by Tom Abrahams
Reed raised his hand and waved to the sorority awaiting entry. Leading the other firefighters, Captain Eaker approached him and stood close, speaking in a voice low enough that others couldn’t hear.
Reed’s expression shifted from concern to horror, likely from Eaker telling him what had happened at the faculty building. He put his hand on her shoulder, replying with something Barker imagined was consoling and reassuring. Then he held his hands up, his fingers spread.
“If you need help,” he said loudly, “hang here after you go through security. We’ll be back in less than ten. Is there anyone who needs urgent care?”
Nobody was in dire need of help, so Reed motioned to the other firefighters and led them into the crowd, disappearing into the masses.
Eventually all the sorority sisters, the house mother Melinda Zagrecki, and Barker made their way through the metal detector and into the gym. Barker hung Becca’s backpack onto his sore shoulder, standing there for a moment, soaking in the bizarre environment. It was loud, funky, and there was an air of surreality to the place. The students didn’t seem all that concerned. Except for the small group huddled around the television on the far wall of the gym, it appeared to Barker the rest of the population was merely waiting out a drill of some kind. People were laughing, joking, playing cards, trying to connect on their phones.
They must not have seen what he’d seen. They hadn’t seen things burn and people die. They hadn’t inhaled thick smoke and coughed it out or been knocked senseless from an explosion. There was such a disconnect inside this place from what was happening on the outside.
“Should we go look at the news?” he asked Becca. “There’s nowhere to sit, and I kinda want to know what’s going on.”
She touched the cut on her head and nodded. “We’ve got some time before the medics come back.”
Barker took her hand and led her, snaking through the crowds of students who acted oblivious to the dangers surrounding them. Their laughter and joviality were a sharp contrast to the sounds of sirens and traffic outside.
They reached the crowd at the television and weaseled their way into a position where they could see and hear the news. There were closed captions running along the bottom of the screen, which helped, though they blocked the scroll of additional information that ran from right to left.
The new anchor was Lane Turner, the same reporter they’d watched in the sorority house hours earlier. He was sitting at the high-tech desk in the studio in front of a large wall-sized complex of flat-panel monitors. On the monitors was a wide aerial shot of the Hollywood Hills. It was dark outside now except for the parallel streaks of fire that gouged into the hillsides, glowing and throbbing shades of orange and yellow.
“…twenty-seven deaths and at least one hundred twenty-seven structures damaged or destroyed,” said Turner, reading from an iPad on the set. “As we reported online and on our news app, those numbers are preliminary, and authorities caution they will likely go much higher.”
The small group staring at the television was silent and attentive. None of the noise behind them distracted them from what the newsman was saying on screen.
“The good news here is that the unexpected development of storms has given firefighters significant hope that they’ll have these fires under control much sooner than initially anticipated,” Turner said directly into the camera. “Let’s go now to reporter Dan Visoiu, who is in Santa Monica with the latest there on the urban fires.”
The screen split and revealed the reporter full screen. Visoiu was standing on the edge of the beach, the rain pelting him in his station-issued rain jacket. He wore a matching baseball cap and held the microphone close to his mouth. A plastic baggie was wrapped around the wireless transmitter at the base of the mic, held tight with a rubber band.
“Here’s the latest from Santa Monica, Lane,” said the reporter. “The rain, which started an hour ago, is steady, and as you can likely see, pretty heavy. We’re drenched here, which is a good thing. The rains have doused some of the smaller fires that popped up along the strip centers and in one power substation. There is still a lot of work to do.”
The reporter disappeared from the screen, replaced with video of firefighters battling the flames at what was likely a gas station, though it was hard to tell for sure through the smoke and the condensation on the camera lens. The reporter kept talking as the video cut to different shots of various burning scenes. Some looked far worse than others. There were people with towels over their heads getting oxygen treatments and others who appeared injured and burned. There were more pictures of fires burning out of control with no firefighters in sight.
“…proving to be a major problem. In addition to a lack of consistent or even adequate communication, emergency personnel can’t get to a lot of these scenes because of traffic. So much of it is at a standstill. I will say that while the gridlock appears to have loosened slightly in the past thirty minutes, it’s not great.”
“Dan,” said Lane Turner from the set, “let me interrupt you for a moment. I want to ask you how firefighters know where to go if there is little to no communication?”
“They’re getting lucky in some cases,” Visoiu said, water dripping from the brim of his hat and spraying his face. “I’ve spoken with several first responders, both police and fire, and they tell me that they are driving around proactively in search of fires or other emergencies. As they find them, they stop and do their jobs. It’s incredible and heroic work. Lane?”
“Thank you, Dan Visoiu, for that live update from Santa Monica,” said the anchor. “Now for more on the rain and what it means for these fires overnight, let’s head over to the weather center.”
A hand touched Barker’s shoulder. His roommate Michael was standing there alone. His face was drawn, and he had dark circles under his eyes.
Barker grinned and stepped to him, wrapping his arms around him in a big hug. He patted Michael on the back.
“You’re okay,” he said. “I’m glad. I mean, I figured you were fine. It’s good to know you’re here.”
Michael awkwardly returned the hug and then stepped back, dipping his hands into his pockets. Barker noticed then the circles under his eyes were swelling. Michael had been crying.
“What?” Barker asked. “What happened?”
Barker’s pulse accelerated, and a nervous twinge spiked in his chest. He searched Michael’s face for an explanation.
“It’s Dub,” he said.
“What about him?”
“He…”
“He what?” Barker snapped. Becca’s hand touched his. He ignored it. “What about him, Michael?”
Before Michael could answer, Barker saw Keri walking toward him. She was soaked, her clothing sticking to her, outlining her physique. Her mascara was smudged under her eyes in wide black semicircles. She looked nauseated.
Barker glanced back at Michael and then at Keri again. His chest was heavy. His legs were suddenly noodles. He braced himself, tightening his hold on Becca’s hand, using it for support.
He searched the crowd for any sign of Dub, for any hint that his roommate and friend was there and okay. He couldn’t imagine college without him. Dub wasn’t there. And the closer Keri got to Barker, the clearer that devastating fact became.
“He’s gone,” Keri said. There were hints of soot at her nostrils and the corners of her mouth. “Dub’s gone.”
“I don’t understand,” said Barker. “You guys went to the pier. I just saw it in a live report on television. The pier is there; it didn’t burn. I don’t understand.”
Michael put his arm around Keri. She explained as coherently as she could what had happened, how Dub had given his life in exchange for another.
Barker’s despair gave way to anger. He wanted to scream. The gym, which was crowded to him before, became suffocating. The warmth was now oppressive heat, the noise of indistinct chatter deafening.
This was not the way a story should end.
In Barker’s min
d, it should have been a long, awful day that years from now at a reunion in some high-end Westwood eatery he and his roommates and their spouses talked about with bravado. It was supposed to be a tourist destination along memory lane. Nobody was supposed to die, especially not his roommate and friend Dub Hampton.
This was no Hollywood ending. Then again, how could it be when the Hollywood sign had gone up in smoke?
This wasn’t the place to grieve, however. He couldn’t break down amid hundreds, or thousands, of his fellow students. He wouldn’t be that vulnerable in front of a woman he was still courting. Instead, he steeled himself. He moved closer to Keri and Michael, let go of Becca’s hand, and wrapped them in a group hug. It took everything in him to maintain his composure.
He kissed Keri on the cheek, rubbed Michael’s head, and thumped his belly with the back of his hand. He tried smiling.
“We’ll be okay,” he said. “Dub wouldn’t want us wallowing.”
Keri chuckled through her tears. “Very true.”
“I’m sorry,” Barker said. “Becca, these are my friends Keri and Michael. Michael and I are roommates. Guys, this is Becca.”
They said hello to one another. Becca expressed her condolences.
“What now?” asked Michael.
“As soon as they let us go, I’m headed back to De Neve,” Keri said. “I’ve got to call Dub’s parents. Then I’m showering and going to sleep.”
“Do you want me to go with you?” asked Michael.
“No, thanks,” she said tearily. “I appreciate the offer though.”
“I need to see the medic,” said Becca. “I’m going to head back to the front of the gym. I’ll be back.”
“You want me to go?”
“No. Stay here with your friends. That’s more important right now.”
Before he could protest, she kissed him on the cheek and moved swiftly toward the metal detector. A couple of the firefighters, including Anthony Reed, were back.
After she walked away, Michael said, “She seems nice.”
“Yeah.” Barker nodded. “She does.”
“You look like you got hurt,” said Keri. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” said Barker. “I mean, I’m not fine. But I’m okay. I just…”
“Just what?” Michael prompted.
“I just wish we could do this day over, that somehow it would turn out differently.”
The rapt crowd was still transfixed by the breaking news on the large television screen, the developing stories playing out across the Southland. On the screen was video of a woman draped in a heavy blanket. Firefighters were escorting her from a helicopter into a large nondescript building at what a graphic on the screen proclaimed was the Angeles National Forest. The woman was barefoot and wearing only thin waffle-fabric pajamas. She was covered in soot and ash.
Medics helped her onto a gurney and then wheeled her into an awaiting ambulance. As the video played, Lane Turner explained who the woman was, how she’d lost her husband in the flames and was rescued atop a peak that hadn’t yet caught fire.
“Hers is one of countless stories of survival,” said Lane Turner, “of perseverance, and of loss. This is a day Los Angeles will long remember. It’s a day our world caught on fire.”
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HE THOUGHT HE WAS PREPARED.
HE THOUGHT HIS FAMILY WAS SAFE.
HE WAS WRONG.
Five years after a pneumonic plague killed two-thirds of the world’s population, army veteran Marcus Battle is isolated. He’s alone with his guns, his food, and the graves of his wife and child.
Unaware of the chaos that’s befallen everything outside of his central Texas ranch land, Marcus lives a Spartan life. If anyone steps onto his property he shoots first and never ask questions.
But when a woman in distress, chased by marauders, seeks asylum, Marcus has a decision to make.
Does he throw her to the wolves to protect himself or does he help her and leave the shelter and protection of home?
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No communication. Limited power. An unbreakable will to survive.
A violent blast of solar magnetic radiation plunges much of Earth into darkness. From the decaying orbit of the powerless ISS to a devolving Southeast Texas neighborhood and a secret doomsday bunker buried deep underneath the Colorado Rockies, The SpaceMan Chronicles tells the story of a stranded astronaut, his family and friends on the ground, and a shadowy conspiracy to rebuild the world in the shape of a new society.
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Acknowledgments
Thanks to my wife and kids. You always have my back. I couldn’t do this with out you. You’re a constant source of motivation. I love you.
To my fearless editorial team, who wades through the mess and tangle of words until they make sense of it all. Felicia Sullivan, editor, Pauline Nolet and Patricia Wilson, proofreaders, and Stef McDaid at Write Into Print, formatting, are all wonderful at their jobs and such blessings to my work. Hristo Kovatliev is also so critical to drawing readers into each story with his magnificent covers. He is so talented.
For this book, I’d like to give a critical shout out to a group of first responders (or those with extensive knowledge in that arena) who help make this story more realistic. Your help was invaluable. These are their names. They rock…
James White, Matt Lardie, Casey Ward, Nick Meacher, CJ Bartholomew, Melonie Taitano, Joe Mahoney, Johnny Wilt, Robert Launt, Linz Cheyanne, Christopher Beall, Jackie Williams, Butch Tillson, Tony Allen, John Cooney, Hannah Hans Carpenter, and Sheri at the Bureau of Land Management. All of you offered help and/or provided it. Thank you. If, by any chance, I’ve left anyone out, send me an email and I’ll name a character after you in my next book. :-)
Thanks also to my mom and dad, siblings Penny and Steven, and my mother-in-law Linda. All of you are the best marketing team money doesn’t buy.
Most of all, thanks to you the reader for your continued support of my work. Without you, these stories would only be voices in my head. That would be bad.
Table of Contents
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
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
Acknowledgments
