Doomsday

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 one-time 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.