Doomsday

you talking about?”
Bewildered, Soren watched the foreman join those leaving.
He set the rivet gun down, took off his work gloves, and pushed his hard hat back on his tousled mane of blond hair. Only then did he hear the sirens. His bewilderment growing, he moved to the edge of the girder and stared down at the city where he’d grown up. To the northeast, the Benjamin Franklin Bridge gleamed in the sunlight. If not for the smog, he’d be able to see clear to Camden.
Something was wrong. Soren had never seen so many people on the sidewalks. The streets were bumper to bumper. Horns blared in constant cacophony, punctuated by the shrill scream of scores of sirens.
“Has everyone gone mad?” Soren wondered aloud. He thought of his wife and children, the three people he loved most in the world, and alarm spiked through him.
Soren picked up his tool belt on his way to the elevator. He strapped the belt around his waist as he waited. No one else was around. He was the last to go down. He listened to the whine of the cable and the grind of gears as the lift climbed to his level.
The car rattled to a stop. Anxiously, he exited, muscles tensed.
He was mildly shocked when he reached the parking lot to find that his half-ton pickup was the only vehicle left. He was reaching into his front pocket for his keys when his phone chirped.
Soren answered it.
“Mr. Anderson, this is Becca Levy. This isn’t a test or a drill. I repeat, this isn’t a test or a drill.”
“All-Father, no,” Soren said. So he had been right. His worst fear was about to be made real.
“What is your password, sir?” “Sif.”
“I am instructed to tell you that the Endwotld Protocol is active.”
“How much time do I have?”
“One hundred hours, remember? Can you make it to the compound in that amount of time, Mr. Anderson?”
“I’ll get my family there or die trying.”
“I wish you luck, Mr. Anderson. You have farther to travel than most. If at any time we can be of assistance, contact the Communications Center. We’ll have people manning the phones 24—7.”
“Thank you.” Soren closed his phone and again reached into his pocket for his keys. Nearby, someone coughed. He turned, his eyes widening slightly. He hadn’t expected anything like this so soon.
There were five of them, gangstas sporting their colors, cold arrogance stamped on their young faces. The tallest bobbed his chin at the pickup. “Hey, man. That yours?”
“Yes,” Soren admitted.
“We want it. Hand over the keys and everything will be cool.
Give us a hard time and we’ll waste you.” And with that, he flicked out a knife.
Phoenix
Dr. Diana Trevor was wrapping up her last class of the day at Arizona State University.
“No one knows why this should be. Yet it’s been proven again and again. The Dominant Five is not just a human phenomenon.
It has been documented in animals, as well.” Diana tegarded the notes she had made on the blackboard. “The first practical application was by the Chinese during the Korean War. They decided to separate the mote aggressive American prisoners from those who never gave them any trouble. They found that the ratio was one in twenty. One dominant for every twenty passive.”
A student raised his hand. “Surely there were variables.”
“The Chinese thought there would be, too. But the number was precise. It was exactly one in twenty. Or 5 percent.
Subsequent research has confirmed the statistic.”
Another student raised her hand. “What happened when the Chinese separated them?”
“The passives gave them no trouble whatsoever. It was the dominants who always stirred the passives up.”
Yet another hand. “Is there any way to tell who is dominant and who is passive?”
“Psychological profiles have been developed, but they’re not infallible, as yet.” Diana allowed herself a small smile. “I should know. I developed some of them.”
The buzzer brought an end to her lecture. Her students began gathering up notes and backpacks.
Diana closed her book and reached under her desk for her briefcase. She went out the side door and down the hall to the teachers’ lounge. The TV in the far corner was on and nearly every instructor was glued to it. “What on earth?” Diana said.
“Shhh,” someone cautioned.
A newsman was intoning gravely into the camera. Beads of sweat dotted his brow and he kept licking his lips.
“This just in. The president will address the nation at the top of the hour, which is twenty-seven minutes from now.
Some think he will announce a declaration of war. Others, that he will impose martial law. Stay tuned to this station for live coverage.”
“What’s going on?” Diana asked. No one answered. The announcer did more lip-licking.
“To recap, war has broken out in the Middle East. The Chinese have threatened to retaliate against anyone who attacks their allies in the region. The Russians are incensed and telling the Chinese to stay out. France has called for a referendum. The United States has vowed to stand by Israel, and there is word from the Pentagon that a task force is being rushed to the region.”
“It’s finally happened,” Diana said to herself, then backed out of the lounge. She hurried to her office. Once her door was shut, she opened her purse and took out her address book. From a plastic sleeve in the back she slid a folded piece of paper.
Opening it, she dialed the number written there.
“Home Communications.”
“This is Diana Trevor. My personal password is Colin. I haven’t been contacted yet, but I just saw the news.”
“You were right to call. We tried to reach you, Dr. Trevor.
The Endworld Protocol is active.”
“Dear God.”
“Do you anticipate any trouble reaching the compound?”
“No,” Diana said. “I have a pilot’s license and my own plane.”
“We advise you to hurry. If martial law is declared, all civilian flights will be grounded. If you are still in the air, the military might shoot you down.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Diana hung up and stepped to the window. Word was