The Doomsday Bunker Read online

  “That’s not true. We’ve built a fine life for ourselves.” He waved the bottle he held. “Just look around. Nice house, good jobs, great kids.”

  “And all of it could go away in a flash. Literally.”

  Trevor swallowed some of the beer, sat back on the sofa, and frowned. “We live in Tornado Alley, you know. There’s a lot more of a chance that an F5 will come along and blow us all away than there is of nuclear war.”

  “And there’s a safe room in the garage, isn’t there?” The bedrock in their neighborhood was less than two feet under the ground. The cost of blasting it out and building a storm shelter was prohibitive, or at least they had decided it was. The safe room built into the back corner of the garage was a viable alternative. “A tornado might destroy the neighborhood, but with even a little warning, we can at least survive and rebuild. But if there’s some worldwide disaster, or even something that was confined to this country, there won’t be any rebuilding for a long time. You know what they say: The people who are killed right away in a nuclear war will be the lucky ones.”

  “Nobody knows that for sure. It’s all theory.”

  “One that I’d just as soon not test,” Jill said. “Just before the story about the serial killer came on, they were talking about how the Russians and Iranians have warned us not to overreact to what happened with the North Korean missile. Not that we were going to do anything anyway, but now they’ve put us on notice that if we take action against North Korea, they’ll take action against us. Can’t you see where this is going?”

  “It’s not going anywhere,” Trevor insisted. “Even in the old days, before our government started apologizing for everything it’s ever done or ever might do, all that would happen is that we’d talk tough, and then the Russians would talk tough, and then we’d all move on to something else. It’s a game. A show.” He laughed. “A game show. Who Wants to Rule the World?”

  “Also not funny.”

  “It was a little bit funny.”

  Jill didn’t say anything. Her phone was lying on the coffee table in front of her. She leaned forward and reached for it.

  “I’ve made up my mind,” she said. “You can do what you want.”

  Trevor took a deep breath. “I’m going to do what I always do,” he said. “I’m going to be with you.”

  Chapter 10

  June 5

  Writing a check that big was painful for Larkin. Literally painful, because he was gripping the pen so hard it made the little touch of arthritis in his thumb joints twinge.

  But he wrote it anyway, then tore it out of the checkbook and slid it across the desk to Graham Moultrie. He and Susan had already signed a big stack of forms that came from the printer wirelessly connected to Deb’s computer. Larkin hoped the check for $68,000 would be the last thing he’d have to sign today.

  “That should do it,” Moultrie said as he picked up the check and put it in a desk drawer.

  “You understand that covers Susan and me, plus Jill and Trevor and their kids,” Larkin said.

  “Of course. When they came in to sign their contracts, they explained that you’d be writing one check for the entire family. That’s fine, Patrick. However you want to arrange things like that, it makes no difference to me.”

  “I just don’t want there to be any question about, uh, who gets let in. You know, when the time comes.”

  “If the time comes.” Moultrie smiled. “We all hope and pray it never will.”

  “Sure. But you know what I mean.”

  “Of course.” Moultrie tapped the fingerprint scanner on his desk. “That’s why we have everyone’s prints in our system now. That’s your key to get in, so to speak, if there’s ever any question.”

  “What if there’s a power failure?” Susan asked. “Or an EMP that knocks out all the computers?”

  “That’s why our mainframes and servers are all down below, behind not only digital firewalls but literal walls hardened against electromagnetic pulses. I want our systems to be as secure as the government’s systems.” Moultrie grunted. “Actually, more secure, I’d hope, considering how many times the government’s computers have been hacked in the past ten years. However, in the unlikely event that everything goes down, we’ll have a master hard copy list of all our residents. Nobody who’s supposed to be here will be turned away, you have my word on that.”

  “Turned away,” Susan repeated quietly. “I hadn’t thought about that. If things go bad . . . really bad . . . people may try to take shelter in here.”

  With a solemn expression on his face, Moultrie nodded. “That’s true. It’s liable to be a very unpleasant situation.”

  “Like people fighting over lifeboats on a sinking ship,” Larkin said. “Could get ugly in a hurry.”

  “That’s one reason our outer perimeter is so secure,” Moultrie said. “You remember, Patrick, we talked about that the first time you came out here.”

  Larkin nodded. “Yeah, you thought of that, too.”

  Moultrie clasped his hands together on the desk and said, “I can tell what you’re thinking, Susan. You’re thinking, how can we just turn people away in case of a disaster? How can we refuse to let them in when it means they’ll probably die?” He shook his head. “I don’t like that possibility any more than you do. But there’s a term that someone used once as the title of a story... “The Cold Equations.” Numbers have no emotion. They add up, or they don’t. You can’t negotiate with them and convince them to mean anything other than what they do. Only so many people can survive down here. One or two might not make a difference. An extra hundred means that everybody starves to death a couple of years earlier . . . and that couple of years might make all the difference. That’s assuming that overconsumption might not cause the air and water recycling plants to break down. Everything is figured to a certain tolerance level. Go much beyond that level and it’s not going to work.”

  “I understand that,” Susan said. “But I’m in the business of helping people and saving lives.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m trying to do here, too. I know it sounds cold-blooded as hell, but yes, I’ll turn people away—whatever it takes to do that—in order to save the people who are depending on the project for their survival. I’ve been aware of that possibility right from the start.”

  A grim silence settled over the four people in the room. It was easy to talk about the end of the world in abstract, Larkin thought, harder to accept just how much death and destruction might be lurking out there in the darkness, waiting to strike senselessly and wantonly.

  “All right, that’s enough brooding,” Deb said. “Maybe nothing happens except that Graham and I get rich and everybody goes on living.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Moultrie said with a chuckle. “You’ve got the installment-payment paperwork?”

  Larkin tapped the stack of documents on the desk in front of him. “Got it, along with all the other disclaimers and waivers and guarantees and indemnifiers.”

  “You’re all set, then.” Moultrie stood up and extended a hand. “Welcome to the Hercules Project. Come visit us any time you like while we continue working on the place, and we’ll all hope and pray that visiting is all you ever have to do.”

  “Amen to that,” Larkin said as he stood up and gripped Moultrie’s hand.

  * * *

  The death toll from the destroyed American fishing boat was seventeen men. Their bodies were never recovered from the icy Bering Sea. A memorial service was held for them, but the President did not attend. He issued a statement that expressed his regret for the incident, then went on to deplore the rhetoric employed by members of the opposition party who considered the boat’s sinking to be an act of war, rather than an unfortunate accident in the cause of furthering scientific research. The President did not call on the North Koreans for an apology, nor did they offer one.

  Reports were that they were readying for another missile test.

  The death toll in Ohio rose to fourteen as authori
ties continued to recover remains from the backyard of Lorenzo Stanwick. Forensic tests revealed that some of the recovered bones bore teeth marks, as if from gnawing . . . by human teeth.

  The death toll from the Hydra virus climbed to eighty with more patients in Texas and Florida succumbing. The surviving patients were under strict quarantine, but it was still uncertain how long the virus was communicable before symptoms began to appear. Spokespersons for the Centers for Disease Control were always grim-faced when the subject of vectors came up at news conferences.

  In the aftermath of the mall attack and explosion in Florida, more bodies were discovered during the cleanup. Other, smaller attacks by young, Middle Eastern men followed in the wake of that tragedy, taking place in Boston, Atlanta, and Denver, and in each case the attackers had posted material on their social-media pages linking them to Islamic terrorist groups. The administration and news media barely acknowledged this fact.

  A ship in a French port was sunk by a suicide bomb carried next to it in a motorboat by a pair of Syrian brothers.

  Russian troops massed on the border of one of the former satellite states of the Soviet Union. Officials of that government appealed for help but received no reply.

  Rocket attacks were carried out on Israel. The American President blamed the Israelis for bringing it on themselves.

  Iranian troops advanced on the Turkish border. Missile batteries were moved into position, and satellite surveillance appeared to show increased activity around Iranian facilities supposedly involved in producing fuel for nuclear power plants. The United Nations issued a request for clarifications from the Iranians regarding their actions. The Iranians ignored the request.

  Earthquakes rattled the Midwest, causing extensive damage but few casualties. An outbreak of violent tornadoes a week later produced more damage and a dozen fatalities.

  A large hurricane made landfall in Mississippi, and two more were percolating out in the Atlantic, taking aim at the East Coast. Rioters began looting in several coastal cities, laughingly declaring in videos posted online that they were just getting a jump on the storm.

  Students at a college in New England attacked a writer and historian invited to the campus to give a lecture, claiming that his racist, sexist, ableist, cisgender-normative views of history—he had once written a book about the causes of the Civil War and raised the possibility that other things were involved in addition to slavery—were intolerant and a violation of the safe space the students were owed by the university. The writer was left in a coma, and the student union building suffered heavy damage in a protest prompted by the university’s failure to issue a trigger warning about the lecture. The university president immediately issued an apology to the protesting students and filed a lawsuit against the writer, who could try to defend himself when and if he came out of his coma.

  Email hacks uncovered a plan by one of the major political parties to create as many as ten million entirely fictional voters before the next presidential election, since steps had been taken in many of the states to make it more difficult for illegal immigrants and dead people to vote. The news media mentioned the story briefly, then ignored it.

  The governor of a northeastern state announced that police would soon begin confiscating legally owned firearms, and that if anyone didn’t like it, they could sue him.

  Russian troops moved into the neighboring country, which put up a bloody resistance for two weeks before collapsing. The U.S. adminstration expressed grave concern over this reckless action. The Russians moved in a large occupation force, then began shifting their troops to another border.

  Turkish planes bombed the Iranian missile batteries, destroying them but not before several missiles were launched into Ankara. Those missiles carried conventional warheads, not nukes, but still caused widespread destruction. The United States decried this destruction, then blamed Turkey for provoking the Iranians with the bombing raid.

  Rockets landed on Tel Aviv again. There was no comment from the administration.

  The turmoil caused the stock market to plummet. Chinese interests moved in, buying up huge blocks of American companies and real estate. By executive order, the President committed trillions of dollars to propping up failing banks. To finance this, an emergency tax would be levied on the “wealthy,” with the bottom cutoff for such tax being a $40,000 annual income. The legality of these executive orders was widely debated, with most pundits agreeing that the President had no authority to do such things. But the orders were carried out anyway, as Congress debated but took no action.

  The North Koreans prepared for another missile test . . .

  Chapter 11

  September 17

  “Don’t put your hand like that,” Jill said. “Slide it up a little. Now move your thumb over . . . Ah, right there. Perfect.”

  “You’re sure?” Trevor said.

  “Yes. You’re good to go. Just . . . gently. Don’t rush it. No, wait—Keep both eyes open. Take a breath . . . squeeze . . .”

  The Smith & Wesson M&P Shield 9mm boomed as Trevor fired. Jill had him standing and holding the gun correctly, so the recoil wasn’t bad. She could tell that he was a little surprised.

  “That was loud,” he said, his voice muffled some by the ear protectors she wore. “But it didn’t kick as much as I thought it would. What do I do now?”

  “You’ve got six more rounds in the magazine,” she told him. “That one hit a little low and to the left.” Actually, it was quite a bit low and left, but it wouldn’t do any good to tell him that. “Adjust your aim a little.”

  “Okay.” He started to line up the second shot.

  “Your arms are too stiff. Bend your elbows slightly.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Better. Go ahead.”

  It had been so long since Trevor had been on the range that this was almost like the first time for him. He’d never practiced enough to have any sort of muscle memory for it. He didn’t seem to have any natural aptitude for it, either, so Jill had always figured it was better not to push him.

  Since they had taken the big step of committing to the Hercules Project, though, she had started thinking that maybe it would be a good idea to get him a little more familiar with firearms. The fact that the situation in the country, and in the world beyond the U.S., had gotten steadily worse over the past few months made her more determined than ever to be prepared if something terrible happened. At her father’s suggestion, she had prepared bug-out bags containing nonperishable food, first-aid supplies, extra clothing, blankets, water, and weapons for her and Trevor: a pistol, ammunition, and a multifunction knife/tool.

  She wasn’t going to arm her children. A part of her thought she needed to teach Bailey and Chris how to shoot, too, but at this point, she hadn’t been able to bring herself to do it. Maybe that was stupid—well, no maybe about it, she realized when she thought about it coldly and intellectually, but right now that was where her head—and her heart—were.

  Trevor fired out the magazine. His shots were so widely scattered that Jill couldn’t even think of them in terms of a grouping. He would get better, though, with practice . . . she hoped.

  “Okay, push that button right there,” she told him. “That releases the magazine. Now you can reload.”

  “How’s that work again?”

  She picked up the loader and showed him. “The top of the magazine goes in there . . . push down . . . the bullet goes there . . . release . . . Now do that six more times.”

  “It takes a while, doesn’t it?” he said as he struggled with some with the technique.

  “That’s why you have multiple magazines and keep them loaded. You can switch them out and release the slide in a second or so.”

  “Maybe you can.”

  “You’ll get it,” she said.

  “You think so? Is it really so important that I can do this?”

  “Well, if you never need to, you haven’t lost anything except some time.”

  “And mayb
e part of my hearing,” he muttered.

  “But if it ever comes down to you being able to shoot in order for you to save your life . . . or to save the lives of me and the kids . . . wouldn’t it be better for you to know what you’re doing?”

  He looked at her for a long moment, then started to slide the loaded magazine into the pistol’s grip.

  “Finger away from the trigger first,” she reminded him. “Finger never goes in until you’re ready to shoot.”

  “Now you’re just talking dirty.”

  “Slide that on in there, big boy,” she told him, “and let’s go.”

  * * *

  Larkin had grown accustomed to writing the checks to the Hercules Project. He still winced at the amounts, but just like the mortgage on their house, they were paying off the debt in big chunks and would have it off their back sooner, saving money in the process. It was the prudent way to handle things. Of course, thrift was no longer in fashion, starting right at the top with a government that spent money in mind-boggling amounts, faster than seemed humanly possible.

  The work of finishing the Hercules Project had continued. Several times, Graham Moultrie had invited the people who had signed up as residents to come out and take a look at what had been done. Larkin had to give him credit for transparency. He had never really warmed up to Moultrie, but the guy seemed to be genuinely devoted to what he was doing.

  Moultrie had made his money in commercial real estate, Larkin had discovered through doing some online research into the man’s background, so this was hardly the first big project he had tackled. It was maybe the biggest and most important, though. Building a shopping center didn’t really compare to the survival of the human race.

  Those visits to the project had given Larkin and Susan the chance to meet some of the others who would be there in case of an emergency. Larkin was glad to see that his old friend and fellow Marine Adam Threadgill was among them, along with Threadgill’s wife Luisa, their daughter Sophie, and Sophie’s husband Jack. If it ever came down to something bad enough to need the refuge, it would be good to have friends there.