by Tom Abrahams
Kendrick took a second step. And a third. By the fourth, he had his tiny hands outstretched, grabbing for the officer, who swept him up in his arms and then quickly slid back into the boat.
The man kept his arms around Kendrick’s shivering body. Kendrick buried his head in the man’s chest. Lane couldn’t tell if the child was sobbing or trembling. It was likely both.
“Is there anyone else here, Kendrick?” asked Bellau. “Is anyone else with you?”
Lane recalled the captain saying the call slip indicated four survivors on the roof. He glanced back at the empty roof serving as little more than a shrinking island perch for an orphaned boy.
“No,” Kendrick said meekly. Lane wouldn’t have understood him if not for the adamant shake of his head. “They’re gone. They fell in the water.”
Bellau had the boat in reverse, backing the boat away from the roof and back toward the main current.
“Who is they?” he asked with his hands on the wheel. “Who fell in?”
“My brother first,” said Kendrick, his teeth chattering. “He slipped. My momma dove in to get him. Then my daddy tried to get them both.”
Nobody, not even the captain, knew what to say. The camera was still rolling. This private, emotional moment for a child who’d just lost everything he’d ever known was being recorded for transmission to televisions, smartphones, tablets, websites, and apps all over the world. Lane had no doubt it would go viral.
This is what happens in disasters, he thought to himself for the first time in his long career.
This was what really happened. The cameras were rolling when people experienced the worst moments of their lives. They were recording history, sure. But sometimes that history was incredibly personal. A wave of nausea crept into Lane’s gut.
He nudged his photographer, who had the camera pointed at the boy, and whispered, “Turn it off.”
The producer whipped her head toward him, her eyebrows angled down with confused anger. “What?” she asked under her breath.
“Stop rolling,” said Lane, making a “cut” sign by whipping his hand back and forth in front of his neck. “Cut it off.”
The photographer hesitated and offered the same, albeit less aggressive, glare as the field producer. He kept rolling.
“Why?” mouthed the producer.
“This is too much,” said Lane. “It’s too much.”
The field producer searched his eyes. Her glare softened and she motioned for the photographer to turn off the camera. It was then, unprompted, that Kendrick started talking again.
“I cried,” he said. “I cried a lot. I asked them where they went. I said their names. I yelled. I’m not supposed to yell, but I did. I asked them to come back.”
Nobody else in the boat spoke. Nobody interrupted him or consoled him. They let him talk. It was like the spigot was turned and the words came freely now.
“I asked them to come back,” he said, his eyes dancing from person to person. “I was by myself. I don’t like being by myself. I don’t like the dark. I have a nightlight in my room. It’s blue. It helps me sleep.”
Lane had never had an affinity for children. He wasn’t married and had no plans for a family. His life was his work. He was his job; his job was him. But in this moment, in this profound and raw moment, he wanted to get up from his seat and take the child and hold him. He wanted to cry with Kendrick. He wanted to make the child feel safe. He resisted the urge and swallowed the taste of bile that had crept up into his mouth.
“I couldn’t sleep on the roof,” Kendrick said. “I tried to sleep. I wanted to sleep. I’m sleepy. But I didn’t want to be asleep if Momma came back.”
Kendrick sighed and laid his head against the officer who’d pulled him into the boat. Nobody spoke for what felt like hours, but was only minutes. The hum and bubble of the motor churning through the water and the distant sounds of sirens were the only accompaniment for the ride amongst floating and sinking debris.
“We’re going to take Kendrick to a shelter,” said Bellau. “We’re out of service until we get him there.”
Bellau didn’t mention Lane by name. Lane knew it was directed at him and his crew, though.
“Thanks for the access, Captain,” he said, faking a smile. “We’ll get off at the shelter and leave you to your work. We’ve got enough here.”
“Suit yourself,” said Bellau. “It’s going to be a long night for all of us either way.”
CHAPTER 15
April 5, 2026
Los Angeles, California
“You’re going to drown yourself,” said Danny. “Ease up there. You’re not going to run out.”
Maggie was lapping up the water in her bowl as if she’d been for a walk in the Mojave Desert. The sound of her tongue curling scoopfuls into her maw and the spray of it onto the linoleum tile flooring let Danny know he’d been away from home too long.
He was squatting next to her, petting her coat as she drank. “Don’t drink too much,” he warned. “You’ll get bloat.”
She stopped drinking and looked up at him with her big dark eyes as if she understood him. She licked her chops and then went back to work on the bowl.
He apologized to her again for being gone for most of the day. He didn’t like leaving her. He hadn’t spent more than a double shift away from her since the day he’d adopted her for twenty-five bucks from a shelter…
He named her Maggie. It was better than Waggie, which was his first thought, because of how much she wagged her tail when he played with her, rubbed her belly, or took her for long, leashless walks in Santa Monica or Malibu. She was a good dog, a protective dog, who Danny knew in his gut would protect him with her life.
He’d protect her with his too. Somewhere in his gut, he felt like he had.
Maggie switched from the water bowl to the one filled with leftover diner scraps. She gobbled them with her snout buried deep in the mixture of bacon, burger bits, French fries, and kitchen grease.
Danny slapped her on her hind end, said, “Clean your dishes when you’re finished,” and took the few steps it took to cross his efficiency apartment. He found the television remote where he’d left it and punched on the thrift-store thirteen-inch flat panel he’d scored for twenty-five bucks. It wasn’t 4k or 5k or whatever the technology was that made newer sets more expensive and ones like his virtually worthless.
“Another man’s trash,” he’d said to the gum-chomping clerk when buying the set. She’d ignored him and handed him his change.
He plopped onto his bed, a Murphy bed that he could flip up and hide in the wall behind a pair of French doors, and turned up the volume. He was watching a replay of a live report from news anchor Lane Turner.
Turner left his microphone and waded away from his camera to help a woman. It was riveting television. Minutes later, when it was over, a news anchor for a twenty-four-hour cable network referenced the report as being from a Los Angeles television station.
The anchor then talked over images of the flooding in New Orleans, explaining how all but one of the pumps built to withstand flooding and alleviate the pressure on walls and gates had failed. They had been unable to handle the amount of rain that had fallen on the city within hours. Estimates from the National Weather Service put the twenty-four-hour rainfall totals at more than thirty-five inches. The city was a bowl and it was overflowing.
Following the coverage of the flooding, there was an update on the crash of Pacific East Flight 2929. The weather over southwestern Florida had cleared enough that search crews were able to recover the black box only seventy-five miles from the shoreline. They were hopeful it would provide a definitive cause in the crash that had killed everyone on board.
Danny hit the mute button on the television. Maggie looked up from her dish, apparently puzzled by the silence. She’d scooted the bowl with her muzzle from one side of the small kitchen to the other.
“We need to check something,” he said to Maggie. “That last story made me remember I ha
ve a souvenir from my long, strange conversation with our sworn enemy Derek.”
When he said the name, Maggie cocked her head to one side. She licked her nose and returned to the bowl, seeking out the last of the grease.
Danny pulled the voice recorder from his pocket. He clicked a rewind button until an LCD display showed the recorded track number as 1. He pressed play and a timer began at zero. One second. Two seconds. Three. There was a rustling sound and then Derek’s familiar voice.
“This is a question and answer session with jail inmate Clint Anthony, booking number 4492302. The time right now is four thirty in the afternoon, Pacific Standard Time, Saturday, June 21, 2025.”
Danny calculated on his fingers; the recording was ten months old. What did a jail inmate have to do with Derek and his company? Better yet, what did any of it have to do with him? He pressed play.
“Mr. Anthony,” said Derek, “thank you for agreeing to do the interview. I only have a few questions. I ask you answer them honestly.”
“Who did you say you were with?” asked another voice Danny presumed was Clint Anthony.
“A private research and technology company,” said Derek. “We sponsored some of the psychological testing you underwent in exchange for a reduced sentence.”
“Okay then,” said Anthony. “Ask your questions.”
“Have you been suffering from any headaches?”
“No more than usual.”
“What do you mean?” asked Derek. “Elaborate.”
“I don’t know,” said Anthony. “I’ve had headaches on and off my whole life. Nothing unusual. I guess maybe I have had a few more since I’ve been locked up.”
“How frequent are they?”
“A couple a week.”
“Are they intense?”
“They can be if I don’t get down to the infirmary and get some meds. If I get one in the middle of the night, don’t catch it quick enough, then it can get bad.”
“What about your sleep patterns? Are you getting enough sleep? Are you suffering from any exhaustion? Muscle fatigue?”
Anthony laughed. “Seriously? I’m in jail. I don’t get good sleep. Nobody gets good sleep.”
“Let me rephrase that,” said Derek. “Are you getting less sleep now than before you did the study with us?”
There was a rustling on the tape, then the sound of metal scraping against concrete. Derek cleared his throat.
“I don’t think so,” said Anthony. “Should I be? Getting less sleep, I mean? What did you do in that study? I don’t remember taking any drugs.”
“No, no, no,” Derek said, chuckling nervously. “We didn’t administer any pharmaceuticals. But yes, it’s possible you’d be suffering from mild insomnia.”
“Yeah,” said Anthony, “that’s not happening. I’m fine.”
“Good.”
“There is something, though…” Anthony’s voice was softer but somehow louder, as if he’d lowered it but moved closer to the microphone. “I’ve had really vivid nightmares.”
There was silence for a moment. Derek cleared his throat again. “Nightmares?”
“Yeah, like I’m tripping. Like weed and molly and whatever all mixed together. It’s that kind of vivid, you know?”
“Tell me about it.”
“The dreams are all different. But it’s like the end of the world or something. Like the sky is red or black. The Earth is gray and covered in ash. Or it’s on fire.”
Danny paused the recording and thought about what he’d just heard. He looked over at his dog, who was licking herself on the circular rug at the center of the apartment. Then he touched his neck. He touched his side and felt an ache swell there. It became a jabbing pain, throbbing for a moment before dissipating and leaving his body completely.
His mouth went dry and Danny got up from the bed, crossing the few feet to the kitchen. He pulled a plastic pitcher from the near-empty refrigerator and poured himself a glass of cold water. He guzzled it, trickles of it leaking down his cheeks.
He poured a second glass. Then a third. He was thirsty.
He stood there, leaning against the refrigerator, thinking about the questions Derek had asked him. He wondered what else was on that recorder. Who else had Derek interviewed, and why?
Danny put the glass in the sink then slunk back to his bed. He propped a couple of sagging feather pillows behind his bed, folding them over for support, and pressed play on the recorder.
“You ever read those books about this dude named Marcus Battle?” Clint Anthony asked Derek.
“No.”
“Me neither. But I got a cellmate who did. He read all of the books about this guy who lived in Texas after the end of the world. The guy was some ex-military badass who went crazy and killed a bunch of people out of revenge or whatever. Then there’s some girl who’s like some knife master. She kills people too. A lot of killing. But they’re conflicted about it. It’s not killing for the sake of it, it’s killing to survive. Anyhow, I don’t know the whole thing, but I kinda feel like I’m Marcus Battle in these dreams. Like I’m in a wasteland and I’m fighting to survive.”
Danny had heard enough. He stopped the playback and wiped the thin veil of sweat blooming on his forehead. He was hot. Suddenly it was hot in his apartment. He pushed himself from the bed again, against the complaint of the worn mattress springs, and found the thermostat. He didn’t have a fancy app on his phone to remotely regulate the temperature; he had to do it old school. He ran his finger across the panel, entered a code, and chose sixty-eight degrees Fahrenheit, lowering the target five degrees.
The HVAC system clunked, and a renewed burst of air whooshed through the vent on the wall above his head. He stood there for a moment letting the chill evaporate the sweat before he moved back to the bed.
The television was muted, but images of the flooding filled the screen. Danny tapped the advance button on the digital recorder, randomly choosing track four. It didn’t matter, he figured.
The clip began and Derek cleared his throat. “This is a question and answer session with study participant Gilda Luster. The time right now is nine thirty in the morning, Pacific Standard Time, Friday, October 17, 2025.”
Gilda Luster? Gilda. Gilda. That name rang a bell. He couldn’t place it though. Maybe he’d seen it on a ticket at the diner. It was an unusual name, antique even.
“Gilda,” said Derek, “have you been experiencing any episodes of déjà vu?”
When Gilda spoke, her cadence sounded almost military. It was disciplined and slightly masculine.
“Yes. By that, you mean the sensation I’ve experienced something before?”
“Yes.”
“I have. Two or three times per week.”
Danny pictured Gilda with ice blue eyes, eyes that could see through him. He saw her with long hair pulled back tight against her head into a ponytail. She was broad-shouldered and somewhere between athletic and sinewy.
“Tell me about that,” said Derek. “Give me some examples.”
“Well, most recently, I was at the beach. There were crowds there. It was an unusually warm day for October. I remember sweating.”
Danny wiped his forehead again with the back of his hand. He picked at his T-shirt. The air was cooler in the apartment but not cool enough.
“The traffic on PCH was bumper to bumper. Cars were honking, their drivers yelling at each other. It wasn’t the relaxing day I had planned. I walked down to the surf, letting my feet sink into the sand as the waves washed in and out. The sand was cold. The water was cold. There were storm clouds on the horizon. I think they were storm clouds. They were dark. They seemed pregnant with rain.”
“That’s a unique description,” said Derek. “Pregnant.”
“I guess.”
Danny imagined her narrowing those penetrating eyes and shrugging her muscular shoulders.
“Please proceed,” Derek urged.
“The whole scene was somehow familiar. The clouds on the horizon, the cro
wds on the beach, the stalled traffic on the freeway, the heat. I couldn’t place it, but I sensed I’d seen it all before.”
There was the sound of scribbling on paper and the clink of liquid spilling over ice cubes in a glass. Danny moved the recorder closer to his ear. Maggie was asleep now on the rug, her back legs kicking as she dreamed. She whimpered, her lips flapping over her teeth.
“Any other examples?” asked Derek. “Any other times you experienced such a strong sensation?”
“Yes,” said Gilda. “A couple of months ago I was in the garden.”
“You like to garden?”
“I have to garden. You remember I’m part of a group that is preparing.”
“I remember,” said Derek. “You’re preppers, people who are stockpiling goods and supplies for the apocalypse.”
“I don’t prefer that term, prepper, but yes. We all know it’s only a matter of time before mankind tries to destroy itself. We’re planning for that inevitability.”
“You’re talking about the OASIS,” said Derek. “A bunker you’ve built underneath the Getty Mansion.”
“The Getty Villa,” she corrected. “I think the mansion is in your neck of the woods, San Francisco.”
“Yes, you’re right. Sorry. But the OASIS is a self-sustaining bunker for your group, right?”
“Not just my group. The plan is to welcome whoever we think might be helpful to our efforts when the time comes. We know not every member will make it to the bunker when it all goes to hell. We’ll search for survivors and recruit the ones we need.”
“Into the OASIS.”
“Yes.”
“And what’s it stand for?”
“Order of Apocalyptic Survivors In Sync.”
“Clever.”
“Aren’t we getting away from the point?” asked Gilda.
“Sorry again,” said Derek. “But you do you know your involvement is precisely because of the OASIS, right? I think I disclosed that before our first session, before you agreed to take part in the study.”
“I’m aware.”
“Tell me about the second déjà vu, the one in the garden.”
