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.
While he waited, the weight of the alcohol now descending upon him, he tried to recount how many drinks he’d had. He listened to the elevator cars descend, trying to determine which one would make it to the lobby first. He told himself he was multitasking.
Was it three drinks? No. It was four. Four drinks. Definitely four. It was enough to take the edge off, hasten his ability to fall asleep, but not leave him with a nasty hangover in the morning. He couldn’t handle a hangover. Not tomorrow. Not with the possibility of New Orleans slipping under water.
The elevator to his right chimed and the doors slid apart. Doc braced himself against the stainless frame of the opening and stepped into the car, pushed the button for his floor, and willed himself to the back of it so he could lean against the wall.
The elevator doors shut, but the car didn’t move. Doc stood there for what might have been two minutes before he realized he hadn’t ascended yet. He punched his floor button again before realizing he needed to insert his room key into a slot to activate his limited-access floor.
He fumbled through his pockets and fished out the key, poked at the slot until the key slid inside, then punched his floor. The elevator jerked upward, and Doc stepped back, falling against the wall.
The car zipped skyward, accelerating until it neared his floor. Then it slowed and lumbered to a stop. The doors whooshed ajar and Doc searched the hallway for the right direction to his room. By the minute, the fourth vodka martini was soaking into him more completely, but he managed to find his room. He inserted the key, which he thought so antiquated. So many of the hotels at which he now stayed used keyless entry. He could unlock his door with his phone. No such luck here in New Orleans. He ambled toward the closer of the two queen beds.
Doc liked having two beds in his room. One was for sleeping. The other served as a handy spot for his open suitcase. He’d forgotten he’d used the bed closer to the door for his baggage and collapsed onto the Samsonite, jabbing his hip into the hard plastic.
He cursed himself and struggled to the other bed, where he slid off his shoes and fell back onto the comforter. His head sank into the pillows and he lay there trying to abate the sensation of spinning.
The air-conditioning, which he hadn’t noticed until now, shut off, and the sound of rain beating against the room’s large floor-to-ceiling window proved an adequate lullaby. Doc fell asleep thinking of the end of the world, his planned speech the next day, and wallowed in the profound sense of loneliness that pervaded every aspect of his life.
CHAPTER 8
April 4, 2026
New Orleans, Louisiana
It was close to midnight by the time Dub and Keri dropped onto the couch in her parents’ family room, having navigated the rain-soaked streets of her hometown. It had taken forever to fight their way through the traffic and the weather.
“What do you think Barker’s doing?” asked Keri.
“You mean who is he doing?”
“Funny, Dub. You think he’s okay?”
“I’m sure,” said Dub. “Dude can take care of himself.”
“I felt bad leaving him at the restaurant.”
“I didn’t. He was having fun. Plus he told us to go. He’ll grab an Uber.”
“He knows where I live, right?”
Dub nodded. “I think so.”
Keri leaned her head on his shoulder and placed her hand on his chest. She wiggled as close to him as he thought she could get, and he adjusted himself to put his arm around her. Her hair smelled like the baby shampoo her mother kept in the guest bathroom.
“You as tired as I am?” asked Keri.
When they’d gotten home, they’d stripped off their wet clothes, Keri had tossed them into the washing machine, and they’d taken hot showers. Now they were dry, the clothes were on the spin cycle.
“Probably,” Dub replied. “But I’m wound up from that drive back.”
She spoke through a wide yawn. “It was intense,” she said, and took his hand. She rubbed the face of his wristwatch with her thumb.
He kissed the top of her head. “That it was.”
Dub closed his eyes and focused on her breathing. They sat there in the dark, the rain beating against the roof, the windows creaking from the wind. The occasional flash of lightning and the delayed, low grumble of thunder drew him into a trance.
He was awake but not lucid. His mind drifted to the game they’d enjoyed, to the classes he’d be missing on Monday, probably Tuesday, and maybe Wednesday, and back to Keri’s breathing. It was deeper now, more contented. She was asleep.
Dub was nearly there too, his breathing matching the slow, full rhythm of hers when his phone buzzed on the coffee table in front of him, vibrating loudly against the glass top. He ignored it, choosing to let it go to voicemail. He ignored it a second time. It buzzed again seconds later. Reluctantly, cursing the phone and whoever was calling, Dub leaned forward and plucked his phone from the table. Keri didn’t fully awaken, but she shifted her body away from his and snuggled herself into the opposite corner of the sofa.
Dub checked the caller on the display. It was Barker.
“Yeah,” said Dub. “What’s up?”
In the distance, he heard the beep of what sounded like a cash register and the low, familiar rhythm of reggae music. Barker’s voice was higher pitched than normal. He spoke quickly. “Hey, dude. Where have you been? I’ve been calling you.”
“I was asleep,” said Dub, mostly telling the truth.
“Okay,” said Barker, sounding as though he didn’t hear Dub’s response. “I need your help.”
“What?”
“I’m stuck at a convenience store. I can’t get an Uber to pick me up.”
Dub pushed himself to sit up straight. “A convenience store?”
Barker was speaking to someone else, his hand was over the phone, and his voice was muffled.
“Dude,” said Dub, “you there?”
Barker uncovered the phone. “Yeah. Sorry. I’m just putting out a fire here. Anyway, my new friend and I need a ride.”
“New friend?” asked Dub. “You’re bringing a stranger to Keri’s parents’ house?”
“Yeah,” said Barker. “It’s cool. She’s a Bruin. I met her at the restaurant. We clicked. Then we caught a ride to the store here. But when we were getting supplies, the Uber driver took off. I gave him one star.”
Dub sighed and an overwhelming sense of dread washed over him. He had absolutely no interest in wading back out onto the streets. The weather was horrible, and from the sound of the wind and rain battering the house, it was getting worse by the minute. Plus, he was immensely comfortable sitting on the plush couch with Keri. He had no choice though. He couldn’t
leave a man behind.
“All right,” he said, intentionally dragging out the words to let Barker know he was being a pain in the ass. “Drop me a pin and I’m on my way.”
“Thank you,” said Barker. “I owe you.”
“Yeah, you do,” said Dub. He ended the call and awaited the pin notification. A few seconds later the message appeared, and Dub tapped it open. The red pin appeared on a map, and then the app traced the route from the pin to his location. The store was only three miles away.
Dub patted Keri on her hip and squeezed gently. He leaned over her and whispered her name, trying to rouse her gently from her nap.
“Hey,” he said. “I’ve got to go get Barker. He’s stuck at a convenience store a few miles from here.”
Keri blinked and yawned, disoriented for an instant until her eyes met Dub’s. She reached up and touched his face. “You’re leaving?” she asked, a lilt in her voice. “Don’t leave.”
“I have to. Barker can’t get an Uber in this weather. He needs a ride back here.”
She rolled her eyes. “Barker,” she said in the same frustrated tone she’d used countless times before. “Of course he needs a ride.”
“He has a friend with him.”
Her eyes widened and she sat up. “A friend? He’s bringing a hookup back here?”
“She goes to UCLA,” said Dub. “I guess he met her at the restaurant.”
“I don’t know about that, Dub. Some random chick…”
“I can’t leave her there,” said Dub. “Barker put me in an awkward position.”
Keri was fully awake now. “He put us in an awkward position,” she corrected. “What an ass. That guy is always thinking with his—”
“I know. We can deal with it later. But I’ve gotta go get them. Cool?”
Keri stretched, arching her back. “Not cool, but whatever. Just be careful and hurry back.”
“Of course,” said Dub.
“The roads are probably worse than when we came home,” she said, putting her hand on his knee. “Don’t do anything stupid. If you can’t see the curb, don’t drive through the water.”
“Got it. You gonna hang here until I get back?”
The Alt Apocalypse {Book 3): Torrent Page 6
