Slayne relayed his instructions to the other Blocks. He could only hope no one came down with radiation sickness. When he had done all he could, he went in search of Carpenter and found him seated at his desk looking distraught. “It could have been worse,” he concluded.
“A lot worse,” Carpenter agreed. “I didn’t react fast enough. You did, though. You assumed change quickly and efficiently.”
Slayne shrugged. “It’s my job.”
Carpenter thoughtfully drummed his fingers on his desk. “Another lesson learned. From here on out, in times of emergency you’re to assume charge of the Family.”
“Don’t go overboard.”
“I’m not, Patrick. In fact, I intend to ask for a vote of general approval so that in the future, whenever the Home is threatened, the Warriors will take over until the crisis has passed.”
Diana Trevor came in. She had changed into a light blue blouse and jeans. “I think that went well, all things considered.”
Slayne frowned. “We were caught napping. But I’ll be damned if I’ll let that happen again.”
“I guess I should have listened to that girl. Maybe it wouldn’t have happened.” Diana sank into a chair.
“What girl? What are you talking about?
“Megan Franchone. She’s, what, fifteen? This morning I was talking to her family at breakfast and the mother mentioned Megan had a dream last night that something terrible would happen today. I told her dreams like that are perfectly ordinary.”
“I wonder,” Carpenter said. “Have the mother and the girl come see me later. I’d like to find out if she has dreams like that often.”
“Oh, she does. The mother tried to convince me that Megan is some kind of psychic. Which is perfectly ridiculous.”
“Is it?” Carpenter leaned back. “I read an article on it once in a Fortean magazine. Empaths, such people are called.” “Kurt, please.”
“I know, I know. But there have been documented cases that can’t be explained.”
“I’m surprised at you. Usually you take a more rational approach.”
“I try to leave myself open to all possibilities,” Carpenter said. “I had a college instructor who used to say that the only thing that keeps us from solving the challenges we face is a closed mind.”
Slayne changed the subject. “I’m going to get on the horn and announce that anyone interested in being a Warrior should contact me.
I’ll conduct personal interviews later, after the fallout stops and we know it’s safe.”
“I wonder how many will apply?”
Fourteen men and women were interested. Slayne weeded out those whose hearts were in the right place but who lacked the most essential attribute for the job. As he explained it to one of the volunteers, “Anyone can learn to shoot. Anyone can learn to fight. But that’s not enough. True Warriors must have a certain mindset. They must be devoted to combat. They must live it, eat it, breathe it. They must learn to live on the cusp of death. The deaths they cause, and their own.”
The candidate asked for Slayne to elaborate.
“When all is said and done, the essence of being a Warrior is death dealing. If a person isn’t comfortable as a death dealer, they lack the most essential quality a Warrior needs. So far there are only two Family members who
I can say with complete confidence have that quality, and one of them is me.”
“Who is the other one?”
Soren Anderson strode over to a corner table in the cafeteria, set Mjolnir down, and took a seat across from the man who was eating.
“Do you mind if we talk?”
“Not at all.” Sam Richter paused with a piece of meatloaf halfway to his mouth and stared at the hammer. “So that’s what you used? A mallet against rifles. You have guts.” He bit the meatloaf off the fork and chewed. “Word is that you’ve been selected to be a Warrior.
Congratulations.”
“Thank you. That’s why I’m here. Mr. Carpenter says you’re the Family Armorer.”
Richter chuckled. “Him and his titles. I’m a blacksmith, Mr.
Anderson. Before that I had a gun shop for a few years. I can take a gun apart and put it back together again.”
“I’m not here about a gun.” Soren placed a big hand on Mjolnir. “I’m here about this.”
Richter put down his fork and picked up a glass of water. “I’m not sure I understand.”
“The Warriors are required to carry at least two guns. One must be a rifle or a shotgun or a submachine gun. The other must be a sidearm. I don’t want a sidearm. I want to use Mjolnir.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“Can you turn Mjolnir into a gun? Can you rig it so I can shoot a bullet out the handle?”
Sam Richter reached across the table to lift the hammer using one hand. “Dear lord.” He used both hands. “How can you swing this thing?
It must weigh fifty pounds.”
“To me it is a feather.”
“Maybe you should listen to Slayne.”
“But I want Mjolnir. All I need is to find a way to give it more range and he’ll let me use it. I’m sure.”
Richter examined the hammer closely. He ran his fingers over the runes and thumped the head and then the handle. “Mr. Anderson, this thing is solid. A gun requires parts to operate. Where would I put them?”
“I was thinking the handle.”
Richter turned the hammer upside down and placed it on the table with its handle sticking up. “What kind of wood is this? Whatever it is, it’s as hard as rock. I could try to core it out, but even then I’m not sure I could fit a trigger mechanism inside.”
Soren didn’t hide his disappointment. “There must be something.
Maybe it could fire a shotgun shell if you put in a firing pin and I pound it a certain way.”
“The pounding might break the pin. And it would only work at extremely close range.” Richter shook his head.
