Enter in, dear friend, as the vault doors swing wide and the sunlight bursts through the mote-ridden air.

Today, we explore the post apocalyptic world of an old man, the whiskey bottle he found, and a mysterious buzz from the beyond.

By the time you get to the end, I am sure you will become aware of the inspiration for this story.

As a bonus to both free and paid subscribers, we also have the audio dramatization of the story for you, too!

I hope you enjoy this little passage into the realms of the weird.

Until next time, be safe, and always try to have fun.

Presenting… the audio!

Enjoy the show!

Dust swirled in small eddies as he lifted the glass to his lips, squinting his eyes against the scent wafting from the brown liquid inside.

One swift gulp and the entire contents went down his throat. The burn was instant and satisfying, a sensation he'd not felt for more months than he could be bothered to count.

The place was a lucky find, abandoned, like so many other spaces that once harbored humans in masses in numbers beyond count. So many, each going through their days without any sense of what was to come, or how it would all end.

More dust joined the eddies along the floor, picked up by the soft draft seeping from below the doorway, cascading from his large brimmed hat as he shook his head. Scintillas of light sparked with the motes, chasing one another through the old building.

He slit his eyes further, the white glows of the sun rays eating into his brain as the whiskey suffused through his blood.

He could stay in this place, at least for a while. There hadn't been a soul in sight for many days and to find a building that hadn't been taken over by the forces of nature that had been so keen to wipe any memory of humanity away since the day civilization did itself in was a rare joy.

To find something as magnificent as a full, unbroken bottle of whiskey on top of it was almost unnatural.

To find an entire case of them held within the walls of this old bar?

A miracle.

A goddamn miracle.

The burn still on his lips, the bottle tipped over the glass once again, the gentle slosh of liquid nearly covered up as a harsh gust slammed against the side of the building. A few crumbles of ceiling above drifted down to the dirt-encased floor, but he paid it no mind.

The glass met his lips and he sucked it empty. A whistling gasp pulled through his teeth as the burn blinded his senses.

It, like so much else in the world that had moved on, was fleeting. The glass tinkled against the hard-wood bar top and he leaned forward, his hands embracing his head as the dim glow of the whiskey-high surrounded his brain.

His hands dropped to his side and he spun around, instinct driving his fingers to unclasp the pistol at his right hip. Wrinkle-lined eyes roamed from one side of the room to the other as he searched for what had made the strange buzzing.

A moment, two, passed, but there was no sign of movement in the space. No roving band of horror-stricken and gut-hard survivors burst through the door. No animal, or what could be considered such in these dark days, growling as it made for his throat.

Nothing. Only the wind outside and the settling of his own bones as he slowly relaxed his grip on the pistol and heaved a sigh.

When it came again, his eyes were planted on the spot the buzz centered around.

It had not been his imagining, after all.

The small black device plastered to the pole in the center of the room emitted the noise again, a keening, high-pitched wail, almost pretty, if a bit muted.

He rose to his feet, his hand once again on the gun, but there was no movement other than his own, no shadows slinking toward him, nor a hint of any life around other than himself.

His brows furrowed as he squinted, fragments of memory coming back to him as the sound buzzed again, moving a step closer to the object on the pole. His mouth widened as recognition finally burbled through the whiskey and into his mind.

The handset was in his hand before he could think to stop himself. The buzzing bell stopped as the receiver went to his ear, a familiar instinct from his much younger days.

Static bleated into his ear.

How is this possible?

His mouth widened as he mouthed a word, but no sound came from his throat beyond a soft choking.

When he tried again, the word gasped out.

"Hello?"

The static crackled briefly, as some mechanical connection was made. His chest tightened, wondering who could be on the other end. Was it a survivor? Someone lost somewhere and desperately trying to call out for help, perhaps? Or something worse?

Another moment passed, his breath held in his lungs as he strained to make out something, anything, on the other side.

A whirring, a click, and, finally, a voice. The words were broken, the connection barely enough to get to him.

"This is... from... your car warranty about to expire..."

Color drained from his face as the words flowed into him. The jarring cadence of the voice, almost machine-like in its tone, pressed into his mind.

Finally, the voice stopped and a hard click of the line forced the call to end.

He put the receiver back into its cradle, the dust of the years it had sat alone still glued to its surface despite his use.

He returned to the bar, the ache in his legs from standing so stock-still for too long a reminder of how old he was getting. The bottle of whiskey tipped over the glass once more, and brown liquid descended into it with a satisfying slurry.

It drained smoothly that time, as his eyes wandered back to the phone on the pole, wondering at the words he had heard.

Share Original Worlds by Ira Robinson

Share Original Worlds by Ira Robinson

Keep striving to “be the best you that you can be” at this moment. Remember, no matter who you are or what you're going through, you are worthy of being loved. Don't let anyone teach you anything different.

Original Worlds by Ira Robinson

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