The Alt Apocalypse: Books 1-3

by Tom Abrahams

  “I need you to empty your pockets, open your bags, and put them on the table,” said one the officers with the exasperation of someone who had already repeated it a thousand times. “One at a time, you’ll walk through the detector. I need to know ahead of time if you have any weapons—guns, knives, tasers, pepper spray, whatever.”

  Barker’s hearing had returned for the most part, though there was still an annoying, headache-inducing ring in his ears. It was a high-pitched tone, steady and constant. From his conversations with others on their way to the Wooden Center, he discerned that most everybody else was regaining their hearing and also suffering from the ringing.

  “Do we need to empty our bags?” asked Gem. She was standing right behind Barker and Becca. She ran her hands through her hair, straining the rainwater onto the floor. The sudden downpour had soaked all of them.

  The officer shook his head. “No, but we do need to check them. This is going to take a bit, so please be patient.” He raised his hands to get the group’s attention. “If you need medical assistance, please alert firefighter Anthony Reed. He will make sure you get help in the most expedient way possible.”

  Reed raised his hand and waved to the sorority awaiting entry. Leading the other firefighters, Captain Eaker approached him and stood close, speaking in a voice low enough that others couldn’t hear.

  Reed’s expression shifted from concern to horror, likely from Eaker telling him what had happened at the faculty building. He put his hand on her shoulder, replying with something Barker imagined was consoling and reassuring. Then he held his hands up, his fingers spread.

  “If you need help,” he said loudly, “hang here after you go through security. We’ll be back in less than ten. Is there anyone who needs urgent care?”

  Nobody was in dire need of help, so Reed motioned to the other firefighters and led them into the crowd, disappearing into the masses.

  Eventually all the sorority sisters, the house mother Melinda Zagrecki, and Barker made their way through the metal detector and into the gym. Barker hung Becca’s backpack onto his sore shoulder, standing there for a moment, soaking in the bizarre environment. It was loud, funky, and there was an air of surreality to the place. The students didn’t seem all that concerned. Except for the small group huddled around the television on the far wall of the gym, it appeared to Barker the rest of the population was merely waiting out a drill of some kind. People were laughing, joking, playing cards, trying to connect on their phones.

  They must not have seen what he’d seen. They hadn’t seen things burn and people die. They hadn’t inhaled thick smoke and coughed it out or been knocked senseless from an explosion. There was such a disconnect inside this place from what was happening on the outside.

  “Should we go look at the news?” he asked Becca. “There’s nowhere to sit, and I kinda want to know what’s going on.”

  She touched the cut on her head and nodded. “We’ve got some time before the medics come back.”

  Barker took her hand and led her, snaking through the crowds of students who acted oblivious to the dangers surrounding them. Their laughter and joviality were a sharp contrast to the sounds of sirens and traffic outside.

  They reached the crowd at the television and weaseled their way into a position where they could see and hear the news. There were closed captions running along the bottom of the screen, which helped, though they blocked the scroll of additional information that ran from right to left.

  The new anchor was Lane Turner, the same reporter they’d watched in the sorority house hours earlier. He was sitting at the high-tech desk in the studio in front of a large wall-sized complex of flat-panel monitors. On the monitors was a wide aerial shot of the Hollywood Hills. It was dark outside now except for the parallel streaks of fire that gouged into the hillsides, glowing and throbbing shades of orange and yellow.

  “…twenty-seven deaths and at least one hundred twenty-seven structures damaged or destroyed,” said Turner, reading from an iPad on the set. “As we reported online and on our news app, those numbers are preliminary, and authorities caution they will likely go much higher.”

  The small group staring at the television was silent and attentive. None of the noise behind them distracted them from what the newsman was saying on screen.

  “The good news here is that the unexpected development of storms has given firefighters significant hope that they’ll have these fires under control much sooner than initially anticipated,” Turner said directly into the camera. “Let’s go now to reporter Dan Visoiu, who is in Santa Monica with the latest there on the urban fires.”

  The screen split and revealed the reporter full screen. Visoiu was standing on the edge of the beach, the rain pelting him in his station-issued rain jacket. He wore a matching baseball cap and held the microphone close to his mouth. A plastic baggie was wrapped around the wireless transmitter at the base of the mic, held tight with a rubber band.

  “Here’s the latest from Santa Monica, Lane,” said the reporter. “The rain, which started an hour ago, is steady, and as you can likely see, pretty heavy. We’re drenched here, which is a good thing. The rains have doused some of the smaller fires that popped up along the strip centers and in one power substation. There is still a lot of work to do.”

  The reporter disappeared from the screen, replaced with video of firefighters battling the flames at what was likely a gas station, though it was hard to tell for sure through the smoke and the condensation on the camera lens. The reporter kept talking as the video cut to different shots of various burning scenes. Some looked far worse than others. There were people with towels over their heads getting oxygen treatments and others who appeared injured and burned. There were more pictures of fires burning out of control with no firefighters in sight.

  “…proving to be a major problem. In addition to a lack of consistent or even adequate communication, emergency personnel can’t get to a lot of these scenes because of traffic. So much of it is at a standstill. I will say that while the gridlock appears to have loosened slightly in the past thirty minutes, it’s not great.”

  “Dan,” said Lane Turner from the set, “let me interrupt you for a moment. I want to ask you how firefighters know where to go if there is little to no communication?”

  “They’re getting lucky in some cases,” Visoiu said, water dripping from the brim of his hat and spraying his face. “I’ve spoken with several first responders, both police and fire, and they tell me that they are driving around proactively in search of fires or other emergencies. As they find them, they stop and do their jobs. It’s incredible and heroic work. Lane?”

  “Thank you, Dan Visoiu, for that live update from Santa Monica,” said the anchor. “Now for more on the rain and what it means for these fires overnight, let’s head over to the weather center.”

  A hand touched Barker’s shoulder. His roommate Michael was standing there alone. His face was drawn, and he had dark circles under his eyes.

  Barker grinned and stepped to him, wrapping his arms around him in a big hug. He patted Michael on the back.

  “You’re okay,” he said. “I’m glad. I mean, I figured you were fine. It’s good to know you’re here.”

  Michael awkwardly returned the hug and then stepped back, dipping his hands into his pockets. Barker noticed then the circles under his eyes were swelling. Michael had been crying.

  “What?” Barker asked. “What happened?”

  Barker’s pulse accelerated, and a nervous twinge spiked in his chest. He searched Michael’s face for an explanation.

  “It’s Dub,” he said.

  “What about him?”

  “He…”

  “He what?” Barker snapped. Becca’s hand touched his. He ignored it. “What about him, Michael?”

  Before Michael could answer, Barker saw Keri walking toward him. She was soaked, her clothing sticking to her, outlining her physique. Her mascara was smudged under her eyes in wide black semicircles. She looked nausea
ted.

  Barker glanced back at Michael and then at Keri again. His chest was heavy. His legs were suddenly noodles. He braced himself, tightening his hold on Becca’s hand, using it for support.

  He searched the crowd for any sign of Dub, for any hint that his roommate and friend was there and okay. He couldn’t imagine college without him. Dub wasn’t there. And the closer Keri got to Barker, the clearer that devastating fact became.

  “He’s gone,” Keri said. There were hints of soot at her nostrils and the corners of her mouth. “Dub’s gone.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Barker. “You guys went to the pier. I just saw it in a live report on television. The pier is there; it didn’t burn. I don’t understand.”

  Michael put his arm around Keri. She explained as coherently as she could what had happened, how Dub had given his life in exchange for another.

  Barker’s despair gave way to anger. He wanted to scream. The gym, which was crowded to him before, became suffocating. The warmth was now oppressive heat, the noise of indistinct chatter deafening.

  This was not the way a story should end.

  In Barker’s mind, it should have been a long, awful day that years from now at a reunion in some high-end Westwood eatery he and his roommates and their spouses talked about with bravado. It was supposed to be a tourist destination along memory lane. Nobody was supposed to die, especially not his roommate and friend Dub Hampton.

  This was no Hollywood ending. Then again, how could it be when the Hollywood sign had gone up in smoke?

  This wasn’t the place to grieve, however. He couldn’t break down amid hundreds, or thousands, of his fellow students. He wouldn’t be that vulnerable in front of a woman he was still courting. Instead, he steeled himself. He moved closer to Keri and Michael, let go of Becca’s hand, and wrapped them in a group hug. It took everything in him to maintain his composure.

  He kissed Keri on the cheek, rubbed Michael’s head, and thumped his belly with the back of his hand. He tried smiling.

  “We’ll be okay,” he said. “Dub wouldn’t want us wallowing.”

  Keri chuckled through her tears. “Very true.”

  “I’m sorry,” Barker said. “Becca, these are my friends Keri and Michael. Michael and I are roommates. Guys, this is Becca.”

  They said hello to one another. Becca expressed her condolences.

  “What now?” asked Michael.

  “As soon as they let us go, I’m headed back to De Neve,” Keri said. “I’ve got to call Dub’s parents. Then I’m showering and going to sleep.”

  “Do you want me to go with you?” asked Michael.

  “No, thanks,” she said tearily. “I appreciate the offer though.”

  “I need to see the medic,” said Becca. “I’m going to head back to the front of the gym. I’ll be back.”

  “You want me to go?”

  “No. Stay here with your friends. That’s more important right now.”

  Before he could protest, she kissed him on the cheek and moved swiftly toward the metal detector. A couple of the firefighters, including Anthony Reed, were back.

  After she walked away, Michael said, “She seems nice.”

  “Yeah.” Barker nodded. “She does.”

  “You look like you got hurt,” said Keri. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine,” said Barker. “I mean, I’m not fine. But I’m okay. I just…”

  “Just what?” Michael prompted.

  “I just wish we could do this day over, that somehow it would turn out differently.”

  The rapt crowd was still transfixed by the breaking news on the large television screen, the developing stories playing out across the Southland. On the screen was video of a woman draped in a heavy blanket. Firefighters were escorting her from a helicopter into a large nondescript building at what a graphic on the screen proclaimed was the Angeles National Forest. The woman was barefoot and wearing only thin waffle-fabric pajamas. She was covered in soot and ash.

  Medics helped her onto a gurney and then wheeled her into an awaiting ambulance. As the video played, Lane Turner explained who the woman was, how she’d lost her husband in the flames and was rescued atop a peak that hadn’t yet caught fire.

  “Hers is one of countless stories of survival,” said Lane Turner, “of perseverance, and of loss. This is a day Los Angeles will long remember. It’s a day our world caught on fire.”

  Turn the page to read

  TORRENT

  The Alt Apocalypse Survival Series

  Book 3

  Go back to Contents

  TORRENT

  The Alt Apocalypse Survival Series

  Book 3

  For Courtney, Sam, & Luke

  You’ve helped me weather every storm

  “Water is the driving force of all nature.”

  —Leonardo da Vinci

  CHAPTER 1

  April 5, 2026

  New Orleans, Louisiana

  Keri Monk didn’t want to drown in her childhood bedroom. But as she pushed herself from the popcorn ceiling using her fingertips, and dove underneath the cold, briny, putrid water that rose inconceivably fast, she understood it was a real possibility.

  It was inky black beneath the roiling surface as she held her breath in her cheeks and searched for the door that led into the hallway. She was disoriented despite having grown up in this room, a haven from the outside world replete with plush bears and dolls, trophies, posters of teen idols, and certificates of achievement tacked to a handmade fabric bulletin board.

  Her lungs burned as she pushed through the water, bumping into floating furniture and other things she couldn’t identify. She found the doorway, gripped its molding with one hand, and propelled herself out into the hallway. She kicked toward the ceiling and found a few inches of air, which she gulped down while frantically pedaling her legs in a modified scissors kick to keep herself afloat.

  She was alone as far as she knew. Her parents were staying at her older sister’s house on the southern, central edge of the city, near the Mississippi River, so she and her friends could avoid the cost of a hotel during their weekend visit from the West Coast. The house was technically located in an area called City Center, part of the garden district, but it wasn’t as nice as most of the homes around it. The owner had let it go a bit and rented it out instead of pouring in the kind of cash that so many of the neighbors had done.

  Her boyfriend had gone to a nearby convenience store to pick up their friend earlier in the evening. He’d gotten trapped by floodwaters and had called to tell her he was backtracking, trying to find a way home.

  While waiting for him, she’d fallen asleep. She’d woken up when the flood forced her brass-framed bed from the floor and she’d rolled into the water. It was rising so fast, as if the Gulf or Lake Pontchartrain were emptying into her house. Her phone was gone, the power was out. And now, as she struggled to survive, the water was pushing her away from the front of the house, where she’d planned on swimming. The strength of the moving water, its incredible force, was too much.

  Rather than fight it and exhaust her energy, she let it carry her back, past her door then toward the rear of the house. The current slammed her against the end of the hallway, her back hitting the corner of a gilded frame that held a family portrait taken years earlier. It featured her father, mother, two sisters, and herself in matching blue denim jeans and white pocket T-shirts. They stood barefoot on the beach, the sun in their faces, the glow of summer on their skin. All of them were much younger in the photograph, but they’d never taken another professional family portrait since. It had hung there until the flood and a collision with Keri knocked it free, sending it spinning into the rising water.

  She grabbed reflexively at the spot on her back where the frame had jabbed her, wincing and stretching her neck to suck down another gulp of humid air. Her nose scraped the ceiling.

  She tried getting her wits about her, understanding where exactly she was and where she had to go. She too
k one sip of air and dunked herself under the water again, this time swimming into the room at the end of the hall. It was her parents’ room, the only other bedroom in the house.

  On the far side of the room, on the wall opposite their accordion-door closet, there was a pair of windows that framed the back left corner of the house. If she could swim diagonally across the room and get to those windows, she might have a chance.

  Keri extended her arms in front of her, her hands cupped, scooping the water to propel herself forward. She moved quickly in the black water, despite the weight of her light hoodie and stylishly torn denim jeans. She narrowly avoided a large antique dresser that had floated from the floor. The current that had pushed her back toward the end of the hallway was as strong here and headed in the same direction. She managed to fight it enough to reach the windows in the corner.

  Feeling the glass with her fingers, she fumbled for a latch. Her chest burned now, her vision blurred as the last remnants of air stored in her lungs leaked out in bubbles through her nose. The water didn’t feel as cold anymore.

  Shaking her head while trying to fight off the intensifying sensation that she was about to black out, she struggled to thumb a latch and slide the window open so she could swim free of the house.

  She found one latch and flipped it open, but before she could reach the second, something hit her on the back of the head, dizzying her. Without air in her lungs, she was sinking toward the floor, closer to blacking out. She let herself drop, but when she reached the floor, she found her footing and launched herself upward toward the ceiling. There, she found maybe two inches of air. She floated at the ceiling, her head pounding now, and sucked at the air as if through a straw, trying to avoid drinking as much of the oily, salty water as possible.