The Alt Apocalypse (Book 1): Ash by Abrahams Tom

Author:Abrahams, Tom [Abrahams, Tom]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Post-Apocalyptic | Dystopian
Publisher: Piton Press LLC
Published: 2018-05-14T22:00:00+00:00

***

Michael keyed the radio, as he’d done countless times before. He held it up to his mouth and sighed, sure this effort wouldn’t produce anything more than static.

“Hello,” he said, not familiar with ham radio parlance or procedure. “Is anyone on this frequency? Is anyone listening? This is Michael. I’m in Westwood.”

Though he was a novice at amateur radio, he did understand frequency transmission enough to understand that, without a repeater system, his message wouldn’t travel far. He also knew the atmospheric conditions weren’t favorable. They wouldn’t be for months, potentially longer. But he had to keep trying. That was his end of the deal. If they were going to leave their home on the Hill, they needed somewhere solid to go. They’d agreed that wandering around aimlessly was as pointless as it was suicidal.

He counted to ten and repeated his transmission.

“Hello. Is anyone on this frequency? Is anyone listening? This is Michael. I’m in Westwood.” His voice was monotone, devoid of any enthusiasm for the task.

He let go of the key.

Keri was lying in Dub’s bed. Michael was at his desk on the opposite side of the room. He glanced at her over his shoulder.

“You okay?” he asked. “I’m sure I can find some Tylenol or Advil.”

“I took some,” she mumbled. “Thanks though.”

“How often do you get the headaches? I think I’ve only seen you get one a couple of times.”

“It varies,” she said. “They come in clusters.”

Michael shifted his body in the chair to settle in for a conversation. “My cousin used to get them. He would see spots and puke.”

Keri was pinching the bridge of her nose. “I don’t see spots,” she said. “I get nauseated and have pretty severe light and noise sensitivity.”

Michael took the hint and lowered his voice. “Sorry. I’ll stop asking questions.”

Kerry gave him a thumbs-up. He sheepishly pivoted back to his desk and the radio that emitted nothing but static. He adjusted the frequency.

Michael was never great with social cues. He tried. He’d gotten better at it. Dub and Barker had both helped him assimilate into the social ocean of college, which hadn’t been easy. His social ineptitude, of which he was acutely aware, manifested itself with fiery outbursts. They were childlike and happened at the worst possible times, when he was around strangers. He’d learned to control it with his roommates’ guidance. Dub, the psychology major, was especially good at getting ahead of a potential meltdown.

Michael was always a good student. He loved math and science. Writing wasn’t his strength, but he was proficient enough, and sometimes putting words to paper was the easiest way for him to express himself. He wasn’t on the spectrum, as some might have thought. He was an only child, raised in suburban DC to parents who were both self-involved enough not to notice his tics or, if they had, didn’t care enough to do anything about them.

It wasn’t that they didn’t love him. They did. He knew they did. But they both worked in demanding careers that had them leaving early and coming home late.

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