by Tom Abrahams
THE ALT APOCALYPSE
Books 1-3
ASH
LIT
TORRENT
Tom Abrahams
A PITON PRESS BOOK SERIES
THE ALT APOCALYPSE – BOOKS 1-3
The Alt Apocalypse Survival Series
© Tom Abrahams 2018. All Rights Reserved
Cover Design by Hristo Kovatliev
Edited by Felicia A. Sullivan
Proofread by Pauline Nolet and Patricia Wilson
Formatted by Stef McDaid at WriteIntoPrint.com
This book series is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events is purely coincidental. No part of this book series may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher.
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WORKS BY TOM ABRAHAMS
THE ALT APOCALYPSE SURVIVAL SERIES
ASH
LIT
TORRENT
AFFLICTION
THE TRAVELER POST-APOCALYPTIC/DYSTOPIAN SERIES
HOME
CANYON
WALL
RISING
BATTLE
LEGACY
THE SPACEMAN CHRONICLES POST-APOCALYPTIC THRILLERS
SPACEMAN
DESCENT
RETROGRADE
MATTI HARROLD POLITICAL CONSPIRACIES
SEDITION
INTENTION
JACKSON QUICK ADVENTURES
ALLEGIANCE
ALLEGIANCE BURNED
HIDDEN ALLEGIANCE
Contents
ASH
Author’s Note
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
LIT
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
TORRENT
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
Acknowledgements
ASH
The Alt Apocalypse Survival Series
Book 1
For Courtney, Sam, & Luke
My Alpha and Omega
“We shall draw from the heart of suffering itself the means of inspiration and survival.”
—Winston Churchill
Author’s Note
I once told my editor, “People love reading about the apocalypse.”
She corrected me, as all good editors do. “People love reading about surviving the apocalypse,” she said.
She was right.
This series of books, THE ALT APOCALYPSE, is about that premise. It explores survival under the most extreme circumstances. It is, however, a new twist on the post-apocalyptic/dystopian/survival genres.
This series, which can be read in any order, features the same core characters in each complete story. But every book dunks them into a new, alternate apocalypse: a nuclear holocaust, an earthquake, a flood, a wildfire, a hurricane, a plague, and even zombies. Different heroes will emerge in each novel. Different characters will survive and perish. Your favorite character dies in one book? He or she will be back in the next.
The idea is to explore how people with different skills survive, or not, in alternate disasters. I hope you enjoy the fiction that treads close to reality (except the zombies) and choose to ride shotgun with me for what promises to be an exceptional set of adventures.
CHAPTER 1
Saturday, August 9, 2025
ATTACK +49 DAYS
Westwood, California
This is how I die?
Dub Hampton’s short life raced through his mind.
Good days. Bad days. Victories. Defeats. First kisses. Final goodbyes. All of it, flashing as it did, was clouded by an overwhelming thought of death as the beast of a man smothering him pressed heavier with his full weight.
The man was straddling him, trying to gain leverage enough to choke him. The struggle was real.
As he fought from beneath the attacker’s heft, Dub could taste the ash in his mouth. It was dry and reminded him of shellfish or the odor that clung to the fish-market docks along Long Beach and the Los Angeles River.
The ash was everywhere. It was layers thick on the ground. It coated buildings, dusted door handles. It clouded the sky. The ash, which seemed to drift and hover as much as it fell, offered an opaquely gray view of the world. No blue in the sky, no purple sunrises over the San Gabriel Mountains, no orange- and red-hued sunsets on the Pacific horizon. Just gray.
The ash ushered a permanent chill that clung to its dancing flakes and brought with it a never-ending supply of angst and terror.
The man grunted, his eyes wide with effort, as he worked with his meaty, sweaty palms to push Dub’s face to the side and into the thick layer of ash on the ground. The man, whose head was shaved and freckled with scabs, didn’t speak. But he drooled and snorted. He smelled like a combination of chicken soup and a long-neglected gas station washroom.
Dub struggled to breathe. His chest burned.
This can’t be how I die.
In the distance, the thin pops of rifle shots rang out in the thick, chilled air. They echoed from the hill behind him, rippling like crackles of thunder. His hearing became more acute as his vision blurred.
He hoped his friends were holding their own, that they were protecting what was theirs, that they could fend off the marauders who’d come to steal what little they had left. He prayed they could keep the attackers at bay long enough for the cavalry to arrive and take them to the Oasis, a place that promised to provide refuge after the day their world exploded in flashes of light and the rains of ash that came afterward.
Dub managed to free a hand from under his body, and he blindly scrabbled at the attacker’s face. He jabbed his thumb and then clawed, raking his fingers across the behemoth’s fleshy cheeks.
The man cried out in pain and, for an instant, the pressure lessened. It gave Dub the chance to suck in another ash-laden breath and free his other hand. He coughed but swallowed the flakes and balled his fist. He swung in a wide arc and connected with the man’s side, eliciting a gasp.
The momentary reprieve only proved to enrage the giant, who gathered his wits and bore down on Dub, straddling him now and squeezing his ample thighs like a vise. Dub felt
a pop and a sharp pain that radiated like an electric shock when he tried to inhale.
With renewed vigor, the attacker overpowered Dub. He managed to wrap his hands around Dub’s neck. His fingers squeezed. The world darkened.
CHAPTER 2
Saturday, June 21, 2025
DAY ZERO
Los Angeles, California
Ellen Chang’s final moments alive were unremarkable. They were twisted with the banality of a doctor’s wife bored with her solitude, the desire to achieve a late day buzz, and the swelling discontent with the longer than usual wait at a popular downtown Los Angeles eatery.
She’d spent much of the day at The Broad, lazily deconstructing the collection of Basquiat artwork covering the walls of a gallery.
Sitting at her favorite table near the picture windows facing South Grand Avenue, Ellen sipped a Gambino Prosecco. She thumbed her plum lipstick from the rim of the flute and tapped her iPhone. She opened her favorite social media app and double tapped photographs that caught her eye. Her son had posted a new collection of snaps from the Gothic Quarter in Barcelona, where he was studying for the summer. His wide smile seemed to stretch across the narrow, cobbled streets. A girl of whom she didn’t approve had her arms wrapped around his waist. She was nuzzling her son’s neck. On second thought…Ellen tapped the photo again, removing her public approval. She grumbled something from between her clenched teeth and raised the glass to take another, healthier swig.
She pushed the power button on the side of the device, turning the screen black, and placed it facedown on the glass table. The waiter appeared and replaced the healthy sip of he’d drained from her glass.
“Are you ready to order?” he asked. “Or would you like me to come back?”
Ellen lowered her reading glasses on the tip of her tiny, broad nose, and grazed the menu again. She tapped her salad selection.
“The organiz tomato with fior di latte mozzarella?” the waiter confirmed. “A wonderful choice.”
“EVOO on the side, please,” she said. “I’ll send it back if it’s not on the side.”
“Of course. And for the main course?”
Ellen eyed the waiter over the top of her glasses. “That is my main course. But I’ll have another glass of the Prosecco.”
The waiter slid the menu from the table and tucked it under his arm. “Right away,” he said and whisked toward the kitchen.
She scanned the restaurant. It was half-filled with museumgoers, tourists, and ladies and men of leisure, all of them preoccupied with their devices rather than one another.
Out the window, the traffic was stalled. A Tesla quietly pushed past a Range Rover and stopped at a pedestrian crossing.
The dial on her watch told her that it was too late to call her son. He’d be at dinner eating tapas or canoodling with the pretty Iberian witch who’d somehow used black magic to steal his affection using a foreign tongue and beguiling flirtation.
Her husband, she assumed, was still in surgery. He’d told her before he left it was a complicated procedure and he anticipated being in the OR for several hours, and that was if everything went as planned. Nothing ever went as planned. She eyed a woman walking past on the wide sidewalk beyond the concrete planters that protected the building’s façade from errant traffic, tracing her from last season’s Jimmy Choos to the ill-fitting romper that accentuated the wrong attributes. Ellen pursed her lips and rolled her eyes.
She tipped the flute back and swallowed the last of the Prosecco, the tiny bubbles popping in her mouth. She swallowed and planted her hands on the table, exhaling loudly. Ellen tilted her head from side to side, stretching the tension from her neck. She’d need to reschedule her massage appointment at the Hotel Bel-Air.
She stared at her phone for a moment, then picked it up, turned it on, and returned to the app featuring her son’s photograph. Her finger hovered over the square image. She focused on her son’s smile. He was happy. That was something, she supposed.
As she lowered her finger to tap the photo again, reapplying her approval, a blinding light enshrouded everything around her. Instantaneously, there was a flash of searing heat, and before Ellen Chang could recognize she was being cooked alive and vaporized, she was ash.
The chef hadn’t yet plated her mozzarella.
CHAPTER 3
Saturday, June 21, 2025
DAY ZERO
Westwood, California
Dub thought it was his dunk that rocked the world. He’d caught the ball and bounded toward the goal. There was nobody between him and the rim. Three dribbles in his right hand, a crossover to his left, and he’d elevated. He exploded toward the basket and, with both hands grabbing onto the rim, slammed the ball downward.
He gripped the flexible orange rim and hung there for a moment, relishing the rumble that rippled through his body. But when he landed on the gym floor, it too was rumbling. The others on the court appeared off balance, their faces bearing the wide-eyed fear of uncertainty and confusion.
“Earthquake!” said Michael Turner, the out-of-shape, redheaded sophomore who’d passed the ball to Dub. “Big one.”
“I don’t think so,” said Barker Mayfield, a chemistry major with a severe Diddy Riese addiction. “This feels different. It’s like a vibration.”
The lights in the gym flickered and popped before going out. Dub stood frozen in place for a moment, listening to the squeak of high-dollar basketball shoes moving blindly across the court.
His eyes adjusted to the darkness, and he found his way to his lanyard and phone, which he’d tossed under the backboard before the weekly pickup game. He slid his finger across the screen and it illuminated. He tapped it and triggered a flashlight on the back side of the device, shining it onto the court. “Whatever it was,” he said, “it stopped.”
“Yeah,” said Barker, following the arc of light from Dub’s phone toward the sideline and his own belongings. “I definitely think this was different.”
Dub draped his lanyard around his neck and started across the court when a second rumble nearly knocked him from his feet. He squatted and balanced himself with his fingers on the floor. The flashlight turned off.
“That was an explosion,” Dub said. “Something blew up.”
He pressed the screen on his phone. It didn’t respond. He swiped. He tapped. Nothing happened.
“Hey,” asked Michael, “anyone else’s phone dead?”
“Yeah,” said Barker. “Just quit working.”
None of them could get their phones to work.
Dub pushed himself back to his feet and, from memory, found his way to the edge of the court and the nearby exit. His friends were behind him, still fiddling with their smartphones.
“C’mon,” he called to them as he backed open the heavy metal door that led to the concourse outside the gym. “We need to see what’s going on.”
Dub led his friends along the windowless, darkened concourse, hugging the walls, until they found the main lobby. When he opened the door, an unearthly red light cascaded into the concourse through the large windows that framed the front of the building.
The six friends stumbled to the windows, all of them transfixed by the glow outside. Like moths to a flame, they were drawn to it. It was impossible for Dub to turn away from it.
“What is that?” asked Michael. “It looks like—”
“Hell,” said Barker. “It looks like Hell.”
The sky pulsed with color, and in the distance, a large plume of smoke mushroomed toward the sky. Beyond the plume, another wide bloom of smoke reached upward. The late afternoon sun was mostly obscured by the smoke.
On the ground, there was surprisingly little panic. While some students ran aimlessly across the grass, ignoring the concrete and brick paths that crisscrossed the four-hundred-acre campus, others stood motionless, staring at the sky.
Barker recognized a quartet of coeds racing past them in the direction of their sorority house. One of the women wore denim overall shorts and a white ta
nk-top. Barker thought her name was Gemma. He’d met her at a party and vaguely remembered her blowing him off. She appeared to be leading the others, a trio of blondes. All of them wore frightened expressions on their faces. They kept moving and disappeared from view, merging into the other groupings of hurried students.
“Do we go outside?” asked Michael.
“I’m not staying in here,” said Barker, and pushed open the door. A rush of warm, dry air greeted the men as they stepped from the gym.
“I think it’s a nuclear bomb,” said Dub. “Somebody just dropped a bomb on us.”
As they moved away from the building, the wailing chorus of emergency sirens echoed in the distance. Countless pillars of dark smoke rose in thin columns everywhere Dub looked.
“We need to get back to our dorms,” he said. “We shouldn’t be out here.”
Moving as a pack, the six of them worked their way back up the hill toward their dorm. Clusters of backpack-clad students hustled past them, moved around them, climbed ahead of them.
They’d reached the first landing of a long bank of steps leading up the hill when the sky flashed white. Dub looked over his shoulder toward a downtown Los Angeles skyline he couldn’t see from Westwood as the third rumble blasted across the sky. This wasn’t a bomb though. It looked like a transformer explosion. Fires dotted the landscape, flames licking at the nasty sky.
No doubt. They were under attack.
What he couldn’t know was that Los Angeles was only one of the targets. There were simultaneous bombings in New York, Houston, Chicago, Miami, Washington, and Los Angeles.
He’d never learn that in the moments before the attacks, hackers had infiltrated the military systems that both warned and protected the United States from pending attacks. With those systems relaying false information, the gates were open. The castle was laid bare.
He didn’t know the twin ten-kiloton North Korean-sent explosives had instantly killed seventy thousand people in the half-mile-wide fireballs that consumed glass, steel, flesh, and bone. He was unaware that twice that number of people were injured and that some suffered third-degree burns close to five miles from ground zero. Nor could he have the knowledge that the attacks were coordinated amongst Russian, Iranian, and Chinese interests.
