The Alt Apocalypse: Books 1-3

by Tom Abrahams

  Lane couldn’t look at either of them. He tried, but there was some sort of magnetic, guilty pull that kept his eyes fixed on the water. Maybe it wasn’t guilt. Maybe it was that he didn’t want to cry. He knew if he looked at either of them, he would.

  After thirty seconds of silence, the rain slapping at them as it had since they’d left the hotel, he finally spoke. “Anybody would have done it.”

  “Not true,” said the field producer. “I didn’t do it.”

  “Me neither,” said the photographer.

  Lane sighed. “Well, I think we have our story for the rest of the trip, and it’s not basketball.”

  “I agree,” said the field producer. “Totally. I’ll get on the call in the morning and—”

  Lane lifted his head and balled his fists at his sides. He tensed, trying to hold it together as his eyes locked with hers. She stopped cold.

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “We start now. The story is now.”

  CHAPTER 10

  April 5, 2026

  Santa Monica, California

  Danny squirted water from the bottle onto the hot griddle. It sizzled, and steam plumed up toward the vent. He wiped a spatula on his white apron and scraped the charred remnants of ground beef into the catch basin at the side of the griddle.

  He relished the humid, acrid odor of the burnt burger pieces. It was a reminder his day was almost over. He dug at a particularly stubborn crumb and sprayed more water. Another blast of steam plumed, some of it reaching his face, and he grimaced like a man too close to a fire.

  The crumb scrubbed loose; then Danny guided it into the basin. “I’m the boss,” he reminded the crumb under his breath. This was his house.

  “You say something?” asked Arthur, the burly fry cook who stood behind him, refilling the wholesale-sized oil bottles. He’d worked at the diner for years. Danny wondered sometimes if they’d built the place around him.

  “No,” Danny said. “Just mumbling to myself.”

  “Ha,” said Arthur with an amiable chuckle that made his frame shake. “Talking to yourself, huh? I guess that’s cool as long as you don’t start answering back.”

  Danny had heard Arthur say the same thing fifty times if he’d heard it once. He smiled at his friend as if it were the first time and nodded.

  “True,” Danny said. Then he deepened his voice, talking as if he were someone else. “No it’s not.”

  Arthur slapped Danny on the back. “You got jokes. You always got jokes, Danny Correa.”

  Danny found it remarkable that Arthur thought him comical. Inside his own mind, the one that had only one voice, he was empty of humor. But perception was reality, so he didn’t fight it.

  Arthur capped the last oil bottle and re-shelved it near the griddle. He stepped close to Danny, lowered his voice, and asked, “What do you think of her?”

  His eyes were affixed to the woman settling the cash register, the head waitress and de facto closing manager. Her name was Claudia. She was roughly Arthur’s age, Danny figured, somewhere in her mid-fifties. She was single, she was good with customers, and she didn’t take crap from anyone.

  “I don’t,” said Danny.

  Arthur’s shoulders sank and he huffed. “No,” he said, dragging out the vowel with frustration. “For me? What do you think of her?”

  Danny snapped his head toward Arthur and took a step back to focus on his face. Was he serious? “Are you serious?”

  Now Arthur frowned. “Yeah, why? What’s wrong with that? I’m a man; she’s a—”

  “She’s a Claudia,” said Danny. “I just never thought of her that way.”

  “What way?”

  “Like,” Danny fumbled for the right word, “like, a woman?”

  “I asked her out,” Arthur admitted. “We’re going out tonight after work. As soon as we’re done and that last jerk of a customer leaves.”

  Danny didn’t have to turn around to know what customer Arthur was referencing. It was Derek. He was sitting in a corner booth, nursing his fourth cup of coffee. Or fifth.

  Instead of taking his prescribed breaks, Danny had chosen to work through his shift without a rest. He’d done it not so much because he wanted the lower back ache and shoulder pain that came from a long, uninterrupted stretch at the griddle, but because…Derek.

  The unnervingly attractive gazillionaire had waited patiently. He’d occasionally run his sun-kissed hands through his full head of styled hair or checked the heavy two-toned aviator’s watch on his wrist. But he hadn’t said a word or interrupted Danny in his work.

  The time was coming, though, and the meeting and long conversation was at hand. He couldn’t avoid it any longer.

  “The guy’s here for me,” he whispered to Arthur. “You and your lady can take off if you want. I got the rest. I can lock up.”

  Arthur’s eyes widened with surprise and then narrowed with suspicion. “Are you…?” He wagged his finger between Danny and Derek.

  Danny shook his head. “No, I’m not. He’s not. He’s with my ex. He’s got something to talk about with me. I don’t know what it is.”

  Arthur nodded as if he understood, although there was no way he could. He wiped his hands on his apron and thanked Danny. Then he eased toward Claudia. Danny felt her glare from across the diner, but she apparently acquiesced to whatever Arthur had suggested. Within a few minutes, she’d slapped the keys on the counter in front of him and walked out of the place, arm in arm with Arthur.

  When he was sure they were gone, Danny palmed the keys and stepped out from behind the counter. He locked the door from the inside and then spun around to walk the distance of the place to Derek and the last booth.

  Derek had his back to him until he slid into the booth across from him. The first thing he noticed were the dark, face-defining circles under his eyes and the pale yellow of his complexion. He had the aged appearance of someone who’d undergone chemotherapy and radiation. He was healthy enough, but there was something there that signaled past illness. There was a translucency to his skin that gave Derek an ethereal appearance. Danny imagined if Derek took another swig of the bitter, room-temperature coffee, he’d be able to see it slide down his throat.

  “Thanks for waiting,” said Danny, forcing the back cushion to leak air as he leaned against the vinyl covering.

  Derek bit at his nail, or what was left of it. Danny noticed the skin around his nail beds was irritated and red. There were traces of dried blood on a couple of them. Derek chewed on the nail, or skin, or whatever he’d torn from his finger. His right knee was bouncing, and it made the coffee cup rattle against the laminate tabletop.

  Danny glanced at the cup. “You want more?”

  Derek shook his head, stopped bouncing his knee, and raked his fingers through his hair again. He blinked a couple of times and met Danny’s gaze.

  “Thanks for meeting me,” he said, his voice shaky. “I know you didn’t want to, that’s why you skipped your breaks.”

  Danny didn’t deny it.

  “I don’t blame you,” said Derek, drawing the side of a finger to his teeth, nibbling as he spoke. “That’s why I didn’t complain about sitting here for seven hours.”

  Danny planted his elbows on the table and laced his fingers together. He leaned forward, anxious to get this over with and go home to Maggie.

  “Here’s the thing,” said Derek, “I’m not a bad guy.”

  Danny looked out the window, his own reflection bouncing back at him. It was after midnight. He’d probably missed the last bus.

  Derek held his hands palms up. “I get it,” he said. “I do. Seriously, though, Danny, I’m not a bad person. I have good intentions. I pay my taxes, I give generously to charity, I volunteer at a food bank…”

  Danny dipped his chin and raised his eyebrows. “Do you want some kind of award? Because if you do, I—”

  “No.” Derek swallowed hard. “That’s not it. I’m telling you I have good intentions. That’s not to say I don’t do selfish things
, bad things.”

  “I can think of at least one,” said Danny.

  Derek didn’t respond directly. “This time, my desire to change the world for the better, to shape it in a way that I think is beneficial to everyone, has backfired.”

  Derek checked over one shoulder, then the other, as if anyone were in the closed diner, and lowered his voice. His knee was bouncing again, rattling the coffee cup on the table. The spoon fell from the saucer.

  “It’s backfired in a monumental way,” he said, his eyes growing distant. “Monumental. And I have no idea how far-reaching it is. It’s like I dropped a pebble in a pond and can’t stop the concentric circles from growing. Then it starts to rain and there are countless concentric circles. All of them are different sizes, growing and spreading. Now I can’t even find the original spot where I dropped the pebble.”

  The two sat there silently for a moment. Then Danny slapped the table, startling Derek from his reverie.

  “I’m getting more coffee,” he said. Before he could stand up, Derek put his hands on Danny’s to stop him.

  His hands were cold, as if he’d dipped them into snow. “Don’t leave. Let me finish, please.”

  Danny sank back down onto the cracked vinyl. He looked at Derek warily. “You haven’t said what this has to do with me. And it’s late.”

  “I don’t know if it has anything to do with you. That’s what I’m trying to find out. You could be one of those little circles. You could be a pebble or a raindrop.”

  “I’m totally confused.”

  “I know,” said Derek. He was speaking with his hands, which hovered above Danny’s on the table. “It’s confusing and I’m speaking in metaphors.”

  “So speak English,” Danny said.

  “Answer a few questions for me, okay?” asked Derek. “Is it okay if I ask you some questions?”

  “About what?”

  Derek reached into a bag he had at his side between his hip and the wall that Danny hadn’t noticed until now. It was a black leather satchel that Derek unzipped along the top, underneath two extending leather handles. Derek pulled a small black electronic device from the bag and laid it on the table. He pushed a small red button on the front of the device and spun it toward Danny. “Mind if I record this?”

  Danny frowned. “Yeah, I do mind. You’ve told me nothing other than waxed philosophical about pebbles and ponds.”

  A smile curled at one side of Derek’s mouth. “Waxed philosophical,” he repeated.

  Danny pushed the red button on the device, stopping it. “What?”

  “That phrase sounded odd coming from—”

  Danny glowered. “A fry cook?”

  “You,” said Derek. “It sounded odd coming from you. I wasn’t about to disparage how to put food on the table. That’s not for me to judge.”

  “Not for you to judge,” repeated Danny. “Sounds odd coming from an assho—”

  “Okay,” said Derek, “I’m sorry. That was rude. Let me ask you the questions.”

  “No recording.”

  “Fine.” Derek reached into the bag again. He withdrew a yellow notepad and pen. “First question is about your health. Have you had any headaches?”

  “What kind of headaches?”

  “Bad headaches,” said Derek, “like migraines.”

  “No.”

  Derek scribbled on the paper in a compact, virtually illegible scrawl. Danny noticed Derek was left-handed.

  “What about extreme dehydration? Have you been drinking a lot of water and still not able to quench your thirst?”

  Danny shook his head.

  “So that’s a no?” asked Derek. “I need verbal answers, even though I’m not recording. I need to be sure I’m accurately cataloging what you’re telling me.”

  “No.”

  “Exhaustion?” said Derek, looking up from his notes. “Have you suffered from exhaustion?”

  “Yes. I’m always tired. I could always sleep. That’s nothing new. That’s probably got nothing to do with your pebble or your pond.”

  “Describe the exhaustion,” said Derek. He was writing. “Is it muscular? Do your eyes burn? Do you feel as if you’ve been working out at the gym or been beaten up in a fight?”

  “Never considered it,” said Danny. “Tired is tired.”

  Derek stopped writing and locked eyes with Danny. His knee bounced. The cup rattled. “Tired is not tired. There is a difference between being tired and being exhausted. And there are different types of exhaustion. Describe yours to me.”

  Danny sighed. “Okay,” he said, trying to focus on the outdoors through the window, trying to see through his reflection, “it feels like I ran a marathon, in the mud, uphill, with the wind in my face.”

  Derek was scribbling more quickly. “Say that again, exactly as you said it before.”

  Danny repeated it verbatim then asked, “All of this has to do with the company you invested money into? Interllayar?”

  Derek nodded but kept writing. He was mouthing the words as he inked them onto the paper.

  “What do they have to do with my fatigue?”

  Derek held up a finger until he finished his note. He looked up and took a sip of the cold coffee. He smiled, or more likely winced, at the taste. He smacked his lips and wiped the corner of his mouth with his reddened fingertips. “You said fatigue,” he countered. “Is it fatigue rather than exhaustion?”

  Danny folded his arms and clenched his jaw before spitting his response. “Yes.”

  “Danny, help me here.”

  “I’m not a doctor,” said Danny, “and as far as I know, neither are you. The difference is semantics. I think my uphill, muddy marathon description pretty much answers the question either way, doesn’t it?”

  Derek bit the side of his fingernail and nodded. “I guess. What about déjà vu?”

  “Déjà vu?”

  Derek chose another fingertip and nibbled. “You keep answering my questions with questions.”

  “You’re not particularly clear with these questions,” said Danny. “I’m getting some coffee.”

  He scooted out from the booth, heading for the last remaining pot. Although it was hot, it was likely stale. He hadn’t seen Claudia brew a fresh carafe in four hours, or six. He took a clean mug from the rack above the pot and poured himself a steaming cup. He called back to Derek, “Sure you don’t want a refresher?”

  “I’m good,” said Derek. “Too much caffeine already.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Danny replaced the pot on the hot plate under the drip cup, and the black mud sloshed around in the calcium-stained glass carafe. He drew the mug to his face and blew little ripples onto the surface of the coffee. It made him think of Derek’s metaphor. Coffee was even better than a pond, he thought, given the inky blackness of the joe. What Derek was describing, or actually not quite describing, was dark. Whatever was happening was bad. He’d said as much. So coffee, in its light-sucking deliciousness, was a far better example for use in the metaphor than some random, glossy pond.

  He reached the booth, set the mug on the table, and slid back into his seat. Then he held the mug with both hands, sliding three fingers of his right hand inside the handle. The steam rose and the cup warmed his hands.

  “Yes,” said Danny.

  “Yes?”

  “Yes, I experience déjà vu.”

  Derek’s face stretched with expression. Danny couldn’t tell if it was surprise or fright or resignation. It was such an odd look framed by his sunken eyes and sallow complexion. His hair suddenly looked grayer, duller somehow. It was as if Derek had aged remarkably in a short time.

  The tremble in his voice was back. His knee bounced.

  “How frequently?” asked Derek. “That is, how often do you get that sense that you’ve experienced something before?”

  Danny considered the question and picked up the mug. He blew into it before taking a tentative sip. The liquid was hot, but not enough to burn his tongue, so he drew in a l
onger sip and then set the mug back on the table, maintaining his hold on it with both hands.

  “How frequently?” Derek pressed, urgency in his voice.

  “I don’t know,” said Danny. “I kinda feel like I’m having it right now. Like we’ve sat here and had this conversation before. It’s the taste of the coffee that sparks the sensation.”

  Derek stared at Danny for a moment, his pen held steady on the paper. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t react. He didn’t move. It was as though he were frozen in time.

  Danny glanced at the paper and then at Derek. Back at the paper. Back at Derek. “What? Did I say something wrong?”

  Derek sat there another moment before he swallowed again. He looked down at the paper, hunching his shoulders and lowering his head. He scribbled furiously on the paper for what felt like, to Danny, a long time.

  His fresh cup of old coffee was nearly empty, the warmth of it having evaporated, by the time Derek asked a follow-up question. This time he didn’t look at Danny when he asked it.

  “Do you ever feel like you’re living someone else’s life?”

  Danny laughed. That was ludicrous. If anybody at the table was living someone else’s life, it was Derek. He’d taken Danny’s wife. As a proxy, he’d taken Danny’s money. He was living Danny’s life.

  “It’s not intended to be funny,” said Derek, his eyes on the paper. “This is serious.”

  Danny didn’t think it was funny. The laugh was a nervous reaction. It was ironic. It wasn’t funny. Of course, he didn’t say any of this. He was officially ready to say goodbye to Derek and his delusions, but there was that nagging feeling in the back of his mind that understood that, for weeks if not longer, he’d woken up each morning as if he were in a foreign place.

  Sure, it was his bed, his apartment, his shower, his clothing, his dog, his car, his job, his food, his loneliness. All of it was his. He knew this. But it had, in some undefinable way, become foreign.

  “Yes,” he said reluctantly. “I have felt that way.”

  Derek exhaled. “Go on.” He started writing again.