Yesterday's Gone: Season Three (THE POST-APOCALYPTIC SERIAL THRILLER)

by Platt, Sean

  It was almost funny. Mary could hear Boricio discuss murder like he was talking about the size of his tomatoes, and it was almost easy to take. A little like watching Dexter. But the second he started talking about Ryan’s cheating, and making excuses for her ex, she wanted to punch him in the face.

  Mary knew that if she didn’t change the subject, they’d end up walking into a mess of trouble. “So, how do you think the training’s going?” she said.

  Boricio smiled wide, said, “Well, lookie lookie, crunchy cookie; looks like Miss Mary doesn’t want to see the truth inside her separation.” For a few seconds it looked like he was going to twist the knife, but then he followed Mary’s lead and changed the subject.

  “Training is good,” he said, his tone going from playful to thoughtful. “I think another day’s worth of shooting at shit would be good, though I don’t really know if that’s the problem. Seemed like it was nothing more than fear keeping the gun at your baby girl’s side today.”

  “It wasn’t that,” Mary said. “At least not that simply. The monsters are scary, but Paola wouldn’t have froze like that if it was one of the bleakers that had come through the gate. It was because she was staring at something she’d never seen before. That dog was bigger than you; it would’ve been scary on October 15, before it was half zombie. Any new thoughts on what giant mutant dogs might mean? Think there’s more of ‘em out there?”

  Boricio shook his head. “Not since the forty-seventh time you asked me, round about a half hour ago,” he said. “But if the monsters are now coming in all manner of man and beast, I’m thinking we want to mosey up to New York, double time.”

  “When do you want to go?”

  Boricio said, “Tomorrow, day after that at the latest. I make sure Luca’s ready for the trip. He didn’t look so good today. And since I’m the captain of Team Boricio, I’ve gotta decide how we’ll fight the battle before it begins. That means knowing what everybody is and isn’t capable of doing. I don’t wanna get on the road and find we need to find a wheelchair or some shit. One more day,” he promised. “Two max, okay Miss Mary?”

  Mary nodded, astonished at how much her knowing was trusting the monster on the other side of the table.

  “Another beer? Just say the word and I’ll go grab some,” he said.

  “You mean near beer, right?” she said, suddenly nervous that he had gotten her drunk.

  “Yes,” Boricio said, smiling, “One more bottle of piss for the lady.”

  * * * *

  CHAPTER 8 — “The Prophet”

  Black Mountain, Georgia

  March 2012

  FIVE MONTHS AFTER THE EVENT…

  It lay on the mattress with its eyes closed, feigning a sleep It did not need.

  It used the time to allow the husk to refresh itself while It connected with the parts of itself outside, roaming the world and among its beings, slowly absorbing everything into It.

  This shell, of this fat man calling itself the “Prophet,” was so limiting.

  Old. Obese. Used.

  It was a wonder that anything could go through life in such worn form, indulging on its very self-destruction.

  It needed to change its shell soon, trade it for something younger; stronger, and with more energy. It’s purpose was revealing itself in new ways every day. As It grew, It remembered more of its life before this.

  A life where It thrived in another world.

  But something had happened — what, It could not yet recall. Something that had changed everything, then brought It here to this world.

  Where It was not alone.

  Another Something was out there. Something that was its opposite, trying to undo Its work.

  Something It sensed on the highway when the storm came. That storm wasn’t any ordinary storm. The storm was the enemy. Fortunately, It was able to hide itself inside the old man’s husk.

  But for how long?

  A war raged outside, a war for survival that none of these ignorant humans could either comprehend or possibly see.

  It had lost before.

  It would never lose again.

  First It must kill the child. The One, Luca, It knew was different. Luca wasn’t just different. The enemy was hiding inside the child. Why it had chosen a child for a vessel made little sense to It, but perhaps brilliance was behind the move.

  As a child, it could go undetected and gather strength.

  Fortunately for It, the child’s husk had recently changed, at least that’s what its others had reported.

  The child had gone from young to old. From strong to weak. Now was the time to strike before the enemy could change hosts and gather strength.

  Strike now, take the rest of this world and bring it unto Itself.

  It would spread.

  That was what It was meant to do.

  All would grow dark. And nothing would stop It once it was.

  * * * *

  CHAPTER 9 — Charlie Wilkens

  Black Mountain, Georgia

  March 2012

  FIVE MONTHS AFTER THE EVENT…

  Charlie sat at a square wooden table alone in a 20 by 20 white sterile room, drinking an ice-cold can of Coca-Cola.

  He’d not had a cold drink since forever; ice cold soda was only a memory.

  Damn, I almost forgot how good these are!

  They’d also given him clothes. A black tee shirt and matching sweats. He requested that Callie get the same thing to wear — his one condition, other than her safety, for helping them. Charlie considered pushing for everyone on the block to get clothes, but stopped short since he had no idea how strong his hand actually was. The last thing he wanted was for the Guardsmen to resent him and take that resentment out on Callie.

  In front of Charlie was a paper plate piled surprisingly high with pretzels and chocolate chip cookies, both remarkably fresh given that they were at least a half year old. A Guardsman named Darren told him to eat as many of the pretzels and cookies as he wanted — the first thing said to him as he was led into the small room after Dr. Rudolph drew his blood in hopes of creating some sort of serum that might cure Ryan.

  Charlie didn’t understand the science behind the serum, or anything the doctor said, really, but the process seemed painless enough, at least on his end. He hoped they found a cure soon. While Charlie had somehow resisted the full mutation, unlike every other infected body Black Mountain had found, that didn’t mean he’d never fully mutate.

  The alien thing, whatever it was, was inside Charlie. He was infected. And his life was a ticking time bomb, now more than ever. The after-procedure snack was a nice bonus, though he felt guilty not being able to share it with Callie. He wondered if they’d let him bring her a drink and a cookie.

  The door to his room slid open and Bald Boricio stepped inside, now wearing an all black outfit similar to the Guardsmen, with a holstered pistol and the same glass mask worn by the other guards. He took a seat across from Charlie and spoke, his voice sounding like a radio, crackly through the mask’s speaker, “How are you feeling?”

  “Okay,” Charlie said. “Any word?”

  “No,” Boricio said. “Still waiting. I wanted to discuss something else with you, though.”

  “What is it?” Charlie said, suddenly concerned he was about to hear something bad, maybe terrible.

  “What’s he like?”

  “Who?” Charlie asked.

  “The other Boricio. The one from your world. What is he like?”

  Charlie laughed as Imaginary Boricio suddenly appeared on his left, sitting beside him at the table, propping his elbows on the table and cradling his face in his hands as he turned to Charlie batting his eyelashes dramatically. “Yes, Chuck E. Cheese Dick, what am I like, please tell?”

  “He’s a stone cold killer,” Charlie said without the slightest pause. “Imagine Dirty Harry, but younger. And faster. Now imagine someone who made Dirty Harry look like a Cub Scout. That someone would still need a Kill Bill’s worth of bad ass to come
close to the Boricio I know.”

  Imaginary Boricio blinked, pretending to wipe tears from his eyes, “Aw, Chuck, you shouldn’t have. You’re the biggest pecan in my super-sized sweetie pie.”

  But the real Boricio just stared for a minute before saying, “You say he’s a killer. What sort of killer? You mean he kills bad people and aliens?”

  “I don’t know what he was like before October 15, but I’m gonna guess he didn’t give a fuck then, either. He kills anyone who gets in his way — good, bad, and indifferent. But, weird as it might be, he saved me and my friends, even took us in. He never did anything to us, so I guess he’s not all bad.”

  “I’m a regular Mr. Rogers,” Imaginary Boricio said. “So won’t you be my fucking neighbor.”

  “Why do you ask?” Charlie asked the real Boricio.

  “Because I’ve been having these dreams about him. Almost every time I fall asleep.”

  Imaginary Boricio laughed, then said in an effeminate lisp, “Oh, do go on.”

  “What sort of dreams?”

  “That he’s with my brother, and they’re together at some big house out in the middle of nowhere. There’s a woman and a little girl with them as well.”

  “You have a brother?” Charlie asked, then, “What’s the house look like?”

  Boricio explained that he had an eight-year-old adopted brother, though in the dream, he’s not a kid. The descriptions of the 100-year-old boy were weird, and definitely like the stuff out of dreams, but then he described the compound exactly like Charlie remembered it, down to the crooked pile of bricks by the back door.

  “That’s it,” Charlie said. “You definitely have the right place. How in the hell did you dream about it?” Charlie asked.

  “I dunno, but . . . it all feels threaded together,” Boricio said. “And the thing is — I thought my brother, Luca, was gone. If he’s really still here, then maybe I can still somehow fix all of this.”

  “What do you mean fix it all?”

  “I dunno,” Boricio said, looking off in the distance as if excavating memory. “Cure the infected. Maybe send you back to your world. I’m not sure what’s possible, but I can think of more reasons to find him than not.”

  “What does Luca have to do with what happened in October? With us being here?”

  Boricio looked at Charlie for a long moment and then, ignoring his question, asked, “Can your girlfriend lead us to the other Boricio?”

  “I don’t know if she knows the way there, but she might have a general idea. I could for sure.”

  “I can’t bring you. You’re infected and I can’t risk the infection spreading before we get you cured, not when we’re so close.”

  “So, Callie’s not infected?”

  “No. She’s cleared to leave her cell.”

  Charlie felt an immediate flush of relief knowing she was safe, but a deep and sudden ache knowing she would be leaving the cell beside his.

  “Can I go back to my cell tonight?” Charlie said. “I’d like to spend time next to her before you let her go.”

  “Yeah,” Boricio said. “But tomorrow morning, I’m heading out. But you have nothing to worry about, Charlie. I promise to keep an eye on her.”

  Imaginary Boricio piped in, “Yeah, I bet you will, you sly fuck.” He turned to Charlie. “I bet the only eye he’ll have on Callie is the one spitting cock juice all over her face!”

  The real Boricio stood. “Thank you, Charlie. I’m gonna check on Ryan. If nothing’s changed, then I’ll have someone return you to your cell. You’re not gonna do anything stupid while I’m gone, are you? Please tell me I can trust you? I’d rather not threaten Callie’s safety. I don’t care for drama.”

  “Nothing stupid,” Charlie said. “You guys are the good guys, right?”

  “Yeah, something like that,” Boricio said, turning toward the exit.

  “One more thing?” Charlie said.

  “Yes?” Boricio said, turning back to him.

  “Can you give Callie and I some pens and paper, so we can talk?”

  Boricio chewed on the request, then said, “Nothing stupid?”

  “No,” Charlie shook his head. “But I can’t promise nothing sappy.”

  Boricio surprised Charlie with a wide smile, something he had never seen his Boricio do, at least not without something crude coming before or after it.

  “Yeah,” Boricio said.

  As Boricio left and the door slid closed behind him, Charlie took another sip of his Coca-Cola then closed his eyes, savoring the sweetness in his mouth. It reminded him of being young, back when his dad was still alive. Charlie hadn’t been allowed to drink soda like most of the other kids he knew — except on special occasions. One such occasion happened every Friday night when they all went out to dinner at The Burger Palace, and Charlie got to pig out on turkey burgers, fries, and a tall glass of Coca-Cola with chipped ice. Sometimes the waiter or waitress, dressed in 50’s diner style, would pour some cherry syrup into the Coke, amplifying the awesome. Long after he was done with the Coke, Charlie would suck the puddles of sweetness from the chipped ice.

  Charlie closed his eyes, trying not to let thoughts of his father lower the rising summit of his mood.

  Tonight would be sad enough, and possibly the last time he’d see Callie for a while.

  He finished his Coke and stared at the can wondering if they’d really be able to go home. And more than that, Charlie wondered if Callie would still be friends with him if they were suddenly able to return to the world they once knew.

  If that world was still there, maybe his mother was, too. And that fucker, Bob. A version of Bob that Charlie didn’t murder.

  If he could go back, Charlie wouldn’t kill that Bob. That Bob hadn’t raped Callie. That Bob wasn’t the same monster. Or at least hadn’t been given enough opportunity to become one yet. So no, Charlie didn’t think he’d kill that Bob.

  But he would kick the living shit out of him.

  **

  that night…

  Charlie and Callie sat on their mattresses on opposite sides of a glass wall.

  Though all the other cells were dark, theirs were dimly lit, which would have given the cells an almost romantic glow, if calling glass prison cells with video cameras and flame-spouting holes romantic didn’t seem like so much of a stretch.

  Charlie also felt like their cells being lit, while everyone else’s were swallowed in darkness, set them on display and in an unflattering light. That made him feel weird. He didn’t want everyone staring, especially after all of the special treatment, from fresh clothes to the pens and paper delivered an hour before, right after dinner. Charlie imagined the other six residents of the cell block were pissed.

  However, this was Charlie’s first chance to communicate with Callie in what seemed like forever, so he didn’t care who was watching or what they thought.

  They’d been talking (via pens and paper) ever since — catch-up stuff mostly, like updates on what had happened to each of them, how there were two Boricios, and two worlds, both facts blowing Callie’s mind, and then, of course, that they might be able to find a way home.

  Charlie told Callie that the new Boricio was going to ask her to show him the way to the old Boricio’s compound. She said okay, and then worked out the directions together as best they could.

  Connecting with Callie again felt great. It reminded him of how much he loved her, even if she didn’t feel the same. Hell, maybe she did, now. Who knew?

  “What’s the first thing you’ll do if we go home?” Callie wrote.

  “Drink a Coke. You?”

  “One word: Starbucks.”

  Charlie laughed. “Then what?”

  “I dunno. What do YOU want to do?”

  “Whatever you want to do,” he wrote.

  “Whatever?” she wrote, smiling.

  Is she flirting with me? No way.

  “Anything,” he wrote, smiling, though unsure if his smile matched hers, which still seemed flirty.
<
br />   She set her pad of paper on the mattress, scribbled something, then held it up for him to see.

  “Will you fuck me?” she wrote.

  Charlie’s eyes widened and his cock went instantly stiff in his sweats.

  Callie laughed hysterically, probably at the look on his face.

  Charlie frowned.

  “You’re messing with me, aren’t you?” he wrote.

  “Maybe,” she wrote. “Maybe not.”

  Callie put the pad down, then licked her lips.

  Charlie’s cock went from stiff to a near bursting pipe.

  Callie circled a finger over her nipples. Charlie watched them harden beneath the thin fabric of her shirt.

  Oh God.

  He picked up his pen and wrote, “What are you doing?”

  Callie shook her head, then slowly lifted her shirt. Even though Charlie knew some asshole was likely watching them from the other side of a security camera, he didn’t care about anything outside of the moment.

  Though Callie had been naked up until about two hours earlier, and he’d not found her nudity arousing in their situation, something had changed. Callie had been given clothes, and was now choosing to reveal herself to Charlie. Slowly. Teasing him.

  Callie exposed the bottoms of her breasts, then lifted the shirt to expose just one nipple, which she pinched.

  Oh fuck.

  Charlie reached down and squeezed the thick of his flesh through the thin of his pants.

  Her eyes, big and beautiful, lowered to stare.

  Charlie felt odd. He’d touched himself thousands of times, but never in front of someone else. He kept stroking his cock through his sweats, then watched as Callie reached down the front of hers and began to rub herself.