The Alt Apocalypse: Books 1-3

by Tom Abrahams

  He took another sip, savoring the electric buzz that coursed through his body as he swallowed, and tipped the glass toward the screen. He shook his head. “I don’t like the look of this. These bands of rain, one after the other, are going to cause a problem bigger than you missing an outing tomorrow, Katie.”

  The four of them sat silently for a few minutes, watching the local news team talk about the weather. The anchor announced the city would be opening its emergency operations center, then introduced a press conference about to begin.

  The mayor of New Orleans was at the lectern speaking. Her chief of police, fire chief, and director of the Office of Homeland Security and Emergency Preparedness stood at her side.

  “…real potential for serious flooding,” said the mayor. “We have initiated our emergency response plan. We’re staging assets where we see the need, and we will be here around the clock until the threat has passed. We remain hopeful that our precautions are just that, precautions. Still, given the forecast from the National Weather Service and data from our own meteorologists, we are being proactive.”

  Bob looked at the couch to his right. All three of the women were paying close attention to the television now. Maybe his concern about the storm wasn’t as hyperbolic as they’d thought. He emptied his glass and held it in his lap, relishing the last of the sweet drink.

  “We have also initiated our seventeen Evacuspots,” said the mayor. “These are typically reserved for use in advance of a category three hurricane. And we have historically begun the process some seventy-two hours prior to the storm hitting us. But we are so confident of the risks tonight and tomorrow, we are asking those who can leave their homes to go to one of the spots within the next thirty minutes. They are marked with identical fourteen-foot sculptures. From there, we can accommodate up to thirty thousand of our friends and neighbors. We will transport you from the city and return you to that same spot once the threat is over.”

  The director of the OHSEP stepped to the microphone, adjusted it to his height, and cleared his throat. His tie was already loosened at the collar, and the swells under his eyes betrayed his perpetual lack of sleep.

  “As many of you know,” he began, his gravelly voice as much distracting as reassuring, “we’ve been through this many times before. Unfortunately, our response has not always been adequate.”

  Bob glanced at the women and chuckled derisively. “I’ll say.”

  “We’ve worked hard for the last decade to implement effective measures to keep you safe. As the mayor suggested, we have already activated our real-time warning systems. These are computer-aided projections that help us deploy assets ahead of any problems. We have also initiated our early warning system. This will send alerts to motorists who may be approaching any of our eleven most frequently flooded underpasses.”

  The mayor put her hand on the director’s arm, and he paused, then stepped aside. She adjusted the mic. “This is not to say we want anyone on the road tonight. We highly suggest that, unless you have absolutely no choice, you stay home.”

  She stepped back and motioned for the director to resume his comments. He offered a nod and weak smile and readjusted the mic. “Our pumping system is functioning at full capacity. We’ve tested it as recently as three weeks ago, and despite past failures, we are confident in its ability to mitigate flooding in the most prone areas of the city.”

  When he finished his remarks, both the fire and police chiefs gave short updates about their staffing and readiness. Bob thought it wasn’t much more than a pep talk.

  “What are they going to say?” he asked. “Of course they’re going to tell us they’re ready. They always tell us they’re ready.”

  “Let’s hope they are,” said Kristin.

  “Let’s hope. But this evacuation plan? Ridiculous. You can’t take a system designed to work over three days and cram it into thirty minutes. They’re panicking. They don’t want to be accused of doing nothing. And I think they’re making things worse.”

  The mayor was back at the lectern. She was taking questions from the assembled media, who were not on camera.

  “Yes,” she said, “I am aware of the concerns about the pumps. We know they’ve failed in the past. But as you know, when I ran for office, flooding was a top priority for me. We are a sinking city. We all know that. I’ve seen the studies. Some areas are two inches lower than they were a year ago. Upper and Lower Ninth Ward, Metairie, and Bonnet Carré Spillway are settling at more than an inch and a half every twelve months. I can’t do anything about that. Mother Nature doesn’t listen to me. But my team does, the Army Corps of Engineers does, and I am confident we are as prepared as we can be.”

  “I didn’t vote for her,” said Bob.

  Kristin nodded. “We know.”

  “It didn’t have anything to do with her being a woman,” he said.

  “I know.”

  “I just don’t buy what she’s selling. I liked that other woman who was running against her. What was her name?”

  “Penny Rogers.”

  “Yeah,” said Bob. “She’s whip smart. A real firecracker. I would have rather seen her behind that microphone.”

  “She did just fine for herself,” said Kristin.

  “I guess,” said Bob. “If you consider Congress ‘fine’.”

  “That’s the thing of it, Bob,” said his wife. “If it weren’t for Rogers, this mayor wouldn’t have gotten anything done. All of that flooding mitigation was Rogers’s doing. She’s the one who greased the wheels and got the money from Washington. It wasn’t the mayor.”

  “So you’re agreeing with me,” said Bob.

  “I suppose.”

  Bob’s wife didn’t speak much. She preferred to observe. When she did speak, it carried weight. She lived by the idea that one who speaks can’t be listening and therefore can’t be learning. Bob knew this about her. He respected it. It was one of her many traits he adored, in fact. That didn’t stop him from forgetting sometimes that she knew more than he did about subjects on which he considered himself an expert, or at least someone with a strongly held and correct opinion.

  The hair on his neck tingled.

  Lightning flashed again, strobing outside the window and casting a pale blue flicker across the room. A bone-shaking clap of thunder instantly followed.

  Bob dropped his glass on the floor, spilling the ice onto the tile. The tumbler shattered.

  “Cut him off,” joked Kristin. “No more drinks for you, Mr. Monk.”

  “Sorry, girls,” Bob said, pushing himself from his seat to pick up the shards of glass.

  Katie sprang from the sofa and hurried toward the kitchen. “No, Dad, I’ll get it. It’s no big deal.”

  Bob picked up the larger pieces of glass and carefully laid them in his open palm. Katie emerged from the kitchen with a broom and pan and knelt on the floor beside him.

  “I don’t want you cutting yourself,” he said. “I’ve got it. I’m sorry though. It was a nice glass. I don’t know what happened. That thunder—”

  Another flash of angry light filled the room at the same time a deafening crack of thunder shook the house. Bob fell back from his feet and onto his rear. His back hit the front of his easy chair or he might have toppled over completely.

  Katie put down the pan and touched her dad’s leg. “You okay?”

  Bob steadied himself and nodded. “Yeah. I guess I’m on edge, that’s all. I don’t like this one bit. And I certainly don’t like that Keri is out in it.”

  Katie offered her father a reassuring smile. “She’s a big girl, Dad. She can take care of herself. Plus she’s got Dub with her.”

  He picked up the shards of glass he’d dropped and noticed his hand was bleeding. He held it up with a smirk. “True. I’m the one everyone should worry about.”

  CHAPTER 7

  April 4, 2026

  New Orleans, Louisiana

  The hotel bar reeked of desperation. It smelled like bottom-shelf liquor and flat soda. Steve Kon
koly, who went by the nickname Doc more than his own, was as familiar with the odor as he was with that of death. Neither was more appealing than the other. He slugged the last piece of ice from his drink and crunched the cube between his teeth.

  He was a well-known lecturer at medical conferences the world over and had spent more nights than he cared to count in bars exactly like the one in which he now found himself ordering another dirty vodka martini.

  He leaned on his elbows, feeling the heft of his gut weigh on his lower back, and mentally reminded himself to work out in the morning. He glanced up over his reading glasses at the large flat-panel display hanging on the wall behind the bar. The game wasn’t on anymore, which was fine with Doc. It was a blowout. The Gators were up by thirty with a few minutes left. Instead the screen was awash with a rainbow of colors on a map of the Gulf Coast.

  “The rain’s getting worse?” Doc asked the bartender as the man replaced his empty glass with a fresh one.

  The bartender checked over his shoulder. “Yeah. Could be flooding. But don’t worry about it. The French Quarter is high enough. It’ll stay dry. City wouldn’t dream of letting the cash cow drown.”

  “Thanks,” Doc said, raising his glass to toast the bartender. “To cash cows.”

  “You here for the medical convention?” asked the bartender, taking a soiled rag to the mahogany as if it might clean it.

  “I look like a doctor?” asked Doc.

  The bartender smiled and motioned to his chest. “You have a lanyard around your neck. Says you’re a speaker.”

  Doc took a swig and rolled the sweet drink around in his mouth. He swallowed. “That I am.”

  A waitress sidled up to the bar next to him and gave the bartender an order. She smiled at Doc and then drifted back into the sea of desperation behind him. Doc was acutely aware of a woman’s throaty giggle.

  The bartender moved to the tap and held a pilsner glass underneath for a pour. “What do you speak about?”

  “End of the world…medicine,” said Doc.

  The bartender raised his eyebrows and stopped the pour, pushing back the handle on the tap. He slapped a napkin on the mahogany and the glass atop the napkin. Then he moved to fish ice from the cooler. “What kind of medicine is that?”

  Doc took another sip of his drink, relishing the buzz. He had to remind himself he was in New Orleans. The week before he’d been in Florida, and the week before that it was Michigan.

  “It’s conceptual,” said Doc. “I’ve written some papers about it. I’m essentially the only one who talks about it, so I get asked to lecture on the subject.”

  The bartender pulled a bottle of Beefeater from the top shelf. “Sounds fun.”

  “Sometimes. I get a lot of frequent-flier miles. That’s a bonus. And I have some free nights built up at a couple of hotel chains. So there’s that.”

  The waitress returned. She put the IPA and the gin and tonic on her tray, gave the bartender another order, and slid back to the pit.

  “What’s conceptual medicine?” asked the bartender.

  Doc didn’t really want to talk about it. He doubted the man on the other side of the mahogany gave two flips about him or what he did. Doc was certain he was feigning interest in the interest of a larger tip. Doc had been down this road before. In fact, he imagined that as many bartenders as practicing physicians had heard his spiel over the years.

  He finished his drink and ordered another. “Shirley Temple this time.”

  “Seriously?” asked the bartender. “I can do that. It’s weird, but I can do it.”

  Doc shook his head, eyeing the bartender above his glasses. “No. Not Seriously. Another martini. Just like the last one.”

  “Got it,” said the bartender. “Are you going to explain?”

  “Sure,” said Doc, vaguely aware of a man pulling up to the bar a couple of seats down. “It’s the idea that your world as you know it will end. That is to say communities all face reckonings. Your family…your neighborhood, city, state, country…are all susceptible to catastrophes large and small.”

  The bartender nodded. “I get it. Maybe my house floods. Maybe the whole country gets nuked, or my neighborhood burns in a fire.”

  “Yes,” said Doc. “Or some asteroid slams into the planet. Whatever the scale, preparedness is an individual need. You take care of you…I take care of me.”

  The bartender held up a finger, asking Doc to hold his thought. He walked over to the new arrival and took his order. Then he was back. “Go ahead. Sorry about that.”

  “No…problem,” said Doc. “As I was saying, preparedness is an individual responsibility. The government might be there to help. It might not be. I view it like I view Social Security. You’d like to think you’ll get your share, but are you really counting on it?”

  The bartender shook his head. He uncorked a bottle of white wine and poured a healthy glass.

  “Everyone seems to think that preparedness has to do with living off the grid, hoarding canned food and ammo, and having bug-out plans,” said Doc. “That’s not enough. A basic first aid kit isn’t enough. You need a medical plan too.”

  “So you’re a prepper?” asked the newcomer at the bar. “I’ve heard of people like you. We’ve done stories about it.”

  The bartender delivered the wine to the man, and Doc noticed there was something vaguely familiar about him. He didn’t respond to the intrusion, however.

  “The end is nigh and all that,” said the man, effecting the voice of a prophet predicting the apocalypse. “They have groups like that all over California.”

  Doc searched the man’s face, his features. He was so familiar. Even his voice reminded him of—then it hit him. But he didn’t let on that he knew the man. Not yet.

  “I’m from California,” said Doc. “I wouldn’t say I’m a prepper. I’m more of a preparedness advocate. I look at it from the perspective of the medical community and how it can help ready the populace.”

  “But you know what I’m talking about, right?” asked the man, his identity clearer with every word. “Preppers?”

  “I am,” said Doc. “But that’s a pejorative term.”

  The man sipped his white wine and then licked his upper lip. He seemed to be considering Doc’s appraisal of the term. He swirled the wine in his glass, took another sip, and swallowed. “Tomato,” he said, then pronounced it alternatively, “Tomahto.”

  “You’re from California?” asked Doc.

  The man nodded. “LA.”

  “Me too. Are you here for the convention?”

  The man laughed as if Doc’s question were ridiculous. “No. I’m here for the basketball tournament. I work for a television station.”

  “Oh really? Are you on camera?” Doc asked, already knowing the answer.

  The man’s smug expression softened. “Yes,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m Lane Turner.”

  Doc took Turner’s hand and shook it vigorously. “Huh. I’m sorry. I don’t know the name.”

  “That’s okay,” said Turner. “A lot of people don’t watch the news anymore. They get it from apps or websites.”

  “Oh, I watch plenty of news on television. I’ve just never seen you before.”

  Doc wasn’t one to be rude, at least not generally. But he had an arrogance about him, born of intellect and experience that, when jabbed, forced him to fight back. He couldn’t help it.

  “I’m Doc,” he said to Turner. “I’m here for the conference. Though I saw the Bruins won. It was a close game?”

  “It was,” said Turner. “Not much of a sports guy myself. I like real news. But I couldn’t turn down a free trip to the Big Easy. A little bit of work in exchange for a little bit of fun.”

  Doc nodded and then motioned to the screen with his glass. “Not much fun with the weather this way. Looks like the weekend could be a washout.”

  “That’s why I’m here at the hotel bar,” said Turner. “I had plans to hit Bourbon Street, but it’s pouring out there. We haven
’t had as much rain in LA in the last five years as has fallen in the past couple of hours here.”

  Doc looked back at the bartender. His attention was on the screen now. The volume was off, but closed-captioning populated at the bottom of the display. At the top of the screen was text highlighted in red and flashing.

  FLASH FLOOD WARNING

  The bartender was engrossed, his arms folded across his chest. The waitress arrived with a new order, and he seemed not to hear her until she called his name a third time.

  He blinked away from the screen and took the order. He moved toward the liquor and pulled down a bottle of Don Julio Reposado tequila.

  “You look concerned,” said Doc.

  “Yeah,” said the bartender, measuring a shot.

  “I thought we have nothing to worry about in the French Quarter,” Doc said, his attention split between the barkeep and the increasingly bothersome scroll at the bottom of the television on the wall.

  “I did too,” he said, his distant tone markedly different from the affable interest he’d employed for much of their conversation. “But that warning is for the whole city, and it looks like some parts are already flooding. It’s pretty bad.”

  It was pretty bad. The darker colors on the screen were expanding in size. Much of the Gulf Coast, stretching beyond the borders of Louisiana, was under imminent threat of flooding. To the northeast of New Orleans was a trio of wide, parallel bands of storms marching southeast. The radar loop repeated over and over again, showing the bands inching closer, retreating to their previous positions, and inching closer again.

  Doc slugged back his drink. “All right then. I’m done for the night. Can I settle up?”

  The bartender punched up the tab and slid Doc the bill. He signed his name and room number to the bill, added a generous tip, and thanked both men for their conversation. If this was going to be as bad as it now appeared, he needed sleep. Tomorrow might not provide the opportunity.

  He maneuvered through the bar, using the occasional seat back to balance himself. Doc wasn’t much of a drinker, but when he did imbibe, it was well past the edge of sobriety. He walked through the lobby and to the bank of elevators at the other end of a shiny, travertine-laden atrium, and punched the call button with his thumb.