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

by Platt, Sean

  He thought of Ben and smiled. He couldn’t wait to see his son again, to hold him in his arms and hug his tiny buddy. He thought of his son’s toy, the Stanley Train that was taken from him by Black Island Guardsmen. He wondered if that toy belonged to the Ben of this world, who was mutated and held in chambers deep in Black Island’s bowels, or if he’d somehow brought it from his own world when he was yanked away.

  Let me make it back, God, and I swear, I’ll quit my job, and never neglect my family again. Please. Just let us make it back.

  Brent felt hypocritical praying to a God who hadn’t earned his faith. If He was real, Brent wondered, did He piss on the prayers of the skeptics, and was he cursing himself by now turning to prayer? As if God somehow would say, “No, you didn’t believe in me before now. Fuck off.”

  Brent wondered what would happen if they actually found a way back to Earth?

  How would they arrive? Would they appear, just like they’d vanished? Would he show up in his bed and scare the hell out of Gina? Or would they be going home through some sort of science-fiction teleportation machine, and wind up on the other Black Island? If so, would that mean they were immediately apprehended by Homeland Security, then held in detention for months on end as suspected terrorists? Or worse, made part of some secret lab experiment, hidden from the rest of the world and kept from their families forever?

  Brent swallowed, feeling anxiety thicken his throat.

  So close, yet so far. And too many unanswered questions.

  Brent hated not knowing, or having control of his own fate.

  Brent was pulled from his thoughts as the van suddenly slowed and Boricio said, “What the hell have we got here?”

  Boricio stopped the van, but left the engine running.

  Brent felt his heartbeat quicken, thinking back to the maze of cars where they’d nearly surrendered their final breaths on their way to Black Mountain. He couldn’t stand the thought of going through that particular Hell again. Everyone, including Ed — now wide awake and obvious about it — moved to the front of the van and stared out the front window.

  The thick lines of trees that had bordered both sides of the highway for nearly every mile of the trip were now gone. In their place, nothing but a half mile or so of dark earth, freshly plowed, as if something, perhaps a super tornado, had stripped the land of everything in sight.

  The road was oddly untouched, but only as a canvas for the horror lining it — hundreds, if not thousands of aliens, standing on either side of the highway, perfectly still, like statues paving the way to Dunn.

  “What the fuck?” Jung said, the word ‘fuck’ sounding unnatural in his accent.

  “Oh Jesus!” Callie cried. “What are they doing?”

  Boricio joked, “Laying out the welcome mat, maybe?” But the only color on his face was the black on his patch.

  “What do we do?” Brent said, his heart beating so loud he felt like it was throwing echoes off the van walls.

  “Drive,” Ed said, his first words all morning.

  “What?” Callie said, shocked he would suggest such a thing.

  “Drive,” he repeated, meeting Boricio’s eye in the mirror.

  Jung said, “I’m not sure about that,” shifting nervously in his seat.

  “He’s right,” Boricio said. “If they wanted to attack us, they would have already.”

  Boricio stepped on the gas before anyone else, or more likely his own instincts, could raise debate.

  The van rolled down the road, slowly at first, maybe 20 miles per hour, as Jung, Ed, and Brent all held their rifles, aimed at the windows and ready to fire. Brent hoped like hell they wouldn’t have occasion to pull the triggers since there was no way they’d be able to take on the wide churning sea of aliens without eventually joining it.

  As they passed, Brent looked out the left side windows, staring at the aliens in all their many varied forms; repulsed, amazed, and half expecting one or all to leap forward and attack in unison. But they remained still, as if they weren’t even aware of the passing van.

  Callie sat shotgun in front, aiming a pistol at her window, her hand, and the gun held in it, shaking.

  Ed held his rifle trained on his side window, watching the row fly past as Boricio gathered speed. Brent saw what looked like the end of the aliens’ line ahead in the distance.

  They were about halfway there when something slammed into the back of the van.

  “Fuck!” Callie screamed, then fired her gun, which sounded like a bomb in the enclosed space.

  Brent’s ears felt shattered, just like Callie’s passenger window. He wasn’t sure what had slammed into the back of the van, but the aliens’ mouths were all suddenly open at once, screaming a shrill screech and gnashing their teeth at the van from all sides.

  Between the screaming and the high-pitched ringing in his ears, the pain in Brent’s head was unbearable. He dropped his rifle to the floor and covered his ears. Jung, Ed, and Callie were all doing the same, their faces twisted in torment as Boricio struggled to steer them through the dark horde.

  The van lurched forward as Brent clutched both sides of his head, trying to dull the terrible shrieking of the aliens. Swarms of the creatures began to move forward into the road, to block their path.

  “Fuck!” Boricio screamed as the van tore through the first of them to step in front of the van, their bodies thumping hard against the metal, causing the wheels to wobble against the asphalt, and sending the van steering out of control.

  Brent released his ears to grip his seat, as the van flew from the road and onto the freshly turned soil, naked and ugly and stripped of everything but the memory of its once green vegetation.

  Brent braced his body, ready for the van to get stuck in the soft soil, giving them unfair seconds before the tires were ensnared in the earth and the aliens surrounded them — seconds before it was finally the end of everything.

  The van kept sliding, as if the dirt was hard as pavement, but slick like ice. The van was skidding at a ridiculous speed, and would surely tip if Boricio couldn’t steer the wheels into their skid.

  Boricio struggled with the steering wheel, screaming a surprising number of obscenities as he fought the van for control as more things started to slap the van’s sides and back. Something shattered the rear window. Brent looked down as whatever had shattered the window fell to the carpet, black and squirming.

  In the first second, Brent thought it looked like a long black snake, but then saw its hook and remembered the hook-like things Ed had said they’d shot in the back of the store.

  Thicker swarms assaulted the van as it continued its skid across the unfrozen black ice of the forest floor. Brent gripped his seat as Ed held his own with one hand and his rifle with the other, taking aim out the back through the shattered window.

  The van came to a jarring, screeching halt which sent everyone flailing to the left. The engine died as thunder rumbled loudly outside.

  Except it wasn’t thunder.

  As Brent glanced out the window he saw it was a stampede of black, racing toward the van.

  “Go! GO!” Ed screamed, sticking his gun out the window and firing.

  Boricio pumped the pedal, screaming, “Come on you cock-sucking cunt-fuck!”

  Callie and Jung found their guns and took aim, also firing.

  The aliens were 100 yards away and closing fast.

  Brent fired his rifle blindly out the window, but everything was moving too fast to tell whether he was hitting anything.

  Boricio tried turning the ignition again, but the van would only cough and sputter.

  “Fuck!” Brent cried out watching as the army of darkness raced toward them.

  This is it! I’m sorry Gina and Ben! I’m so sorry!

  Brent continued firing blindly into the aliens until the engine suddenly turned and Boricio screamed, “Fuck yeah!” flooring the gas pedal.

  The van burned rubber and squealed, then started to roll, its sides and back riddled with hundreds o
f black hooked flesh, and sounding as though a million rocks were being thrown at the van, all at once.

  Jung screamed.

  Brent spun around to see a thick black rope circling around his neck, ripped at one end torn from its host, but still moving, its hook embedded in Jung’s right eye.

  Boricio screamed victoriously as the van rattled, moving fast and putting distance between themselves and the swarm, unaware of Jung being attacked.

  Ed moved toward Jung, trying to pull the black thing from his body, but he was too late. Ed’s mouth opened in horror as the black thing snaked its way into Jung’s skull.

  Brent and Ed stared, both of them frozen in the moment, watching in stunned disbelief as the last of the black thing vanished into Jung’s face.

  Jung’s eyes both went black, then he screamed as he launched himself at Ed.

  Jung knocked Ed to the ground, his hands gripping Ed’s neck and choking him.

  Ed struggled, trying to push and kick Jung away as Brent stared helpless, lost in the moment without any idea of what to do.

  “What the fuck is going on back there?” Boricio shouted, turning to look.

  Brent’s head spun in indecision — was Jung possessed by the aliens? Should he shoot him?

  Brent stood, rifle in his hand, paralyzed by uncertainty.

  Callie hopped past Brent, raised her pistol to the back of Jung’s skull, then pulled the trigger, painting the van’s interior with a spray of chunky red.

  The gunshot thundered in the cabin as Ed shoved Jung back, then yelled for Brent to open the side door.

  Brent moved quickly, hoping to make up for his earlier indecision, and yanked the door open. Ed kicked Jung out of the van, where he bounced off the hardened black earth, fading into the distance as the van kept rolling forward.

  Brent exhaled, then yanked the door shut.

  Ed, Brent, and Callie all looked at one another, then out the back windows, as Boricio put more distance between them and the dark swarm.

  They were safe — for now.

  * * * *

  CHAPTER 3 — The Prophet

  Kingsland, Alabama

  September 2011

  ONE MONTH BEFORE THE EVENT…

  The Prophet recognized the man in black the moment he first stepped through the doors of his church — the man from his visions; a dream come true sent by the Good Lord to help him usher in the Rapture.

  How it would happen, The Prophet did not yet know, and one week after Boricio checked into the rundown Motel 6 up the road, The Prophet had to wonder if God was testing him.

  Boricio was the definition of a lost soul — sad, and full as a tick with resentment. He also seemed like a man who was looking to die.

  Boricio wasn’t just mourning his lost love, whom he’d yet to say two words about, except to mention she was gone; he was boiling over the top of his pot with a furious, bubbling anger. The Prophet invited Boricio to stay at his main house, but the man had foolishly declined. Probably for the best, since The Prophet’s family was leery of the stranger.

  That didn’t stop The Prophet from paying a visit to the man’s motel room; no harm in hand-delivering The Good Lord’s word.

  The first time The Prophet visited Boricio, he could practically smell the drink from the other side of his door. Sure enough, the man was drunk as a Kentucky skunk, and told him to “fuck off” a second after he opened the door.

  The Prophet wasn’t discouraged.

  He returned each day until finally on the seventh, he knocked on a door belonging to a sober Boricio. The man yanked open the door, fast enough to nearly wrest it from its hinges, then said, “What in the hell is it you want from me?”

  The Prophet said, “I’d like to take you for a ride.”

  “A ride?” Boricio was either suspicious of the idea, or didn’t like it a lick.

  “You’ve been here, what now, a week? I’m sure you’re feeling plenty cooped.” The Prophet looked past Boricio, then into a tiny room which had seen its best days maybe three decades before. It was dark, dingy, and plastered with pizza boxes and dozens of oversized bottles of booze, all empty.

  Boricio’s face was covered in thick black stubble, though his head was freshly shaved, and shiny enough to show The Prophet his reflection. The man’s one eye was bloodshot, but for the first time, his breath wasn’t reeking of the Devil’s drink.

  The Prophet figured the man was beaten and tired, and maybe just worn down enough to allow The Good Lord to reach into his heart and show him His Love. Maybe now The Prophet could finally discover why God had brought the man into his life.

  Boricio eyed The Prophet up and down, likely trying to figure his game. He was fluent in this reaction; it was the same one The Prophet saw from skeptics all the time.

  “So, what? You’re gonna give me a guided tour of Bumfuck Egypt?” Boricio said. “You mean to tell me that my Motel 6 isn’t Studio Fucking 54?”

  The Prophet ignored the man’s vulgarity. God had tested him with far worse. Vulgarity was often a defense used by those living in fear. The time for fear was over, though.

  “Not a tour,” The Prophet shook his head. “More like a particular place I’d like you to see. A place that might just change your life.”

  Boricio grinned, “You’re not gonna take me up to Mount Diddle-Me, are you? ‘Cuz while I might be pretty, Boricio don’t play for that team.”

  The Prophet laughed, genuinely, “No, as hard as it may be for you to believe, you’re not my type.”

  “Too old?” Boricio asked.

  “Nah, too ugly,” The Prophet joked.

  Boricio looked at him for a moment, and for that moment The Prophet was afraid he’d mistaken the man’s temperament. Then Boricio laughed and said, “Okay, let’s go for a ride. Just gimme a minute to wash up.”

  “I’ll be waiting in the truck,” The Prophet said, then returned to his F-150, and sat with the engine idling and the A/C on full blast, keeping his eyes at the front of the Motel 6.

  Boricio’s New York rental was the only car in the lot. In a few hours, once night fell, the place would be hopping with drug abusers and prostitutes like it always was. Some meth addicts were likely shut inside their rooms during the day, seeing as how this motel let a true Devil’s den worth of sin to happen behind its aging walls.

  The Prophet’s face soured at the thought of so many lost souls, so close to salvation and yet still so far away, then wrinkled further at his mind’s movie of the motel’s owner, an old Russian man, profiting on the misery of so many. While The Prophet felt genuine sympathy for the lost souls, and their fates in the Eternal Fires of Hell, he felt no such sympathy for the man who made his living from the weaknesses of others.

  If The Prophet weren’t such a holy man, he would have happily delivered justice to the old Russian with his own hand, taking the life from his beady, soulless eyes.

  Justice would come to all soon enough, though.

  On October 15, the sinners would pay — each and every one.

  And while He might have mercy on the weak, He would have no mercy on the profiteers of evil.

  Oh, what a glorious day that will be!

  It was what his visions had told him. And as the day crept closer, The Prophet’s spirits rose in anticipation.

  Boricio emerged from his room carrying a black leather backpack slung over his shoulder, pulling The Prophet from his thoughts.

  As Boricio climbed inside the truck, The Prophet said, “Whatchya’ got in the bag?”

  “Just my valuables,” Boricio said, “No way I’m leaving my bag in this shit hole.”

  The Prophet smiled and pulled the F-150 from the motel lot.

  **

  They arrived at Lake Wilton about 10 minutes later, a thickly wooded grove of serenity — home to a glassy beautiful lake, miles of nature trails, several summer camps, and immaculate camping grounds.

  They parked near one of the nature trails, then got out of the truck and headed down to a path which offered one
of the lake’s best views. On the far side of the lake, the sprawling back yards from a few of the richer folks’ homes were visible.

  “You brought me to a lake?” Boricio said, his backpack still slung over his shoulder. “I told you I’m not making out with you, Father.”

  “Yes, this is Lake Wilton, one of the most beautiful lakes in all of Alabama. My Daddy used to bring me here to fish when I was just a boy. Like his daddy took him before he took me. Generations of folks from Kingsland, Alabama call this lake home to some of their most cherished memories. It was such a beautiful place.”

  “Still is,” Boricio said, casting his eyes across the water.

  “Yes, it is.” The Prophet agreed, nodding as he turned his eyes to Boricio. “But you should’ve seen it 15 years ago.”

  “Why’s that?” Boricio asked.

  “About 15 years back, this company in Georgia started dumping all sorts of pollutants into the lake upstream,” The Prophet pointed north. “Pretty soon, fish were dying by the thousands. And of course the birds had to keep their bellies full, so they kept eating the fish even though it was killing them by the barrel. The EPA declared Wilton a toxic dump and demanded it get closed off. Can you imagine?” he turned to Boricio. “Closing off such a beautiful place so people could no longer enjoy it?”

  “People suck,” Boricio said, like it was fact. “So, what happened? I’m guessing things got better.”

  “Yes, for a while, though this company was untouchable. It buried its face behind caviar-eating lawyers, lobbyists, and politicians, all crooked as The Mississippi is long. Hell, the company even got to some of the locals here, trying to sway them. But the good people of Kingsland, well they weren’t about to sit by and watch as some corporation came in and ruined their lake . . . our lake.”

  “So, what did they do?”

  “They banded together, pooled their money, and hired themselves their own high-priced attorney, some fellow on TV, I forget his name, and he stood toe to toe with the company. It was David and Goliath and we all got to watch, smiling from the front row. It was a big win for the good people of Alabama, and we all cheered as our David slung rocks at the wobbling Goliath. It took eight long years, but finally, the fish started coming back, and soon we were able to open the lake back up.”