Breaker Whiskey

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Fiction
**Breaker Whiskey**

BREAKER WHISKEY is an ongoing, daily microfiction podcast exploring one woman’s journey to find additional survivors in an America made empty by an unknown event in the late 1960s. In 1968, two women find themselves in rural Pennsylvania during what turns out to be some kind of apocalyptic event. By the time they discover that everyone else is gone, it’s too late to figure out what happened. Despite not liking each other at all, the women work together to survive, until six years later one of them sets out on her own, driving around the country to find other survivors. This is her, calling out to anyone who might listen. BREAKER WHISKEY is made by Lauren Shippen and recorded on a 1976 Midland CB Radio. Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey.

Latest Episodes:

141 - One Hundred Forty One Feb 05, 2024

Show notes

[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

Breaker, breaker, this is Whiskey calling out for—

[click, static]

Well, I’m not sure, actually. I thought…I thought Birdie had started transmitting again and even though things sounded a little different to me, I didn’t think much of it, thought maybe the signal was just getting weaker, except…

Birdie has never sent me numbers before. Let alone a string of them without any other information. And listening to them over and over again, trying to understand what they mean…it’s hard to deny that something is different. I thought I’d just gotten so good at translating morse, but you—whoever you are—you’re transmitting slower. I’m sure of it now.

Which begs the question…how long have you been transmitting? When was the first time I noticed things sounding a little different? When is the last time Birdie sent me something? I have all the messages written down, so I’ll go back through and see if I can pinpoint…

Okay. But first: 4640 10052—those were the numbers you sent through. And I’m damned if I have any idea what it means. It’s not a phone number, or a zip code…it might not even be two separate numbers, though there was a significant gap between them.

Math has never been my strong suit. So if you want to give me a hint, mysterious stranger…

[click, static]

God, you really are a stranger, aren’t you? There’s someone else out there.

I—I can’t believe it.

If this is Birdie and you’ve just changed the style of your transmissions, please tell me? I can’t bear to get my hopes up.

[click, static]

And if this is Harry messing around somehow, I will come back to Pennsylvania and destroy all your paintings.

Whiskey out.

[click, static]

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140 - One Hundred Forty Feb 02, 2024

Show notes

Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey. As a patron, you will also receive each week's episodes as one longer episode every Monday.

------

[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

I found the tornado warning system. The one that I’m pretty sure I heard, based on its location. And it’s…

Well, you were right. It has to be triggered manually. But not only is no one here or anywhere nearby, not only is there no sign that anyone has been here, in this room, this county, this state, beside me, but…

It’s broken. The siren, it’s broken. It doesn’t work. It looks like it’s been broken for a while.

I’m going to drive around and check as many systems as I can but…

What the fuck.

[click, static]

[beeps]

....- -.... ....- ----- / .---- ----- ----- ..... ..---

4640 10052

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139 - One Hundred Thirty Nine Feb 01, 2024

Show notes

[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

Breaker, breaker, this is Whiskey, fruitlessly searching for the grail.

I found what I’m pretty sure is the spot I pulled over to when I heard the siren and I’ve gone north, east, and west, with absolutely nothing to show for it. The flat, empty and open nature of driving through Kansas was bad enough when I was doing it for the first time, now that I’m back in places I’ve already been, I feel unbelievably trapped. No matter what direction I go, I feel like I’m driving in circles.

The only direction left to go is south. And then…if I can’t find anything in that direction, I guess I’ll try every direction again, just with a larger radius.

The problem is that I don’t even know what I’m looking for. I’ve been checking government buildings and anything that looks remotely related to the government or the military—I’ve even been checking schools. And…nothing.

Quests really aren’t what they seem like in fantasy novels, are they? I'm glad I don’t have monsters to fight, but I wouldn’t say no to some degree of eventfulness. Anything to shake up the tedium of driving, driving, driving.

[click, static]

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138 - One Hundred Thirty Eight Jan 31, 2024

Show notes

[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

No dog. I didn’t really expect to find one. And I told myself I wouldn’t get my hopes up and yet I’m still disappointed.

That’s just the way it goes, isn’t it? Disappointment finds you no matter how much you try to protect your heart. I never really believed that I’d find the dog again—at this point, I’m not sure I believe I even saw it—and I never really believed that if I did, it would lead me to answers, the truth, people. And yet, here I am, let down.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the dog, about what I said after I’d seen it. That I wanted to be taken care of like that dog. That I was jealous of it. And the more I think about it, the more I’ve reflected on the last six years, on what they were like, on what they weren’t and on what I know now that I didn’t know for most of those years…

Were you keeping me like a loyal dog, Harry? Giving me just enough affection and positive reinforcement to keep me from biting your hand? Making sure that my kennel was comfortable so that I didn’t try to leave it, but never giving me too much because, after all, I’m just something to share space with, to bark at the door when there’s danger.

It isn’t even like I was some kind of lapdog, a pet that got nothing but love and gave nothing in return, but there’s an…obedience, that you brought out in me that I hate. Even in all our disagreements, in all my frustrations with you, I still always listened to you.

Because there was always hope. There was always the possibility of something and I know you said that you never could—

[click, static]

You knew. You knew that possibility was keeping me at heel. And I’ve been so useful to you. Let’s be honest with ourselves, Harry, for once—you would have died years ago without me. Sure, you’re sufficient now, I don’t think I could have left if—

[click, static]

You’ve learned. You’ve become more capable over the years. But at first? I did everything. I kept us alive. I kept us safe. I got us out of that prison transport in the first place. And you knew that you needed me. So you took care of me in turn, just enough to make sure I’d stick by you. Even when you also knew that you’d already—

[click, static]

I’m not jealous of the dog. I’m jealous of my past self. Of her naiveté. Of the hope she felt. Now I’m left living in the perpetual disappointment.

[click, static]

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137 - One Hundred Thirty Seven Jan 30, 2024

Show notes

[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

Breaker, breaker, this is Whiskey driving East.

So Colorado was a bust. Kind of. The polaroids are something, even if I don’t know what they are yet, but I definitely didn’t have some kind of dramatic confrontation—collision—while I was in Denver. I didn’t even get any idea of what that would look like.

On to Kansas then. Back to Kansas. To chase a tornado or, at least, the warning of one.

I don’t know a lot about tornados or their emergency systems—obviously—so I don’t have the most concrete plan. I figure…well, I marked on my atlas where I saw the dog, so I’m going to start there. Maybe now that I’ve been gone for a while, the dog has taken to wandering the highway again and I’ll get lucky.

From there, I have a general idea of where I first heard the siren. My best guess would be that the sirens can’t be heard from more than a few miles away, so I’ll do what I did in West Virginia and triangulate the epicenter as best as I can. Except, unless the siren is currently going when I get there, I’m going to be guessing on which direction the siren was coming from, so it might take me a bit longer.

Then again, I have time. I may have wasted the last six years—maybe if I’d set out a few months after we found the house like I’d wanted to, we’d have a whole community of people already. It doesn’t matter now. You can make the choice to change your life when you make it and not a moment before. And all you have to do is hope you do it in time for you to live a bit of the life you want, instead of the getting of that life being the last thing you do before you die.

Well, I’m not near to death. I feel like I have something to do for the first time in a long time—maybe ever—and I’m done wasting time.

[click, static]

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136 - One Hundred Thirty Six Jan 29, 2024

Show notes

[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

I thought getting some sleep and getting out of the city might help me clear my head, that I’d wake up and have a cup of coffee and look at the photos I took and they’d be…normal.

They’re not. They’re exactly as they were when I last looked at them, which is to say…not normal. Those people—those ghosts—are still there and I’ve spent nearly an hour looking at all of them as closely as I possibly can, trying to find any kind of clue as to what they are. None of the faces—as much as I can see them—are familiar, but I guess that’s not a surprise. I’ve never been to Colorado.

But the thing that—I mean, it’s better this way, but the thing that has me truly scratching my head is…well, now that I have these polaroids, some part of me expected to look closely and find all the peoples’ eyes wide in terror, their mouths open in a scream. If this is some kind of…remnant of whatever happened here, shouldn’t there be a trace of terror?

But no, they’re just normal people dressed normally, going about their normal days. They don’t look distressed or shocked or like anything unusual is happening to them at all.

There is one weird thing. Weird-er thing, I guess, beyond the very fact of the figures. One of them—a polaroid I took of a park—has a man really close to the camera. He’s in profile, like he’s walked into frame as I took the photo, and he’s scratching his forehead or adjusting his glasses or something. The relevant bit is that his hand is up and the watch on his wrist is facing the camera. I first was checking the time to see if it matched the time I took the photo and then, of course, I couldn’t remember when I took the photo, so that ended up not being helpful at all, but the watch itself…

Well, I may have never been the hippest or most fashion forward person in the world, but I’ve always worn a watch, like most people. And I have never seen a watch like this—it didn’t have any hands, instead it was like a flip clock, where it’s just the numbers of the hour and minutes. But the strangest of all is that the numbers looked lit up. Almost like they were on a TV screen.

As I’m saying it, it sounds like nothing. I know, I can here it. But it’s something that’s out of place. And anything that’s out of place is worth noting.

Even if I have no idea what it means.

[click, static]

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135 - One Hundred Thirty Five Jan 26, 2024

Show notes

[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

I took a look at the polaroids I got yesterday and there are…

[click, static]

It doesn’t make any sense but there are people in them.

Not—not fully, not completely. Not as if they were standing there in front of me, some kind of reverse vampire that can only be seen in photos.

Though, that’s mirrors, isn’t it? Vampires can’t see their reflection. It doesn’t matter—

[click, static]

It’s like the nuclear shadow thing I was talking about except, they aren’t shadows. They—they’re both more and less distinct than that. Not stark and clearly visible silhouettes, but with more…dimension. More detail. I feel like I can see a real face in one or two of them.

[click, static]

How is that…how is it possible? What are they? Is this what Birdie was talking about?

Am I in a city of ghosts?

[click, static]

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134 - One Hundred Thirty Four Jan 25, 2024

Show notes

[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

Breaker Channel 19, this is WAR1974 in Denver, CO.

[click, static]

Breaker, breaker, does anyone read?

[click, static]

(sigh) Yeah. Figures.

I’ve combed every inch of this city, I’m sure of it. Driven every highway and side street, gone into any building that seemed to have electricity, even climbed to the roof of one of the taller buildings and looked over the whole goddamned place and there’s…

There’s nothing. Lights and sounds, yes, but the lights are unreliable and the sounds don’t seem to be coming from anywhere. I feel like a crazy person, darting back and forth across the city, chasing phantoms.

I’ve taken a bunch of photos throughout the day. I don’t know why. I guess because I can now, and because…

It doesn’t make any sense. This has to mean something. Whether it means that I can’t see whatever it is that makes this place worth avoiding, or it means that Birdie wanted to keep me out of here and was lying about it being dangerous…there’s something here that I’m not getting.

And meanwhile, the CB stays quiet. No morse, no old radio broadcasts, nothing at all. If you are somewhere in this city, Birdie, you may have gotten what you wanted. I’m not sure I can find you.

[click, static]

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133 - One Hundred Thirty Three Jan 24, 2024

Show notes

[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static] There’s…there’s music. I don’t—I don’t know where it’s coming from but it’s—it sounds—

[click, static]

I took my time to actually drive into the city—so much time it was dark by the time I was done circling the place. I just wanted to be careful, you know? And the darkness actually sort of helped in some ways—it made it easy to see that the city has a lot of electricity—almost as much as Vegas, which is weird, because it’s not like this is the kind of hot destination Vegas was.

But maybe that’s what you meant by “collision point”—that there’s more power here for some reason. But despite the flickering lights, I didn’t see any movement or anything that looked remotely dangerous so I figured it was safe to drive into the city, even if it is getting late.

But the further I got in, the more…sound there was. I even turned off the CB for a bit and rolled down my windows to listen—it’s not like I was receiving any transmissions anyway.

And there were sounds of…cars. Not…consistent, not like the sound of a busy road or a highway in the distance, but the occasional far away honk, the pop of a backfire, the screech of a skid. I tried to follow the sounds, find whatever was making them but there hasn’t been anything and then…the music.

It stopped a few minutes ago. And it was almost like there was—well, if I didn’t know better, I would say that there was the murmur of a crowd. Applause and then…

I don’t know, I’m clearly hearing things. I followed the sound as best I could and it actually seemed like it was coming from one place. And when I got close, I could hear—singing, actual singing, not from a record but—

I didn’t recognize the song, but it was something about a “green-eyed lady”, those were the only lyrics I was able to pick up on. And then the song ended and there was that rumble like an audience and then…nothing.

I’ve run up and down this street half a dozen times looking for any sign of a record player or electricity or anything at all that would explain why it sounded like there was a concert here a moment ago but—

But there’s nothing here. Well, that’s not true—there’s a half finished building. A skyscraper, actually—maybe not by New York standards, but certainly compared to the rest of the buildings—still covered in scaffolding, a crane on top of it. Not exactly a concert hall.

Maybe I am truly losing my mind. Maybe I just need some sleep.

[click, static]

Harry has green eyes.

[click, static]

See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

132 - One Hundred Thirty Two Jan 23, 2024

Show notes

[TRANSCRIPT]

[click, static]

Tire chains. All that preparation, packing the car with everything I could possibly need for any contingency, and I forgot snow chains. The West is strange. Just this morning I left the beautifully alien desert-like world of Utah and four hours later, hit a snowstorm in Colorado.

The snow is beautiful too—a different kind of beauty from Zion, but beautiful all the same. It keeps knocking me over, the grandeur of this land, the…breathtaking splendor of it.

And what did we do with it? We preserved some of it, sure, but at what cost? It’s hard to look at all these places and not see what it cost us. It’s hard to look at perfect white snow blanketing the world and not see the red that stains it all.

I don’t know, maybe I’m just feeling maudlin. It’s this feeling of dread inside me—not the feeling that I had in Estes Park, this dread is all mine. But I’m dreading going to Denver tomorrow and finding out that Birdie was right, and that it’s too dangerous and I’m woefully unprepared. I’m dreading going to Kansas afterward and finding nothing and no one at all.

I’m so goddamn lonely. Not the normal kind of lonely either, the kind of lonely I’ve been most of my life. I mean, god, I’ve been lonely a lot these last six years sharing one house with another person and…

I miss people. I don’t know why it took me so long, but I really miss people. It isn’t abstract anymore, the way it was when we were holed up in Pennsylvania—now I see it every day, how empty this place is, how beautiful but empty. How I’m the only one around to appreciate it. And that’s wrong. I don’t know that we’ve ever had it right, but I know this isn’t right either.

We drove out so many people, killed so many people—people we thought were different from us and people we probably considered family—just so we could take everything the land was worth and then put up a sign saying it was protected now, and you have to move through it by our rules.

And yet, still, I goddamn miss people. In all their messy flawed selves. And this—where we are now, where I am now—it must have cost us something so much worse than anything before. I’m just not sure why I’m paying the price for it.

Or maybe I’m the one that got off easy.

[click, static]

Anyway, I got tire chains. Picked up a polaroid camera too, finally—I’m going to stay the night in whatever this city is that I’m in and hope the storm lets up by morning.

[click, static]

See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

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