Doomsday

Task Force with strategic nuclear strikes against two Middle Eastern countries. China has denounced that as an act of war. Chinese and North Korean forces have been mobilized.”
Carpenter sadly shook his head. “It’s only a matter of time before one of our cities is taken out. That will be the beginning of the end.”
“Not for us,” Becca said. “You’ve stocked enough provisions to last a thousand years. The Blocks are reinforced to withstand everything except a direct nuclear strike. We’re not near any city or prospective military target. We’ll be just fine.”
“You don’t understand, Ms. Levy. Yes, I expect we’ll survive.
That’s the whole point behind the millions I’ve invested in this project. But what then?”
“Sir?”
“The world as we know it is about to come to an end. My experts inform me that the mix of nuclear, chemical, and biological weapons will wreak havoc with our planet.”
“Need I remind you, sir, that the world survived all those test bombs and the bombs that were dropped on Japan?”
“This time there won’t be a dozen nuclear explosions over twenty years. There might be hundreds, and all that radiation will interact with the chemical and biological agents, with unforeseen results. Mutations will be the norm, not the exception. Creatures and conditions we can’t begin to imagine.
“You make it sound like nothing will ever be the same again.”
“It won’t.”
Philadelphia
“I don’t want trouble,” Soren Anderson said while easing his right hand around his tool belt.
The five gangstas spread out. Four held knives. The fifth had a blackjack. The tall one crouched and came toward Soren, who balanced on the balls of his feet.
“Give us the keys, man. Don’t make us do you.”
“I can’t. I have a family. I must get to them.” Soren’s fingers closed on the handle of his ball-peen hammer. “Leave me be or I’ll hurt you.”
“Can’t count, can you, sucker?”
The tall one nodded at two others. They came at Soren in a rush. He waited until the last possible instant, until the quicker of the pair thrust a blade at him. Then, sidestepping, Soren whipped his hammer out and around. He was a big man and it was a big hammer. It weighed three pounds; the head alone was thirty-six ounces. Dropforged and heat-treated, it made for a formidable weapon.
Soren caught the gangsta on the temple. There was a crunch of bone yielding to metal and the youth dropped at Soren’s feet, convulsing violently.
The second gangsta barely slowed. Swearing viciously, he lunged at Soren’s groin. He was so focused on Soren that he tripped over his fallen friend. Before he could recover, Soren swept the hammer against his skull.
The remaining three stood tooted in disbelief. Then the tall one snarled, “Get him, yo!”
All three came at Soren at once.
Backpedaling, Soren swung the ball-peen hammer from side to side to keep them at bay. They weren’t eager to share the fate of their friends and held back. But it was only a matter of time before one of them would bloody his blade. They knew it, and Soren knew it. Which was why Soren did what he did. He charged them.
They were caught flat-footed. Only the tall one turned to flee.
Soren clipped one and sent him reeling, then smashed another in the face and dropped him in his tracks. A couple of long bounds and he caught up to the tall one, who shrieked and thrust his knife at Soren’s throat. A flick of Soren’s other hand, and he had hold of the gangsta’s wrist.
“You should have let me go, boy.”
“Please, mister!”
Soren swung a last time. He stood with his chest heaving, more from excitement than the exertion, and regarded the blood and gore smeared on the hammer. “So this is what it feels like.”
The wail of a siren reminded Soren where he was. He ran to his pickup, unlocked the door, and climbed in. He set the hammer on the seat beside him. Gunning the engine, he made for the exit. The construction site bordered Seventh Street. He turned right, intending to get to 676 and take it west to 76. The first intersection he came to was South Street.
Slamming on his brakes, Soren gaped. Vehicles were bumper to bumper and door to door. People were cursing, shouting, shaking fists. A policeman was trying to get traffic moving again, but all of his whistle blowing and arm waving was in vain.
Soren shifted into reverse. No cars were behind him yet and he didn’t want to be boxed in. Placing his arm across the top of the seat, he twisted and backed up until he came to an alley.
Wheeling the pickup bed into it, he spun the steering wheel and drove in the other direction.
Soren did some fast thinking. Based on what he had seen from atop the skyscraper and just now, Philly’s major arteries were a mess. It would take forever to get out of the city. His best bet, he reasoned, was to stick to side streets and alleys.
For over an hour that was what he did. Finally he made it onto 676. Traffic was at a snail’s pace. Fuming with frustration, he crawled toward the expressway His frustration was compounded by worry for his family. Eight times he tried to call his wife. Eight times he got a busy signal.
Soren merged onto 76. He was able to go fifty now, which was still too slow to suit him. He got out his phone, pressed a button, and nearly whooped with happiness when at long last it rang at the other end.
“Hello?”
“Toril!” Soren tingled with relief. He envisioned her golden hair, the lake blue of her eyes, the body he knew almost as well as he knew his own. “Are you and the kids all right? I’ve been trying to get through.”
“My mother called. I couldn’t get her off. She’s scared, Soren.
Very scared. She says military convoys have been going by all day.”
Soren’s mother-in-law lived outside of Harrisburg on a hill overlooking Interstate 81.
“The National Guard is being mobilized. There’s talk