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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.

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    Copyright: © Lauren Shippen

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    Latest Episodes:
    131 - One Hundred Thirty One Jan 22, 2024
    Show notes

    [TRANSCRIPT]

    [click, static]

    Breaker, breaker, this is Whiskey, calling out from Zion National Park. I found an old guidebook to the country’s parks a while back—and some history books too, figured I’d finally give myself that higher education I never got—and while I haven’t exactly shaped my trip around the thing, I like to take a gander every now and then and figure out if there’s anything off my route worth taking a detour for. And while I might be on more of a mission than I have been up to this point, I still think this detour was worth it.

    It’s as stunning as the book says it is. And I’d heard about it of course, it’s probably one of the more famous parks, but I’m not sure I had any idea what it was supposed to look like. Not that knowing would have prepared me at all.

    It’s enormous and colorful and…overwhelming. That’s the only word I seem to have. Like so much of the land out here—the grand canyon, the pacific coast—it feels like the land of giants. Like I’ve been shrunk down and need to be careful where I tread, in case I step into the shadow of a canyon and become invisible to the giant stomping around above me, ready to be crushed under its foot.

    Zion means something, I think, to people, but hell if I know what that is. Aside from the occasional holiday or, I don’t know, food, Harry and I never talked much about religion. But it is a religious word, I’m pretty sure. Or a political one? I remember it being in the papers a few years before everything went all wonky. I never spent that much time on the news beyond who was running for President and lord knows I haven’t thought about any of that stuff in years. There’s no more news now that there are no more people.

    I wish I’d paid more attention.

    But anyway, I guess it meant something to the Mormons, because that’s where the park got its name. Or, something like that, the guidebook doesn’t go into detail beyond saying that it used to be called the Mukuntunweap National Monument, which is a Paiute word—and I’m probably butchering both of those pronunciations. But they changed it because it was too hard for people to spell and because the Mormons looked at the land and saw some kind of holy temple, I guess.

    I’m not sure what to make of any of that, if I’m honest. Other than to say that I sort of get what the Mormons were feeling about this place—it is so beautiful, I think I would see God in it if I believed that He existed. And I’m glad that people thought to preserve it, make it a park; I’m glad we didn’t stick a highway through it or tear down the trees to build a suburb but at the same time…

    Well, was it holy to the Paiute people too? Did we drive them out before declaring this place ours and worth protecting? That sounds like something we’d do. Were the Paiute the ones that named it Mukuntunweap in the first place or did we do that after we took it from them? I doubt they found that word hard to spell, so why is it that the name had to change? Who gets to make these decisions? And why?

    I keep thinking about what you said. That I don’t belong. And maybe I don’t. Maybe I don’t belong in Los Angeles, maybe I don’t belong in Pennsylvania or New York or America or anywhere. I’ve talked about my fairly itinerant life and what it means to build a home and maybe home where you hang your hat or maybe it’s the people you belong to. I belonged to my parents, I belonged to Pete’s crew. I thought I belonged with Har—

    [click, static]

    All I know is that you don’t get to decide where I belong. And maybe I don’t get to decide either, maybe no one is the master of their own fate, or maybe all of us are. Maybe the earth decided that human beings didn’t belong in it at all anymore, and like a New York City exterminator trying to get rid of cockroaches just…missed a few.

    [click, static]

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


    130 - One Hundred Thirty Jan 19, 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]

    It’s been exactly six months since I left.

    I can’t quite believe it. It feels so much longer than that in some ways and in others, it feels like it was yesterday that I took my keys and went.

    It’s funny, reflecting on that day now. I can’t remember if I’ve talked about it before, but I sure think about it a lot. The day of my liberation. I’ve been referring to it like that in my head for six months, with a grand story to go along with it.

    Me, getting so fed up with Harry, with being stuck in that house, with not knowing what was going on, that I tugged on my boots and put on my coat, grabbed my keys in a huff and started the car, no destination in mind, just driving to drive and then not stopping. Like some kind of grand escape—and I know about escapes.

    That’s not how it was at all. It was deliberate. It was planned. Anything else would’ve been stupid as hell—I didn’t know what was out here, I needed to make sure that I had food and clothes and clean water and extra gasoline and whatever else I might need.

    I’m back on the road this morning, heading East once more, like hitting the far west coast slingshot me right back toward the way I came. I don’t know why really, but part of me is…sad to be leaving so soon. Maybe because I haven’t had that feeling of rightness—of belonging—before. But belonging in a place pales in comparison to figuring out what’s going on. To possibly meeting someone.

    I’m trying not to get ahead of myself. Even if you say that someone would’ve had to be there to turn on the alarm, I can’t—I can’t bear to get my hopes up and be disappointed. So I’m choosing to believe that it was somehow…tripped, and if I find something different, great. But I’m not going to expect it.

    I was mapping out the route and it would take me about three days to get back to Kansas if I really hustled. But the fastest route is going to take me straight through Colorado again. So I might as well hit Denver first, try to understand what the hell that whole thing was about. With the supplies I picked up yesterday, I should be prepared for…well, for anything.

    I hope.

    [click, static]

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


    129 - One Hundred Twenty Nine Jan 18, 2024
    Show notes

    [TRANSCRIPT]

    [click, static]

    Alright, I think I’m nearly ready to hit the road again. I drove around a bit today, partly to see more of LA in case I don’t come back and partly to look for supplies. And I hit the jackpot.

    There’s this enormous supply store, army surplus place—I’m not really sure what it is, but it’s right off Santa Monica Boulevard and seems to be an emporium of anything you might need for the end of the world. I refilled all the basics—first aid kit, kerosene, lighters, C-rations—grabbed some new knives and tools now that mine have dulled a little. I even found a ton of batteries that hadn’t corroded, so, yeah, jackpot.

    This place even had fucking potassium iodide tablets, which I guess are supposed to help with radiation poisoning, so I grabbed some of those, you know, just in case. I don’t know how I could possibly encounter radiation now, but, you know, I want to be prepared for every eventuality.

    So I stocked up on weapons too. Which feels…odd. And to be clear, to anyone who might be listening, my first instinct is not to treat any potential other survivors as hostile. I’m certainly not hostile. But, I don’t know, anything could happen, right? With all the weird shit of the past six months…I mean, not that a machete or a gun could help me against a tornado or a ghost, and that dog certainly didn’t seem rabid or dangerous but…

    I’ve stuffed them deep in my trunk. The gun and the machete. This place had fucking machetes for god’s sake. I’m not planning on using either of them, at any point, but…well, I don’t know what I don’t know, right? That’s really what it comes down to. Anything could happen.

    [click, static]

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


    128 - One Hundred Twenty Eight Jan 17, 2024
    Show notes

    [TRANSCRIPT]

    [click, static]

    Well, not quite as quick as I’d wanted but thanks for getting back to me within a day at least.

    Yes. You said yes. Which means…shit, Birdie. That’s…I’m not sure even how I should react to that. It feels—I mean, its revelatory, isn’t it? I—

    [click, static]

    Sorry, I’m…I’m overwhelmed I guess. The thought that, after all this time, there really is someone out there to find…

    [click, static]

    No, you know what? I can’t think like that. I can’t assume anything. Not yet. Not until I found out for certain.

    Which I guess…I guess that means I’m going back to Kansas first. So…so much for California sunshine. I wonder what Kansas in January is like. Probably not as nice as LA. Not that it matters. This is obviously more important. If someone—

    [click, static]

    Nope. Not going there right now. You know what I am thinking in this moment though? Why the fuck didn’t you tell me this at the time? Why are you telling me now? What kind of game are you playing with me? I swear to god, Birdie…

    [click, static]

    Did you ever see that movie “Gaslight”? You know, the one where this shitty guy tries to make his wife believe she’s going insane? He keeps dimming the lights but when she notices, he just tells her she’s seeing things?

    This feels a little like that, Birdie. Like I get on here every day and talk about how the lights aren’t as bright as they usually are and then you send me a message saying that the lights haven’t changed at all. And then when I start to believe you—start to trust you over my own eyes—you change your tune and tell me there are no lights at all.

    Well, fuck you. I’m going to go see for myself how bright the lights are. And if I find that you’re the person that’s been hiding away in Kansas…well, I’m not sure what I’ll do.

    [click, static]

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


    127 - One Hundred Twenty Seven Jan 16, 2024
    Show notes

    [TRANSCRIPT]

    [click, static]

    “Tornado not automated”—at least this message isn’t as cryptic as the last but…it’s unsettling in a different way.

    Are you saying what I think you’re saying, Birdie? That the tornado warning system is…what, triggered by a person, not the tornado itself? That it would’ve been turned on by—by an actual human being? That that’s the only way it would’ve been turned on?

    I—yeah, I’m actually going to need you to answer me before I do anything else. I need to be certain that I’m understanding you. So. Please. Don’t go dark again. Tell me if I’m right. Did a person turn on that tornado siren back in Kansas?

    [click, static]

    [beeps]

    -.-- . ...

    Yes

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


    126 - One Hundred Twenty Six Jan 15, 2024
    Show notes

    [TRANSCRIPT]

    [click, static]

    Breaker, breaker, this is WAR 1974 calling out from Los Feliz, Los Angeles.

    Huh. Low-s Feliz. Loss Angeles. Is it Loss Feliz? Loss Fell-IS? Lows Fell-IS? Francis always said Low-s Feel-iz, but I have no idea if he was right. I know nothing about Spanish, so I’m pretty sure I’d butcher any pronunciation.

    Anyway, it’s a new day, I’ve made a shit ton of lemonade with all the lemons I picked in the neighborhood and I’m feeling…well, if not good. Motivated. I’m setting the gloves and Harry aside, the cryptic message and Birdie aside, and I’m ready to start anew.

    Except…I don’t actually know where to start. I’ve written down everything I know, gone through it over and over and none of it is clicking together in any kind of coherent way. The best lead I have is what happened in Estes Park and, by extension, whatever the deal is in Denver too.

    That’s as good a place to start as any. Circle back to Denver, danger be damned, and try to see if that city holds any answers.

    But if there really is something there that could harm me…how do I prepare myself? What kind of danger am I looking at? I guess I could get some weapons, get a bigger, sturdier car—

    Oh yeah, I didn’t mention the car I did settle on after the old one broke down. It is a thing of beauty—a 1965 Ford Thunderbird. Red and hardly driven based on the mileage. I picked the first car that worked on the 210 in order to get myself here but then when I saw this baby a few streets over I couldn’t resist. It might not be the most practical—not a ton of storage space—but who needs stuff anyway, right? It can hold all the essentials. That’s what matters.

    But would it hold up in whatever…collision is in Denver? I don’t know. I guess I’ll just have to find out.

    [click, static]

    [beeps]

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

    Tornado not automated

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


    125 - One Hundred Twenty Five Jan 12, 2024
    Show notes

    [TRANSCRIPT]

    [click, static]

    Fuck you, Harry. You absolute goddamn sneak.

    I threw everything from the old car into the new pretty haphazardly, and I decided to really organize it today, take stuff out of my bags, switch out my cold weather clothes for warm weather ones and I guess I haven’t dug into all the pockets yet, because I found…

    You knit me goddamn mittens, didn’t you? Snuck them into my bag before I left like some kind of…

    I packed this bag myself, it was empty when I did, so I know these aren’t left over from…I mean, even if I hadn’t packed it myself, what would they be left over from? A trip we never took? And the mittens, they’re blue, which you know is my favorite color you goddamn—

    [click, static]

    Of course I find these when I’m in Southern California. When I need them the least. There’s something…there’s something in you hiding a fucking handcrafted thing that took you time, you hiding it for me to find, me only finding it when I no longer need it. There’s a metaphor in there somewhere.

    But I’m too…I’m too taken off guard to try and figure out what the hell it means.

    [click, static]

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


    124 - One Hundred Twenty Four Jan 11, 2024
    Show notes

    [TRANSCRIPT]

    [click, static]

    Okay, laying everything out for myself, part two. I got so distracted the other day with all the Birdie bullshit that I didn’t even think about the stuff I do know because I’ve experienced it. Once again, seeing my world through the lens of someone else instead of just fucking trusting my own instincts.

    I’m going to try to go through anything and everything that’s felt slightly off or unusual, no matter how small or inconsequential.

    So, let’s start small. The dog in Kansas. Stray dogs are one thing, but that one looked so well loved. So clean. But Kansas was so empty—felt like one of the emptier states I’ve been to—and I looked. I tried to find the dog, to see where it lived, to see if anyone was there taking care of it and came up with nothing.

    Speaking of Kansas, the tornado. The tornado isn’t weird in of itself—Kansas gets tornadoes—but the alarm…there wasn’t very much power in Kansas. And I’m not sure how those sirens work, but presumably they’re on some kind of grid, which would suggest that I would’ve seen some kind of power on somewhere, but there wasn’t. So another case of phantom power? A grid for just the warning system that didn’t power anything visible? I have too many questions about it.

    Vegas had a lot of power, so the fire alarm going off makes a little bit more sense to me, especially since a fire alarm system is contained within one building. But was there even any fire? That’s the question—did the alarm just get tripped somehow, with a power surge or by something else…by someone else.

    Power in general! It doesn’t seem to have any rhyme or reason why sometimes it’s on and sometimes it’s not. A jukebox playing music, but no power on the electric stovetop. Like someone bothered to fix the wiring just to play music but not eat.

    Maybe I’m putting personification where there is none but it’s…weird. It’s all weird.

    Then there’s all the lack of evidence—the lack of damage, the fact that stores are still well stocked instead of picked over…all the cars just left abandoned even though they’re all full of gas and perfectly fine as far as I can tell, beyond the wear and tear that happens when a car is left to the elements for years on end.

    Harry trying to contact me. That’s maybe not evidence of anything important but, um, it still feels…noteworthy.

    And finally, the big one—the Stanley Hotel. There were so many weird things. No power but my radio turned on. That feeling of dread. Seeing that…vision.

    A man. An ordinary man. Who could he have been? What could he have been? Was he really seeing me?

    I’ve been thinking about nuclear shadows. Apparently, when you drop a nuclear bomb, the blast bleaches everything, that’s how strong the light from the explosion is. So when something—or someone—is in the way of that light, their shadow doesn’t get lightened. The shape of them is left behind, so they say.

    Sometimes I feel like that. Like I’m a blast shadow of my former self. Maybe that’s what he was too. Some kind of…remnant. Echo. Of some time before the blast.

    [click, static]

    I don’t know, none of it makes sense. I can write it all down in ink and still can’t read what any of the words mean put together.

    [click, static]

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


    123 - One Hundred Twenty Three Jan 10, 2024
    Show notes

    [TRANSCRIPT]

    [click, static]

    Sorry, I got all worked up in my last transmission that I had to go outside and—well, I wanted to chop wood, but that doesn't seem like a common past time here, which isn’t a surprise, so I just went around the neighborhood picking as many citrus fruits from trees as I could find. I just needed to do something physical.

    I’m just…I feel like I’m the only person not laughing at the circus. Or maybe I’m the clown, I don’t know. But how does this keep happening to me. How do I keep ending up entwined with people who fucking lie to me—

    [click, static]

    It must be me, right? I’ve never thought of myself as a particularly trusting person, but maybe I am. Maybe I’m just fucking gullible. Or maybe I just want to believe the best in people. But it keeps failing me. I keep trusting all the wrong people and ending up hurt and frustrated and…

    It isn’t even that I trusted Birdie. I didn’t. Not completely. I trusted them as much as circumstance necessitated. I had to take them at their word, because what else was there? Better to assume they’re telling the truth than live in a prison of suspicion and conspiracy…

    No. Fuck it. Let suspicion reign. Maybe if I’d been a little less trusting of Harry, I wouldn’t have gotten my heart—

    [click, static]

    Jesus, this whole neighborhood is going to be out of fruit by the time I’m done!

    [click, static]

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


    122 - One Hundred Twenty Two Jan 09, 2024
    Show notes

    [TRANSCRIPT]

    [click, static]

    Alright, I’ve had some time to calm down. Get my head on straight. And maybe I should stop broadcasting entirely, but now that I’m on the other side of the country, who knows, maybe there will be some people here. Maybe this will finally reach sympathetic ears.

    Also, I’ve gotten pretty used to talking out loud into this thing. It helps me think. So.

    Here’s where I’m at—I spent the weekend looking through all my notes of everything that Birdie has said and every weird thing that’s happened and I’m going to lay it all out—everything I know—and try to figure out how the fuck it connects, if it does at all.

    [click, static]

    So. Messages that Birdie has sent me that make me fucking angry:

    Telling me to stay out of Denver because it’s a “collision point” and then refusing to explain what that means.

    Telling me I was wrong about my actions not having consequences and then refusing to explain what that means.

    Saying that their job was important, that they betrayed it, and that it hurt people and then, you know, not explaining it.

    And here are the things I know about Birdie—or I think I know:

    They’ve been in the same spot this whole time. They’ve never encountered anyone else. They’re pretty good with a radio, having gotten it to broadcast this far, they don’t have physical speaking capabilities, and they’re trained in Morse code. Though to be fair, I’m technically trained in Morse code by now, so I’m not sure how revealing that is as a biographical fact.

    And here are the things that Birdie has definitely lied about: That they don’t know what happened.

    [click, static]

    I don’t know if you found out what happened between you first contacting me and us talking in real-time. But one of your first messages to me was that you didn’t know what happened. And then when we spoke, you said you did, but that it was too complicated to explain in Morse code. So which is it?

    [click, static]

    Of course there’s a chance that you’ve been working much harder than me at actually trying to figure out what happened and you did it, you figured it out, but…well, Occam’s Razor right? I’ve spent nearly half a year driving around the country, looking for people, looking for answers and, sure, I haven’t been scientific about it, but I must have had a better chance of stumbling across something than you, a person who seems to have been sitting by their radio nonstop for 6 years.

    Then again, there were those weeks-long stretches where you didn’t contact me at all, so maybe…

    [click, static]

    No, the simplest explanation is that you lied. If I’m being generous, maybe you lied because you didn’t know if you could trust me and then, over the course of a few months, you decided you could. You decided you trusted me enough to talk to me and tell me the truth. But to what end? Why tell me you know what happened, if you couldn’t explain what happened? What would that accomplish?

    And that’s such a huge thing to lie about—I mean, I’ve lied in these transmissions, I’ve lied to you, but nothing big. Nothing…consequential. I choose to just not say anything at all instead of telling a big lie. But that’s a big lie, Birdie. That’s an intentional lie—whether the lie was that early message you sent me or when we talked, whichever one it is, it’s a big lie. And it has me thinking…

    You don’t make that kind of big lie unless you’re confident in your ability to deceive. That’s the kind of falsehood that’s spoken by an experienced liar, not an amateur. So it wouldn’t have been the only lie you told me.

    But experienced liars don’t fuck up unless they start to lose track of what lies they’ve told. So if you fucked up when you talked to me and told me the truth—that you do know what happened—then, well Birdie, that tells me you’re losing track of the lies. Which means that everything you’ve told me—everything—isn’t to be believed.

    Which puts me…well, if my intent here is to lay out everything I know that I’m pretty sure I’ve already failed. I know fucking nothing.

    [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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