The Alt Apocalypse: Books 1-3

by Tom Abrahams

  As Barker and Michael disappeared, Dub and Keri reached the mini grocery. He aimed the flashlight at the untouched bounty of food, drink, and toiletries.

  “Gold mine,” Dub said under his breath. Keri was apparently close enough to hear him.

  “So now you’re comfortable with what we’re becoming?” sniped Keri. “Food thieves?”

  Dub exhaled and pulled the burlap below his mouth. The sour odor of rotting fruit permeated the still air of the first floor. He stopped at a bank of cash registers near the area of the floor that held racks of nonperishable foods and glass-front refrigerators stacked with bottled waters, sodas, and energy drinks.

  “I shouldn’t have said anything.” Dub pulled a plastic shopping basket from a stack at the register counter. “You’re taking what I meant out of context.”

  Keri got another basket. “Am I? You basically called us thugs back there, judging all of us for what we’re doing.”

  Dub watched her walk past him and aimed his flashlight toward an aisle to help her see. She plucked granola bars and bags of nuts from the shelves, sliding them into her basket.

  “I didn’t call us thugs,” he said, “and I’m not judging us for anything. I’m just thinking ahead. I’m worried about what will happen weeks or months from now.”

  Keri glanced at him, squinting into the white beam of light, and tossed a can of Pringles into the basket. Dub tilted the light away from her eyes but kept it on what there was to select.

  “Is that what you meant?” she asked in a tone that suggested she didn’t believe him.

  He picked up his basket and walked toward her. He lowered his voice to avoid sounding defensive. “Of course it was, Keri. Think about it. Three weeks ago, we never would’ve thrown rocks into a building to steal school equipment. But today it’s okay. It’s acceptable. What will be acceptable, what will be okay a month from now? I bet there’s something you wouldn’t think of doing right now that in four or six weeks you rationalize as being necessary.”

  Keri set the basket on the floor. She adjusted the scarf around her neck and moved toward Dub. She lowered her voice to prevent Michael and Barker from hearing her. “Do you understand how I take that?” she asked. “Like you think less of me. Like you think I’m a bad person.”

  Dub didn’t understand. He wasn’t singling her out. It was a general observation and concern about what problems might lay ahead. He was the one who’d thrown the rocks to break into Boelter Hall. How could he be judging her or think less of her when he’d done as much or more than she had?

  Dub searched her eyes for understanding, hoping he could find in her wide-eyed gaze that key to unlock her psyche. And then, as the faintest glint of a tear glistened in her eyes, he saw it. She wasn’t upset with him because he’d judged her. She was upset with him because he’d vocalized what her conscience had already told her was wrong.

  He reached out to her, one hand holding the flashlight and the other holding his basket, and wrapped his arms around her. His hug loosened layers of ash from their shoulders and backs. Keri reciprocated the squeeze.

  His cheek was pressed against her ear as he reassured her. “I’m worried about myself. I’m worried about the things I might do to keep myself alive, to keep you alive.”

  “I know.” Keri sniffled. “Me too.”

  Dub pulled back, the hint of a smile on his face. “You’re worried about what I’ll do?”

  She slapped his chest and giggled faintly. “No,” she said. “You’re a moron, William Hampton.”

  He laughed. It was the second time that day. A new post-apocalyptic record. Dub made a mental note of it as Barker interrupted their brief moment of levity.

  “Are we intruding?” he chirped. “We can leave you alone if you want, but I’m not sure now is the time or place for—”

  “You’re not intruding,” said Dub. “Did you find the batteries?”

  “Plenty,” said Michael. “Double A, triple A, nine volts. Looks like you found more food.”

  “We did,” said Dub. “And more importantly, water.” He faced the wall of glass-front refrigerators and shone the flashlight on rows of bottled water. Then he ran it along the bottom row, revealing cartons of milk and juice. “I’m guessing we’ll want to stay away from those. But we should take what we can and go. It’s got to be dark out now.”

  “Agreed,” said Michael, and the four of them filled up two baskets apiece with as much as they could carry.

  CHAPTER 7

  Saturday, July 5, 2025

  DAY FOURTEEN

  Santa Monica, California

  Danny Correa stood at the back door waiting for Maggie to do her business. His hands were tucked under his armpits to keep them warm. It was late in the day. He was sure he could see his breath as Maggie padded lightly across the ash like a show horse, searching for the perfect spot.

  “Every single time?” he asked the dog. “Do you have to do this every time?”

  The dog stopped her search and stared at Danny, taunting him. She tilted her head to one side and then resumed the sniffing and high-stepping.

  For two weeks, he’d maintained a rigid schedule, positive that rules and order were the key to sanity; otherwise he’d lose track of time and eventually the will to live.

  He’d awaken at the same time every morning, coaxed by Maggie’s need to go outside. He’d do fifty push-ups, one hundred sit-ups, and two hundred jumping jacks. Then he’d make himself and the dog a meager breakfast from whatever was left in the pantry. He’d brush his teeth, wash his face, and comb his hair.

  He’d pull a book off the shelf and read one hundred pages while Maggie slept at his feet. It didn’t matter the book—romance, political, biographical, classic—all of it was fiction now. He’d stayed away from George Orwell and Aldous Huxley but figured he might eventually be left with only their works to read.

  Then he’d let Maggie outside, take a nap, let her out again, eat dinner, do more push-ups, sit-ups, and jumping jacks before checking the security of the doors and windows and going to sleep.

  He’d guessed he was getting five or six hours a night, maybe more for the first ten days or so. It was hard to tell given the relative lack of sunlight, but he’d gotten up every morning feeling refreshed.

  In the last couple of days, however, he had not been sleeping as much. Noises outside had awoken him, kept him on edge. They’d sounded like voices. He hadn’t been able to make out what they’d been saying or how close to the house they’d been.

  Given that Danny hadn’t seen a living person since squatting in the house, he couldn’t be sure he wasn’t imagining the voices. Still, he was anxious every time he opened the back door to let Maggie do her business.

  “C’mon, girl,” he said impatiently. “Hurry it up.”

  Maggie squatted, pranced around the yard for another minute, hunched her back, and did her business, then gleefully made her way back into the house.

  “It’s about time,” said Danny. “You know the ash isn’t going anywhere, right? It’s going to be here for a while. We’re all going to have to deal with it.”

  Danny bent over and cupped Maggie’s face in his hands. He rubbed the spot behind her ears and she closed her eyes. He scratched under her jaw and she tilted her head back. She licked him on the nose and then followed him into the kitchen. Danny opened one of the drawers and pulled out a large box of matches. He struck one of them on the side of the box and lit a series of thick scented candles he used to light the house at night. The wicks sizzled and reanimated, sending the overpowering scents of Autumn Mist and Winter Jubilee filtering through the home.

  He crossed the kitchen to the pantry and pulled out a can of soup. Maggie followed him expectantly with her tail wagging. He looked at her and smiled as he drew back the pop top to open the can and poured half of it into a bowl. He was thankful to have the dog. She was a rescue nobody wanted and, according to the pound, had been left to die in a gutter.

  Danny had paid twenty-five dollars for
her. It was half of what he’d had in his bank account at the time, but she was worth a thousand times that to Danny, especially given their current predicament. He needed something to love and something that would love him back. Every time Maggie looked at him, Danny knew she was aware he’d saved her life. She probably didn’t know she’d saved his.

  He put the bowl on the floor at his feet, and Maggie at once dove into the cold barley and potato soup. He drew the can to his lips and slurped his cold dinner. As he ate, chewing on the mushy potatoes and listening to Maggie’s collar clang against the bowl, he looked through the windows above the kitchen sink. It was now dark outside. Another day had evaporated, and he was still living in someone else’s house.

  Danny called the couple who owned the home Ken and Barbie. To occupy his mind, he’d imagine their life together and wonder if it was as perfect as it seemed in the bookshelf pictures and in the meticulous decoration of their home. Or was it only perfect in the digital ones and zeroes of photographs? Underneath that shiny veneer, were there cracks that ran deep through the foundation of the relationship?

  When his thoughts turned dark, the images of Ken and Barbie were replaced with the memories of his ex and their failed chance at happiness.

  Well, his failed chance. The last he’d heard, she seemed blissful.

  She was living somewhere up the coast near the bay, having fallen for some software designer, a Silicon Valley gazillionaire who had locked in to a deal with Google or Yahoo or Apple or Microsoft. Danny couldn’t remember. It didn’t matter. Whatever he was, he made her happier than she’d ever been with him.

  She had stolen his trust, his dignity, the deed to their home, and half of everything else. There wasn’t much of everything else to begin with, so Danny effectively started over while she moved on and didn’t look back.

  He tipped back the can and tapped the remaining clumps of barley into his mouth. Maggie was licking the dry bowl around the kitchen, sliding it with each lap of her tongue until she reached the corner of the lower cabinets.

  Danny chuckled. “All right, I think you’re done.”

  He reached down and snatched the bowl from Maggie, her eyes following his hands as he dropped the bowl onto the counter. He dipped a paper towel in the water-filled-sink and used it to wipe out the inside of the bowl. Then he opened a half-empty gallon of spring water, poured it into the bowl, and offered it to Maggie. He tossed the empty can into a trash-bag-lined can and stretched.

  “Time for exercise and bed?” he asked her. She ignored him and drank from the bowl. Danny licked his dry lips as he thought about the water. He had six more plastic gallon jugs of drinking water. He went through one every three days, which was barely enough to keep the two of them hydrated. At that rate, he’d be out of clean drinking water in less than three weeks. He’d have to resort to the tub water, which he was using to occasionally flush the toilet.

  He left the dog in the kitchen and moped toward the front door. He looked outside onto the street. In the dark, it almost looked beautiful, the banks of ash that rose and dipped along the streets and postage-stamp front yards. From the corner of his eye, he thought he saw a flash of movement to the left of the house. Then another.

  Danny touched the door handle and held it for a moment before unlocking the deadbolt and opening the door. A gust of ashy wind blew into his face, and he rubbed it from his eyes. He left the door cracked open and stepped from the threshold into the yard, his bare feet treading softly in the ash. It filtered between his toes like dry sand, and he stepped closer to the street. He squinted in the darkness, sweeping his eyes from one side to the other. He reached the curb and stood silently for a moment, listening to the gusts of wind and the distant crash of the surf on the beach a few blocks away.

  Convinced he’d imagined whatever it was he thought he saw, he started walking back to the house. He tucked his hands into his pants pockets to shield them from the chill and tucked his chin against his chest to keep the swirling ash from his eyes.

  He’d almost reached the stoop when, to his right, he saw evidence he hadn’t been imagining anything. There were two sets of faint footprints in the ash. They crossed the yard toward the side of the house and the gate to the back.

  Danny froze. His muscles tensed, and his pulse quickened. He glanced at the cracked front door and then back to the footprints. He wiped a dusting of ash from his face and exhaled, moving cautiously toward the side of the house. His hands were out of his pockets and balled into fists. His thumbs were on the outside of his tightly clenched fingers, as his Shotokan karate instructor had taught him as a kid. He moved with one shoulder in front of the other, defensively ready to attack or defend, depending on what he found.

  As he turned the corner, easing close enough to the gate to find it swung open, a thick punch to his lower back knocked him to the ground. The attacker was on top of him, shoving him into the dirt. Danny scrambled onto his back to see the man’s crazed eyes, the snarl on his face, and the blade in his hand. The rank odor of desperation filled Danny’s nostrils as he fought against the wiry, unkempt man.

  The attacker growled and drove the blade toward Danny with a quick jab. Danny deflected it, and the blade sliced across the fabric of his hoodie. He felt a sharp burning cut as the knife grazed his arm. Still, he managed to grab the man’s forearm and hold the weapon at bay as he fought for leverage.

  The man rolled away from Danny, taking the knife with him, and then lunged again. Danny pulled his knees to his chest and thrust them outward in a mule kick. One of his feet caught the attacker’s side, knocking him off balance.

  The attacker growled again and scrambled to his feet. Danny was on his back, scooting backward in the ash, trying to gain enough separation from the man to push himself from the ground.

  Danny coughed at the swirl of ash that coated his tongue and the inside of his nostrils. The attacker launched himself forward, swiping with the blade as he landed next to Danny. He missed when Danny rolled to one side and managed to push himself up. Danny stood near the gate now, his hands again balled into fists, his right leg behind his left. He spat dust from his mouth and waited for the circling attacker to make his next move.

  Before the intruder could make his next move, a blur from the side slammed into him, knocking him to the ground. The man screamed and cried out in pain before the wails became gargles.

  Danny took a step forward and saw Maggie on top of the man, her head shaking wildly as she tore into his neck and face. She was relentless, every bit as crazed as the man had been moments earlier.

  “Maggie,” he said. “Maggie, it’s okay. It’s okay, girl.”

  Cautiously, and still in a defensive position, he moved closer to his dog. Her snarl was unlike anything he’d heard from her before. It was vicious, both a warning and a declaration.

  “Maggie!” he snapped.

  She whipped her head toward him, her muzzle creased with anger and her teeth dipped in blood, then instantly relaxed. She wagged her tail and pawed toward him, her head low as if she’d pooped on the carpet.

  Danny squatted onto his heels and took both sides of her head as she reached him. He held her at bay when she tried licking him. He could smell the man on her breath. He praised her and calmed her, assuring her he was okay.

  She backed away and inched toward her kill. She sniffed at the man, whose fingers still twitched involuntarily.

  Danny followed her and stood over the attacker. He appeared smaller now. And the blade next to him in the bloody ash wasn’t a blade, it was a long shard of glass.

  The man’s body shuddered as he took his last gargling breath. His fingers stopped moving. His body sank into the ground and Danny exhaled.

  He slinked backward and led Maggie to the house. He turned the knob and opened the door, stepped inside, shut the door again, and stopped cold.

  Didn’t he leave the door open?

  A chill ran along his spine and he stopped breathing. He motioned to Maggie for her to sit. She obeyed. Dan
ny pressed his back to the door, listening for the owner of the second set of footprints he’d seen in the ash. He raised his hand to his face to wipe gray sweat from his brow and noticed his palm was covered in blood.

  It was coming from his arm. He wiped the blood on his pants and tried not to focus on the stinging throb above his wrist.

  Maggie shuffled her feet and whimpered. Her ears pricked, and she looked toward the hallway that led to the bedroom. Danny motioned for Maggie to follow him and stepped lightly toward the kitchen. He kept his focus on the dark hallway as he backed through the living room to the sink. He drew open a drawer and slid out a long carving knife.

  Danny motioned with his head, tapped Maggie on her hind end, and she led him back to the living room and toward the hallway. When they reached the hallway entrance, Danny tapped Maggie again and they stopped. He listened and ran his thumb along the side of the knife’s ergonomic grip.

  There was a noise coming from the second bedroom, the room that Danny had made his own. He took a measured step forward into the dark hall. Ahead and to the left, a dim light was flashing, strobing, from the bedroom.

  Another step.

  Maggie was at his side, herding him along, silently padding her way toward the bedroom.

  Another step.

  The man was grumbling and snorting as he tore through the room. Drawers opened and closed. His feet were heavy on the floors. The closet door slammed against its stopper and then banged shut.

  Another step.

  And then the man was in the hallway.

  He didn’t see them. His back was turned as he moved from the second bedroom toward the master. He was larger than the dead man outside. Easily five or six inches taller than Danny, his shoulders were broad and rounded with muscle. His neck was thick.

  He made a move toward the bedroom before pivoting quickly to face Danny. He jerked with the shock of surprise before lunging at Danny with his meat-hook hands.