Breaker Whiskey

[TRANSCRIPT]

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They’re coordinates. That’s—they’re coordinates! 

I think. 

46 degrees 40 minutes North and 100 degrees 52 minutes West. At least, that’s what I’m assuming. Any other combination of North, South, East, West puts me into the ocean or…Mongolia, so I’m just going to go with my gut here. 

It’s North Dakota. I would guess maybe a ten hour drive—I’m already on the road and driving fast. Maybe I’m completely wrong and you’re yelling at your radio begging me to pull over and look at the numbers again and understand something but I…

Maybe I want them to be coordinates. I want you to be real—to be someone other than Birdie and to be telling me where to find you. I haven’t been to North Dakota yet, there’s still a chance that people are out there, that you want me to find them. To find you. 

(laughs) I don’t know what—what am I gonna say to you? Would it—would it be strange to give you a hug? I’m not even that affectionate of a person but it’s been so long since—

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Who is the last person that you hugged? Is it someone that you’re with? Are you with people? Looking through the messages I’ve received, I think you started to talk to me around my birthday. If I had to guess. Which means that you’re the one who told me the tornado system wasn’t automated, which makes sense, maybe Birdie didn’t know that either. 

It also means that you’re the person who told me I didn’t belong. But I’m choosing to see that as a…problem with tone. You can only convey so much meaning with dots and dashes and maybe you were trying to tell me I didn’t belong on the West Coast because you’d been hoping I would go North instead of West. I don’t belong where there are no people and you know that—you know I’ve been searching. Maybe you were trying to say I belong wherever you are. 

I’d like to hug you for that. For telling me the truth about things, about the warning siren, for giving me something to look for. Maybe you’re affectionate with someone every single day but me—

Well, Harry was the last person I hugged. Obviously. Six years with someone, it’s bound to happen. But that was a few years ago now. She—maybe she is a physically affectionate person naturally but we rarely—

I’d had a nightmare. I get them sometimes, as you know. Or, maybe you don’t know, I don’t know how long you’ve been listening. Maybe everything I said before getting to Vegas was lost to you. Surely you would’ve told me about the warning system before then if you had heard me. 

But, well, anyway, I get nightmares sometimes. About…well, it’s not important, but Harry—no matter what she felt about the situation that led to the nightmares, she never judged me too harshly for having them. And a while back, I—I think I woke up screaming. It was a bad one, it felt so real, and she came rushing in, thinking that something was really wrong and then she—-

Human comfort can mean a lot even when it’s given by someone that—that you—someone who doesn’t—

Well, our relationship has always been about as clear as mud, but she comforted me then. Held me until I stopped shaking. And that wasn’t the first time she’d done something like that, but it was the last. 

But then again, sometimes, when she cut my hair, she’d…well, I thought…

She lingered. Her fingers in my hair, on my neck. Touching longer and more tenderly than they had to. 

[click, static] 

Just…when I get there, whoever you are…you can hug me. I give you full permission. 

And whoever you are, just…stay there. I’m coming as fast as I can. 

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[TRANSCRIPT]

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I am…losing my mind. I cannot for the life of me figure out what this means. 

Together, it’s 464,010,052…or, I mean, I guess if it’s together, it could be a phone number, though I have no idea if 464 is an area code anywhere…certainly not to my knowledge. 

Besides, I do think they’re separate numbers. Which brings me to 4,640 and 10,052…or they’re not values at all. 10052 does look like a zip code and a New York one at that—100 is Manhattan, but, unless I’m seriously misremembering something, there is no 1005. And what would the other number be? An address maybe, 46 40th Street…no East or West but both of them would be Midtown. Or, in the outer boroughs, I guess. 

Some kind of code? It’s not any morse code shorthand I know, like CQ or SOS…numbers aren’t really used for that kind of stuff. It could be a book code…page 46, 40th word; page 100, 52nd word but what book would it be? 

I wish Harry was here. All those random bits of trivia she has stored in her head, her love of puzzles…she’d be able to see a pattern that I’m not seeing. 

…But then she’d probably figure it out and also figure out a reason why we shouldn't trust it or follow it or whatever it is you want us to do with it. 

Me. Want me to do with it. Not us. Because she’s not here. Because she didn’t trust me enough to come with me, didn’t trust me to keep her safe, didn’t trust that this journey would be worth taking. 

And maybe it’s not. Maybe I’m the one who’s crazy for trusting that a totally new stranger who didn’t even bother to say hello or introduce themselves is worth deciphering a message from but…if I die, I die. There’s only so much uncertainty and loneliness a person can take before they’ll accept any risk. 

I could really use a hand here. If you’re trying to tell me something, I’m not gonna get it on my own. 

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[TRANSCRIPT]

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Breaker, breaker, this is Whiskey calling out for—

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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…

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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. 

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

Whiskey out. 

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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.

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[TRANSCRIPT]

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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.

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[beeps]

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

4640 10052

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[TRANSCRIPT]

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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. 

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[TRANSCRIPT]

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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—

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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—

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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—

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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. 

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[TRANSCRIPT]

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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. 

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[TRANSCRIPT]

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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. 

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[TRANSCRIPT]

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

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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—

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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. 

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

Am I in a city of ghosts?

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[TRANSCRIPT]

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

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Breaker, breaker, does anyone read?

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(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. 

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