. His face pressed to his shirt, he muttered under his breath.

Diana caught a few of his comments; they weren’t flattering. Snatching her backpack, she ran ahead of him onto a dilapidated porch. “Here. Let me.” She pulled on a screen door with more holes than screen.

“I don’t want your help.” Stiggims sulked. “Go back to the road and find someone else to pick on.”

“I’m sorry.” Diana followed him in and almost gagged. “What’s that terrible smell?” Stiggims stopped wiping and sniffed. “I don’t smell anything but that stuff you sprayed me with. If I go blind it’ll be your fault.”

“You won’t lose your sight,” Diana assured him. She was so concerned about misjudging him that she hadn’t paid much attention to her surroundings. Now she did, and she inwardly recoiled. The place was a pigsty. The floor was inches deep in trash and the walls were spattered with grime and food stains. “How can you live like this?”

“Like what? Alone? I don’t cotton to people much.”

Diana turned and something cracked under her foot. It was a chicken bone, partially chewed, the meat shriveled and moldy. Suddenly she needed out of there. She went onto the porch and gulped deep lungfuls of hot air. She was still holding the tire iron in one hand and her back-pack and the mace in the other. Setting the pack down, she slid the mace into her pocket and went to lean the tire iron against the wall.

A growl brought her up short.

Out of the depths of the barn came a mongrel. A huge dog, mostly black but speckled with white, it had the build of a St. Bernard. Blocky head hung low, it stalked toward her and bared its fangs.

“Mr. Stiggims!” Diana called. “Can you come out here, please? Your dog isn’t happy to see me.” The old farmer didn’t answer. Diana slowly backed to the screen door and opened it. “Mr. Stiggims?” The dog was still advancing so she backed inside.

Suddenly she felt a sharp pain in the small of her back.

“Drop that iron, dearie, and do it quick. If’n you don’t, I’ll cut you.” Diana glanced over her shoulder. Tears still streamed from Stiggims’ eyes, but he had stopped blinking and was holding a knife to her spine. “What is this?”

The farmer jabbed harder. “I won’t tell you again.”

The dog was almost to the porch. It had stopped at the sound of Stiggims’ voice but its hackles were up and it was snarling.

Diana let go of the tire iron and held her arms out from her sides. “There. Don’t do anything hasty.”

“I never do, girlie.” Stiggims chuckled and came around in front of her. A spot of red was on the tip of the blade. “You had me worried for a bit. But now I can take you out to the barn.” He jerked a thumb at the dog. “Hercules, there, will keep you company.”

“Wait,” Diana said, stalling. “Why are you doing this? What is it you want with me?”

“It’s the end of the world, dearie. Armageddon. Just like in Scripture. Pretty soon the angels will sound their trumpets.”

“But that doesn’t explain what you want with me.”

“I want your company is all. A man shouldn’t have to face the end times alone.” Stiggims did a double take. “Oh. Was you thinking I had ideas? Dearie, I’m too old for such tomfoolery. We’ll talk, and maybe play dominos, or cards if you like.”

Diana thought he was insane.

Squaring his slim shoulders and drawing himself up to his full height, Stiggims solemnly declared, “‘For the great day of His wrath has come, and who is able to stand?’”

“What was that? From the Bible?”

“You don’t know the Good Book when you hear it? Of course it’s from the Bible. Revelation 6:17 I know it front to back and back to front.” Stiggims grew solemn again. “‘And I looked, and behold, a pale horse. And the name of him who sat on it was Death, and Hell followed with him.’”

“Mr. Stiggims,” Diana said, and caught herself. “Amos. Please. Listen to me. Holding me here against my will is illegal.”

“There are none so blind,” Stiggims said sadly.

Diana tried another tack. “It’s not the end of the world. It’s a war. World War Three. Millions will perish, but the world will go on. People will survive. You stand a good chance of living through it, living where you do.”

“It’s no use. I have my mind made up. I was sitting in that rocking chair thinking about how awful it was to go to perdition by my lonesome when you dropped out of the sky into my lap. I took that as a sign.”

“Please. I have somewhere I need to be.”

“You’re darn right you do. My barn.” Stiggims wagged the knife. “There’s a small room in the back I use for tools and such. I can bar it, and there ain’t any windows.” He paused. “Or better yet, maybe I should put you in the root cellar.”

“What about you? Where will you be?”

“I’ll stay up here until the missiles start to fly. Then I’ll join you.”

“I’m sorry,” Diana said. “That’s unacceptable.” She lunged, shoving him hard enough to spill him onto his backside on the porch. Whirling, she ran through the living room and into a small kitchen. The stench of rotten food assailed her as she raced to a back door and flung it open. Beyond was a yard and a cornfield, the stalks as tall as she was. Leaping down a short flight of steps, she sped toward them.

“Get her, boy! Attack! Attack!” Diana looked back. Hercules was after her.