The Doomsday Bunker

by William W. Johnstone

  Identifying the three men hadn’t taken long, either. Two were Syrian refugees; the other had been born and raised in Encino. But all were fervent jihadists, according to their social media pages. All had predicted their own deaths.

  And all had vowed that the bloodshed would go on no matter what happened to them, until a worldwide caliphate was established that would usher in peace.

  The country was shaken. The previous holiday season, another mall had almost been destroyed in a terrorist attack. The pattern was forming. When it wasn’t even safe to go to the mall anymore . . .

  The attack was the top story for a week. Then the North Koreans staged another nuclear test that put the entire Far East up in arms. The Iranian government issued a stern warning to the United States not to respond to the North Koreans’ action. The Hydra virus ramped up, with scores of new cases reported and a 90 percent mortality rate. Seven police officers were ambushed and killed in Kansas City, Missouri. The President made a speech from the Oval Office saying that in order to quell the rising tide of violence in the country, some constitutional rights might have to be suspended, but only temporarily, of course.

  And the winner of Singing for Dollars was announced: Jodie Swain. Leading to immediate howls of protest that Taneesha Hamilton should have won and had been robbed because she was not only black but transgender. That story trended even more than any of the others.

  In Texas, Patrick Larkin took his wife Susan to visit the Hercules Project.

  * * *

  “I have to say, you’re an absolutely perfect candidate for residency here, Susan,” Graham Moultrie said after taking them on the same tour of the project that Larkin had gotten a couple of weeks earlier. “It’s vital that we have people in the community with hands-on medical experience.”

  “She’s got plenty of that,” Larkin said. “Fifteen years as an ER nurse. I’d say she’s seen just about every kind of medical emergency there is.”

  “Hardly,” Susan said. “I’m sure there are all kinds of things I’ve never encountered.”

  “But you’ve seen plenty,” Moultrie went on. “And it’s not like you’d be in charge of our medical unit. We already have several doctors and their families signed up. You’d be joining a great team.”

  “Assuming that we’d ever have to take shelter down here.”

  “Of course,” Moultrie said. “And we hope that never happens, don’t we? Just like we buy car insurance and home insurance to protect us against things that we hope will never happen.”

  “So this place”—Susan gestured at their surroundings—” is nuclear war and plague insurance.”

  Moultrie looked like he was thinking it over, then he nodded. “You could call it that, I suppose. I prefer just saying that it’s survival insurance, because there are all sorts of things out there that could threaten our survival.”

  Larkin thought about everything that had been happening in the world recently and knew Moultrie was right about that, anyway. There was no telling which direction catastrophe would come from next. But there were getting to be so many potential civilization-ending disasters that the odds were tipping further and further in favor of something bad happening.

  Susan looked around the main corridor where they were standing and said, “Well . . . it does seem like you’ve thought of just about everything.”

  “We tried,” Moultrie said modestly. “And it’s not just Deb and me, either. I’ve hired some of the top survival experts and futurists in the country as consultants, to make sure we haven’t overlooked anything. I know that having a place down here isn’t cheap. One of our goals is to make sure that each of our residents gets his or her money’s worth.”

  “Of course, who would anybody complain to?” Larkin asked. “If it’s bad enough on the surface for everybody to come down here, there won’t be any Better Business Bureau left.”

  Susan said, “Patrick, that was rude.”

  “No, not at all,” Moultrie said quickly. “Your husband is right, Susan. Ultimately, there’s only one person to be held accountable.” He poked a thumb against his chest. “Me. That old saying about where the buck stops is true. It’s right here. The Hercules Project is my baby, no one else’s.”

  A moment of silence went by before Moultrie resumed in his usual affable tone, “Well, what do you think? Can we sign up the two of you?”

  “I don’t know,” Susan said. “It’s a lot of money.”

  “It is,” Moultrie agreed with a solemn nod.

  Larkin said, “We have our daughter and her husband and our grandkids to think of, too. I’m not coming down here without them. If things are bad enough to need a place like this, there’s no way I’ll abandon them.”

  “That’s absolutely right,” Susan said. “Our family is, well, a package deal.”

  “Just the way it should be,” Moultrie said without hesitation. “Honestly, I’m not sure I’d want anybody down here who could just leave their loved ones behind. We’re talking about . . . four more people, I believe you said, Patrick?”

  Larkin nodded. “Our daughter Jill, her husband Trevor Sinclair, and their kids Bailey and Chris. Bailey’s twelve, Chris is eight.”

  “Sounds like a fine family,” Moultrie said. “There’ll be quite a few other kids down here, so they’ll fit right in. And if you’re worried about their education, I knew starting out that I’d definitely have to recruit enough teachers so that we can have our own school. If the world falls apart, it’s going to take educated people to put it back together again.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Susan said. “Let us talk to Jill and Trevor and see what they think.”

  “Of course.”

  Larkin said, “Aren’t you going to warn us not to wait too long to make up our minds?”

  Moultrie smiled. “You’re a smart guy, Patrick. I know you’re not going to be rushed into anything, but at the same time, you’re not going to drag your feet when it’s time to take action. I trust you to figure out what’s right for your family.”

  “Fair enough,” Larkin said.

  “So, unless there’s something else down here you’d like to see . . . ?” Moultrie looked at Susan and raised his eyebrows.

  She shook her head. “No, I think you’ve covered everything very well.”

  “Let’s go back up to the office and have a cup of coffee, then. Deb makes great coffee.”

  * * *

  “He’s really slick, isn’t he?” Susan asked as they drove away from the Hercules Project in Larkin’s SUV.

  “Slick as snot,” Larkin agreed.

  “Don’t be crude. And yet he’s not really as oily as . . . as . . .”

  “A snake oil salesman?” Larkin supplied.

  “That’s right. I’ve always wondered, though . . . who would buy snake oil in the first place?” Without waiting for Larkin to answer, Susan went on, “He’s a salesman, no doubt about that, but he also seems very sincere. I can usually tell when somebody’s just trying to talk me into buying something.”

  “Exactly. Moultrie really believes in what he’s selling.”

  “And his wife is lovely.”

  “Is she?” Larkin said.

  Susan laughed. “Don’t try acting like you didn’t notice. I know you have a thing for gorgeous redheads.”

  “I’m not sure I’d say she’s gorgeous—”

  “She’s considerably younger than Graham, though. I suspect she’s not his first wife.”

  “And I suspect that’s none of our business,” Larkin said.

  “And it really doesn’t have anything to do with whether we sign on the dotted line.”

  “Not a thing.”

  “We need to get Jill and Trevor to come over for dinner so we can talk to them about this.”

  Larkin nodded. “I agree completely. They’re smart kids. We’ll lay it all out for them and see what they think.”

  “If they come in on it with us, though, we’re going to have to pay some of the cost. I won’t have them ra
iding the college funds they’ve set up.”

  “We can do that. Of course, if we all wind up down there, they won’t be worrying about college, probably for a long time.”

  Susan looked out the passenger side window at the beautiful countryside rolling past. “Don’t remind me. We’re talking about the end of the world, aren’t we?”

  “Yeah,” Larkin said. “And I don’t feel fine.”

  Chapter 7

  Jill Sinclair lined up the sights of the Walther CCP 9mm pistol she held, and in a deliberate fashion, not rushing the shots, put four rounds center mass. The spread at ten yards was six inches. Not bad, she thought as she lowered the pistol, but it could be better. Accuracy could always be improved upon.

  She dropped the eight-round magazine, set the Walther on the shelf in front of her, and started reloading. With ear protectors on, she didn’t hear the step behind her, didn’t know anybody was there until a hand lightly touched her shoulder. She had thought she was alone on the range.

  She closed her left fist around the partially reloaded magazine, ready to bring it around and punch if she had to. She resisted the impulse to do so blindly and looked over her right shoulder instead. Probably a good thing she did, she thought. Her husband wouldn’t have appreciated it if she’d punched him in the face and broken his nose.

  She pulled the ear protectors down so they hung around the back of her neck and asked Trevor, “What are you doing here?”

  He pushed his glasses up on his nose and said, “I was on my way home from work when your mother called me. She’s been trying to get you.”

  Jill nodded toward her range bag. “My phone’s in there. I didn’t hear it.”

  “Yeah, I told Susan that’s what I guessed.”

  “There’s not anything wrong, is there?” Jill caught her breath a little. “The kids—”

  “The kids are fine. I talked to Bailey just before I left the office.”

  “Oh. Okay. What did my mother want, then?”

  “Your folks want us to come over for dinner.”

  Jill looked down at her outfit: running shoes, yoga pants—she’d never been to a yoga class in her life, but she loved the pants—and T-shirt. “Not like this,” she said. “I’ll have to go home and shower and change.”

  “Your parents wouldn’t care.”

  “Maybe not, but I would. What’s going on? Is there some sort of urgency about this invitation?”

  Trevor shrugged. “I don’t know. Your mom didn’t sound like there was anything wrong, exactly, but she did sound like she and your dad want to talk to us about something.”

  “They didn’t just get the urge to have dinner with us and the kids, then.”

  Trevor frowned and said, “Actually . . . she said it would be a good idea if it was just you and me, without Bailey and Chris.”

  Jill raised an eyebrow that matched her long, light brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. She had inherited a blend of her father’s dark hair and her mother’s blond.

  “No kids? That sounds sort of ominous, don’t you think?”

  “Maybe they’ve got some news they don’t want the kids to hear. Like something about . . . illness, maybe.”

  Jill caught her breath. “Oh, God, one of them has cancer.”

  “Now, don’t jump to any conclusions—”

  “What else could it be?”

  “All sorts of things,” Trevor said. “Maybe they’re getting a divorce.”

  Jill gave him a disgusted look. “That’s ridiculous. My parents couldn’t last a month without each other, and you know it.”

  “Well, that’s the way it seems, but you never know.”

  “Yeah. Sometimes you do know.”

  “All right, but just because it’s not divorce doesn’t mean it has to be cancer.”

  Jill sighed. “I suppose not. There’s only one way to find out. What did you tell her?”

  “I told her I’d have to talk to you. I saw your car when I was driving by here and thought it’d be better to stop and let you know now, instead of waiting until we met up at home.”

  Jill nodded and said, “Good idea. I’ll call her, just in case she was worried.”

  “I think that’d be a good idea.”

  “And Bailey can make something for her and Chris for supper.”

  “We could see if Marisol can come over—”

  “They don’t need a babysitter, Trev. They’re too old for that.”

  “Chris is only eight.”

  “And Bailey’s twelve. My parents didn’t helicopter me, and I’m not gonna helicopter my kids. They’re going to be self-reliant.”

  “Just like their gun-toting mother.”

  Jill gave him a look. She didn’t want to have this . . . argument wasn’t the right word. Discussion, maybe. Trevor wasn’t opposed to guns, and he had never told her she shouldn’t carry one. He just didn’t feel that comfortable with them himself. She had persuaded him to try shooting a few times, and honestly, he wasn’t very good at it. In his case, it was probably better that he didn’t carry.

  Jill, on the other hand, never left the house without her Walther, or her Baby Glock, or her S&W Shield . . .

  “Let’s just head home,” she said. “I’ll call my mom on the way and let her know we’ll be there. I can shower and change pretty quickly.”

  “Okay.”

  Jill packed her gear away in the range bag and led the way out through the pair of doors, one closing before the other opened. She smiled at the guy behind the gun shop’s counter and said, “Since when do you let non-shooters back on the range, Ed?”

  “Since you were the only one back there and the guy’s married to you, I figured it would be all right.”

  “Yeah, it is,” Jill said. “Just kidding.”

  “I’m just glad she didn’t shoot me,” Trevor said.

  “Not a joke to make here,” she told him solemnly.

  “Sorry,” he muttered.

  * * *

  Jill and Trevor lived about five miles from her parents, both homes being on the west side of Fort Worth but in different suburbs. When her dad retired from the Marines and they made plans to move to the area, Jill hadn’t been sure she liked the idea of having her folks so close by. She didn’t want to fall into the trap of using grandparents as built-in babysitters, as so many people did, and she didn’t want them judging her, either.

  As it turned out, though, things had been good. Her parents had given them plenty of space, although everyone was close enough that it was easy to pitch in and help out whenever needed, not just with babysitting but with anything else that came up. And with modern life the way it was, something always came up. If the day-to-day stress level ever went down too much, Jill wasn’t sure she would know what to do.

  Trevor parked his hybrid sedan in the driveway of the Larkin home. Looking presentable again, Jill got out and went up the walk with her husband. Her mother must have been waiting for them, beause she opened the door before they got there.

  “Come on in,” Susan said. “Dinner’s almost ready. Your father made meatloaf.”

  Jill smiled. “I never would have thought Dad would turn out to be a cook.”

  “It shocked me, too, to be honest.”

  From behind the island that separated the kitchen from the living room and dining room area, Larkin raised a bottle and called, “Want a beer, Trev?”

  “Sure,” Trevor said as he walked into the kitchen. Larkin got a beer from the refrigerator, opened it, and handed the bottle to him.

  Susan and Jill sat down on the sofa. The TV was on, with the sound down. Susan turned it off and said, “There’s no point. All the news is bad these days.”

  “I expect people have been saying that as long as there’s been any sort of news being reported.”

  “Probably,” Susan replied with a shrug. “I appreciate the two of you coming over on such short notice.”

  Jill looked back and forth between her parents and said, “This isn’t about bad news, i
s it? Because if it is, I’d just as soon not postpone it until after we’ve eaten.”

  “No, not bad news. Although, in a way . . .”

  “Neither one of you is dying from some kind of disease, right?”

  Susan looked surprised by that blunt question. “No. Not that I know of, anyway. Why in the world would you ask that?”

  “And you’re not getting divorced?”

  “What? No! Certainly not.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Larkin said from the kitchen. “Although if that’s what it was, I would have hoped that you’d tell me first.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Susan said.

  “And I don’t have cancer?” Larkin asked.

  “How would I know that? You haven’t even been to the doctor in months.”

  “Wives know things,” Larkin said with exaggerated gravity.

  “Stop that,” Susan said. “You know good and well why we asked Jill and Trevor to come over here.”

  “Well, yeah, I guess I do,” Larkin admitted.

  “It was your idea.”

  “No, it was Adam’s idea.”

  “Wait a minute,” Jill said. “I’m confused. Your friend Adam Threadgill? What’s he got to do with anything?”

  “He’s the one who told me about this place.”

  “Oh, man,” Trevor said after he took a pull on his beer. “This isn’t some timeshare deal, is it?”

  “No,” Larkin said. “It’s more of an . . . end of the world deal.”

  Chapter 8

  After that cryptic statement, of course, there was no way Jill and Trevor were going to wait to hear what this get-together was all about. Dinner was ready, though, so they ate as they talked, and pending apocalypse didn’t make for the most appropriate conversation.

  “Don’t you think the whole thing is really . . . far-fetched?” Trevor asked when Larkin had laid out the facts about the Hercules Project. “I mean, I can understand being worried about some of the things going on in the world, but you don’t actually believe anything really bad is going to happen, do you?”

  “I can’t guarantee that it’s not going to, either,” Larkin said.