The Alt Apocalypse: Books 1-3

by Tom Abrahams

  “What?” asked her son through the speaker.

  Ellen checked the rearview mirror. “I wasn’t talking to you.” She glanced at the speaker above the dash. “I’m trying to find a parking space. I’m late for an appointment.”

  “We can talk later?” asked her son, his voice full of hope.

  “Fine,” she said. “Later.”

  Her son sighed. “Okay. I love—”

  Ellen thumbed the disconnect on the steering wheel and hung up. She turned off the ignition and shouldered open the door. It chimed, reminding her to grab her key from the center console. She fished it out of the cup holder, grabbing her phone and her purse.

  She stepped from the car and onto the street, waiting between the car and the door for a Land Rover to roll past. Its driver glared at her as he drove by, chastising her silently for opening her door into traffic. Ellen rolled her eyes, hung her Balenciaga bag into the crook of her arm, and slid from behind the shield of her door. She slammed it shut, pressed the key to lock the car, and clicked her heels into the salon.

  The door chimed, and the aroma of toluene and acetate hit her like a punch to the nose when she stepped into the space. The dozen people in the salon stopped their conversations and measured her as she glided to the glass desk off to one side of a waiting area.

  She faked a smile. “I’m so sorry,” she said as sweetly as she was capable of. “I know I’m a couple of minutes late…”

  Ellen let the sentence trail off, hoping the birdlike gatekeeper sitting at the desk behind a large digital display would appreciate her apology. She didn’t recognize the woman, who she thought to be Cambodian, no, Vietnamese. Regardless, the gatekeeper appeared unimpressed. The plastic hair clip at the crown of her head held too much hair too tightly and made her face and eyes appear catlike. The woman was both bird and cat.

  An odd combination, thought Ellen. She tried a wider smile.

  The gatekeeper, whose flat expression gave away nothing, glanced at the display and then back at Ellen. She exhaled an exaggerated sigh. “Tammy,” she called, maintaining the poker face. “Your appointment Chang is here. She’s late. Twenty-two minutes. What do you want me to do?”

  Ellen raised an eyebrow. She ran her thumb along the face of her smartphone. Her son’s photograph, without his girlfriend, appeared on the screen. She didn’t notice.

  She was surprised by the woman’s English. It was actually good and lacked the staccato of immigrants, who tended to ignore the infinitive when speaking. Her volume matched that of the other, less articulate women in the salon. Her call was more a squawk. Definitely a bird. The woman was a bird.

  Ellen stole a look over her shoulder at the salon. Tammy, her regular manicurist, was frowning underneath her thick black glasses, her eyes judging Ellen from above the frames, which hung on the end of her nose, while she worked an emery board on a client’s ring finger. She was chomping on gum. Ellen knew from experience it was licorice-flavored.

  She waved at Tammy and started to say hello when the gatekeeper called again. It was shrill.

  “Make her wait?” she asked, leading the witness. “I can make her wait.”

  Tammy muttered something to the woman attached to the fingers she was decorating. The woman glanced over her shoulder briefly at Ellen.

  Ellen’s face flushed. She considered storming out of the salon.

  Yes, she was late. She was always late. She’d been warned not to be late. Still, she was one of Tammy’s longest tenured clients. That should count for something.

  Tammy waved with one hand, motioning Ellen toward her. In broken English she told Ellen to wait for a few minutes in the empty salon chair at the back of the salon. She’d be with her in a few minutes.

  Ellen thanked her and spun around to thank the gatekeeper. The bird woman was typing on a wireless keyboard in front of the display, having already moved on to whatever she had next on her agenda. She didn’t glance up from the screen despite Ellen being certain the woman could feel her glare.

  Ellen cleared her throat, pulled back her shoulders, and quickly stepped in time to the back of the salon. She found the empty chair and sank into it, draping one leg across the other.

  Several minutes passed and she felt the effects of her lunch, her Prosecco, and the heat of the salon lulling her to sleep. She closed her eyes and relaxed into the soft leather. It was certainly warmer at the back of the salon than it had been by the front door, and the chemical odor was stronger, more acrid.

  As she drifted into semiconsciousness, only vaguely aware of the hum and whir of the fans that circulated the caustic air, Ellen thought about her son. She imagined him on the beach playing volleyball with the Spanish heathenness or shopping in the gothic quarter, his fingers laced in the heathenness’s. Then she imagined them marveling at the brightly stained glass inside La Sagrada Familia, the deep-sea blues and the fiery reds growing in intensity as the sun dropped in the sky and hit the glass directly. She could sense the heat of the sun on her face as she stood with them, listening to the soft shuffle of awed tourists and the tentative creak of the pews resisting the weight of those who sat to admire the grand pulpit.

  It was warm inside the cathedral. Too warm. There was smoke. Without warning, that red light diffused through stained glass cast a laser beam onto the wooden pews and lit them afire.

  The tourists ran screaming. The heat intensified, as did the smell of smoke. Ellen stood frozen, the chaos unfolding around her. Her son was calling to her. He was ushering her, urging her away from the flames that lapped at her feet. He wasn’t calling her Mom, though. He was screaming her first name, and his voice wasn’t his own. It was higher pitched and heavily accented. Somebody else was in the background yelling something about chemicals and fire and calling 9-1-1.

  9-1-1 in Spain? That wasn’t right. It was 1-1-2.

  It was getting hotter. She couldn’t move. Her son was still calling for her, his voice getting fainter. The crackle of flames sucking up the oxygen inside the cathedral was drowning him out. Why would he leave her? Why would he choose that harlot over her? What kind of son—

  Ellen’s eyes popped open. Her body jerked, and her lungs filled with smoke.

  Where was she? Sweat stung her eyes, and she winced at the heat at her back, on both sides of her, in front of her. What was this place?

  Then she remembered. She was in the salon, waiting for Tammy to finish the client who’d taken her appointment. She was in the leather chair at the back of the room. But now, as she coughed, and tears streaked down her face, she couldn’t be sure where anything was.

  It was all consumed in flames and smoke. All of it was burning. This wasn’t a dream. It was real.

  Ellen coughed again and sank to the floor. She rolled onto her stomach and tried feeling her way toward the front of the salon with her eyes closed. There was no point in exposing them to the burn in the air since she couldn’t see anything. She crept forward on the tile, her bag still on her arm and flopping along the floor as she inched forward. Ellen groped with open hands in the space in front of her face.

  In the distance, voices were calling for her. Glass was shattering, and people were screaming. Beyond the smoke there were people. There was clean air. There was safety.

  Ellen’s lungs burned with every successive breath. It wasn’t just the sting of the air, but its heat that gave her the sensation that she was sizzling from the inside out. Her skin was raw, the silk fabric of her blouse and the cotton blend of her skirt stuck to her sweaty body. Each pull of her body was harder than the one before it. She tried calling back, but the smoke was too much. She couldn’t muster more than a squeak.

  She imagined those voices outside belonged to the cat-bird gatekeeper at the desk, Tammy, and the other women whose fingers and toes weren’t yet fully mani’d or pedi’d.

  None of them had helped her. Not one had awoken her or yanked her from her nap. They’d left her to die. They’d been worried about themselves.

  How had the fire even
started? Where had it begun? How did it explode into an inferno so quickly?

  None of it mattered now. She’d never know the answers to any of those questions. She couldn’t see, she couldn’t breathe, and any attempt at either only injected more pain.

  The call of those outside gave way to the wail of sirens. She coughed again and stopped moving. She tucked her head underneath her armpit. The sharp tang of body odor replaced the poisonous smoke for a moment in a welcome, albeit short, moment.

  More glass shattered. The creak and moan of something above her rippled across what she imagined was the ceiling.

  The sirens were louder. There were men shouting now.

  Another creak above her head. Then a boom followed by an instant of sharp pain and immense weight. Too much weight.

  Ellen Chang, crushed and burning, drifted back into unconsciousness thinking about her son.

  ***

  Casper “Ritz” Lincoln slammed Rescue 19 into park and hopped from the driver’s seat. The radiant heat hit him as soon as his boots hit the pavement. He was next to one of the two fire engines known as “triples” for their ability to pump water, hold it in a tank, and carry hose.

  The chief was already taking command of the attack, directing firefighters to attach a five-inch supply line to the closest hydrant and get the attack lines ready to go. Ritz stepped up to the chief, a veteran named James White. The man’s eyes were focused. The thick white mustache that covered his upper lip bristled with tension.

  “Power?” asked Ritz.

  “Get after it,” said White. “We’re gonna cut the roof. I need the lights off yesterday.”

  Ritz nodded and waved to his partner, another paramedic named Phyllis. She buttoned up her turnout jacket, adjusted the Nomex hood on her head, and followed him with an axe. They headed toward the burning building, which was a long strip center that ran the length of the block. Ritz adjusted his own hood and pulled on his gloves.

  They rounded the corner, wading through the thick smoke to the side of the structure. At eye level, on the side of the vaguely white stucco, was the electric meter. The two moved to either side of the large box. Phyllis wedged the axe blade into the narrow space between the back of the meter and the wall and began prying the meter free from the wall using the axe handle’s leverage. Ritz dug his gloved hands in the space on the opposite side of the meter and pulled as hard as he could.

  Together they heaved the meter from the building’s external wall. It disconnected, and Ritz yanked it free from the connecting wires. The power to the building was off.

  He pinched the button on the radio at his shoulder. “Power’s dead,” he said and locked eyes with Phyllis. “Let’s finish suiting up and get in there.”

  As paramedics, their job was multifold. After clearing the power from the building, their next job was search and rescue. He was the first medic on the scene and was the highest rank, so he was in charge. All the other medics who’d arrive would be under his command.

  The first alarm had brought with it two engines and his advanced life support rescue ambulance. The second alarm added another engine, another ALS ambulance, and a ladder truck LAFD called a truck company. The call, which Ritz had heard on the radio on the drive to the fire, was for the light force. That light force, the engine, and the ladder weren’t used often. But this fire was already getting out of control. A third alarm sent a fourth engine and a third ambulance.

  When Ritz emerged from the side of the building, his eyes widened at how quickly the scene had changed. There were now too many firefighters to count already working the attack lines. The ladder was extending and putting firefighters on the roof to ventilate it.

  Ritz tucked his gloves under his arm and grabbed his helmet. He checked his SCBA, which would help him breathe if he had to enter the building, and his locator alarm. Phyllis, who’d done most of this on the ride there, was ready to go.

  He affixed his helmet, pulled his gloves back onto his hands, and weaved through the apparatuses to find command. He saw a quick burst of flames shoot skyward from the roof. Thick blooms of black smoke erupted upward and spread outward over the street, blocking out the sun. In the distance, sirens wailed. Beads of sweat were forging paths down his neck and back. The Nomex hood stuck to his face. His helmet bouncing on his head, he moved as quickly as he could toward the cluster of chiefs pointing at the blaze with sharp gestures.

  Ritz found James White and interrupted. “How many inside?”

  “We think one in the salon,” White said. His bushy eyebrows were furrowed, making them appear like miniature offspring of his mustache. “But the fire is already spreading.”

  White pointed toward the roof. Ritz followed his aim and saw wisps of smoke lifting from the adjacent business, a liquor store.

  “Common attic,” he said. “No fire break between the two.”

  The teams were already putting water on the flames. It wasn’t doing much. Ritz moved closer to the salon. Its front windows were shattered, flames flicking through the black wrought-iron burglar bars barely visible through the smoke.

  There was a group of women huddled together to one side. Another paramedic, whose last name was Lardie, was talking to them. Or trying to talk to them. All of them appeared hysterical, and some of them were speaking a language Ritz didn’t understand. Phyllis pushed past Ritz to join the women.

  She started speaking in the same foreign, tonal language. Her gloved hands were on one woman’s shoulders, gripping her attention and supporting her weight. Phyllis hugged the woman, drawing her into her body for a moment, and thanked her in English. She glanced over at Ritz and stepped toward him.

  “She says there’s only one woman in there,” Phyllis said. “They haven’t heard her calling or crying out. They think she’s dead.”

  The smoke was still black. The flames were torch hot, and the firefighters on the roof were having a hard time controlling the spread of the flames despite having ventilated it.

  “No go,” he said. “Not worth the risk.”

  Phyllis’s eyes narrowed. The corners of her mouth frowned with disapproval. “We’re leaving her in there? I don’t—”

  “If she’s still in there, she’s gone,” Ritz said firmly. “I’m not putting our lives at risk for one that’s not salvageable. This fire’s been going ten, fifteen minutes. Structurally, there’s five left until the roof caves. No go.”

  “Then what do we do?”

  “You and Lardie help the women,” said Ritz. “Check them for burns and smoke inhalation. Remember to be careful for—”

  “I know,” she interrupted. “Laryngospasms. I’m not a rookie.”

  It was true; she wasn’t. Still, she was a newbie, just three years on the job. Ritz still remembered her first week. They’d sent her to station 37 on Veterans to look for a hose stretcher. She’d been furious when she’d learned it was a prank, part of the hazing that all Los Angeles first responders endured as part of their initiation.

  While her sense of humor hadn’t improved, she was a good medic and a solid firefighter who’d earned respect. He shouldn’t have reminded her about the dangers of not checking inside a fire victim’s mouth for signs of smoke inhalation and the trauma it could cause.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Just get to work.”

  Phyllis motioned to Lardie and, confident the women were in good hands, Ritz moved toward the liquor store. There was an elderly man with slicked-back hair cheaply colored to look brown. His arthritic hands were on his head, the gnarled, swollen fingers gripping at clumps of hair and threatening to pull them out.

  Tears streamed down his cheeks, traveling the creases dug deep from cigarettes and stress. Ritz couldn’t be sure if the crying was from shock and sadness or from the increasingly dense fog of gray smoke that was encircling them both.

  “Sir,” said Ritz, approaching the man, “I need you to step back. You’re too close to the building.”

  The man’s red eyes sat deep inside the leather of his sockets and c
heeks. His white, thin line of eyebrows arched beneath the parallel of wrinkles in his forehead.

  It was loud where they stood. The roar and crackle of the flames, the whoosh and splash of the water, and the rumble of the engines made it difficult to communicate.

  Ritz raised his voice. “Sir,” he said, reaching out to put his hand on the man’s trembling shoulder, “we really should—”

  A percussive blast and an intense flash of heat knocked Ritz backward and off his feet. He landed on his side, his helmet slapping against the pavement. Everything went dark for a moment. When he blinked his eyes open, his vision was blurry, and his ears were ringing. The sounds that had been vivid and deafening moments before were muted as if he were lying at the bottom of a pool.

  His head was swimming. Where was he exactly? On the ground. Smoke. Heat. He was in his turnout gear. His throat was dry and tasted like a violent cocktail of blood and ash. He blinked again, trying to focus. It was so hard to focus.

  Ritz began to lift himself up on his elbows, and a sharp, jabbing pain in his side stopped him short. He rolled onto his opposite side and tried to take stock of the scene. There had to be something that—

  All around him was smoldering debris, meteorites of char dotting the asphalt, and people. There were people on the ground. Firefighters lying in awkward, unnatural positions.

  There were screams. He could make out screams and calls for help.

  Everything was in slow motion as the memory of where he was and what had happened boomeranged back into his mind. Nail salon. It was on fire. So was the liquor store next to it.

  The liquor store. A cauldron of flammables. It had exploded in flames.

  Ritz tried sucking in a deep breath. He couldn’t. He must have injured a rib, or multiple ribs. He didn’t know what else was damaged. Shards of pain radiated throughout his wounded body. He was better off, though, than the old man with leathery skin and box-color hair.

  That man was on his back, his head facing Ritz. He was staring at him with those eyes. They weren’t crying anymore. They weren’t red. They were fixed and distant. They were the eyes of a dead man.