Tomorrow's Gone Season 1

by Sean Platt

  Her pale blue eyes looked down, wounded. Emory returned her attention to the paper, pressed against a book in her lap so it was easier to draw on. Long dark hair covered her face. She might have been crying.

  Alma wanted to soothe her, but Emory might see the fear in her eyes and know she was lying. The girl was too good at picking up on things.

  Erik should’ve been back by now.

  Had he been betrayed? Or had he run into more Sentinels who returned him to Stratum? Maybe they were torturing him, wanting to know where Alma and Emory were hiding.

  Every moment they sat in this cabin was another spent doing nothing. She was paralyzed, frozen even though the world could come crashing down on them at any moment.

  They’d spent years hiding, living in a small mountain enclave, safe from the monks and the Stratum soldiers who wanted them both.

  But everything shattered one day when soldiers showed up, searching.

  Alma wondered if someone had sold them out or if it was dumb luck that got them found. There weren’t many people, and though she kept to herself, someone probably realized who they were. Maybe turned them in for the reward.

  Erik said he knew someone, in Stratum no less, who could take them south. He just had to pay the man and they could find his brother, who would help them hide.

  Alma hadn’t known him long, but she trusted Erik implicitly. Even allowed herself to love him, something she never thought she’d be capable of again. Not after what happened to Emory’s father.

  But she had. And now he was gone. Maybe for good.

  She shook off the overwhelming sense of dread and donned her coat, glove, hats, and snow boots.

  “I’m going to get wood.”

  Emory looked up from her drawing, eyes widened with fear. “No, don’t leave.”

  “I’ll be nearby. We need to get firewood or we’ll freeze to death tonight.”

  “What if something happens to you?” Emory got up, came over to Alma, and wrapped two skinny arms around her. “I’m sorry I was whining. Please don’t go.”

  “You have nothing to apologize for, Emory. It’s okay to be scared about Erik. I am too, a little bit. But I promise, I’ll be fine.”

  “Can I go with you? Please?”

  “It’s better that you stay here.”

  “Why?”

  Because they’re looking for a woman and child.

  “I’m just going to get some wood. I swear I’ll be fast.”

  Emory squeezed her tight and Alma closed her eyes, trying not to cry.

  She kissed her daughter’s head. “I love you.”

  Emory sniffled back tears, said okay, then returned to the couch, pulled the blanket around her, and went back to her drawing.

  Alma wanted to see what it was but something superstitious told her to wait.

  If I don’t look now, I’ll live long enough to see it.

  “You remember the knock, right?” Alma asked.

  “Three, two, four.”

  “And if this door opens or anyone else comes, you hide in the spot we talked about. Okay?”

  “Okay. Promise you’ll be back soon?”

  “Cross my heart.”

  Alma grabbed the saw and axe from the wooden crate next to the front door, then stepped out into the freezing snow and bitter, hoping she hadn’t just lied to her daughter again.

  Alma wasn’t too far from the cabin, searching for a tree to chop.

  She found a lone pine leaning forward at an ideal angle with ample clearing.

  Alma tightened the hood on her jacket and shook snow from the tree.

  Once it was mostly gone, she started chopping at an angle to make an undercut.

  Alma stopped, hearing a low growl behind her.

  She slowly turned around.

  A gray wolf growled at her from twenty feet away.

  Shit.

  She resisted the urge to run. That would only provoke the animal, and there was no way she could outrun a wolf anyway.

  Alma remembered her training from when she’d first gone hunting, then lowered her shoulders and head, trying to adopt a submissive pose.

  She gripped the axe with both hands, just in case it charged, but was careful not to let the weapon swing or move.

  She stayed very still watching the wolf as it continued to growl.

  Come on, go away already. I’m not here to hurt you.

  Its ears were back and its snarling intensified, eyes burning with intent.

  If playing submissive didn’t work, Alma had to try and frighten the animal into running off. She’d only had one other encounter in her years, and that wolf hadn’t been aggressive, darting away the second it saw her.

  Alma raised her axe. “Go away!”

  The wolf barked.

  A pack of them howled in the distance.

  She yelled again, raising the axe higher. “GOOOO!”

  The wolf kept barking, coming closer.

  Alma wasn’t pissing it off or scaring it away.

  She gripped the axe tighter, wondering if she could swing the heavy weapon fast enough to connect before fangs found her flesh and shredded her veins.

  This was more than a broken promise. Emory was small, naive, and delicate. Not old enough to survive on her own. And yes, she had tremendous power, but not a clue how to use it.

  They would find her. And they would know how to use what she had been given. That thought was hellfire on Alma’s skin; her daughter doomed to live the rest of her life as a weapon.

  She couldn’t die here.

  Alma had to kill this fucking thing.

  Her heart pounded, body stiff and slow as the wolf took yet another step towards her.

  Its ears flattened against its head, pale gray eyes locked on her, sharp teeth bared, saliva dripping from its mouth and steam like fog from its hot breath.

  The wolf barked again and started toward her.

  And then something moved to her right. Alma saw only a flash of movement out of the corner of her eyes, dark against white.

  The wolf saw it too, then started toward it.

  Not it — Emory.

  Alma screamed, trying to lure the wolf’s attention away from her daughter.

  But it ignored her and barreled straight at the girl.

  Emory froze, staring at the predator.

  The wolf went in for the kill.

  Alma screamed in one last attempt to draw its attention.

  Another paralytic moment as Emory’s eyes widened along with her mouth and she uttered a curdling shriek.

  The wolf, either surprised or frightened, turned and ran, now coming at Alma — or trying to escape.

  She swung the axe, screaming, her blade landing in the animal’s head with a bloody THUNK.

  Alma kept yelling. She wrenched her weapon free, then kept striking it over and over as if the wolf’s body was a tree she was trying to fell.

  She swung the axe again and again, hot blood coating her clothes and her face, hands, and the blade, lost in a frenzy of rage and fear of losing Emory, blinded by it until the wolf was bloody pulp beneath her.

  Back in her right mind, she looked down and saw the overkill, then over at Emory, staring at her mother, terrified and crying.

  “I’m sorry, I heard you scream and I couldn’t just stay.”

  “It’s okay.” Alma hugged her close, ignoring the blood.

  They sat on the couch that night, bundled in blankets by the fire. Emory fell asleep early, leaving Alma awake and ruminating on what she had to do.

  Still, she kept waiting, hating the thought of leaving and hoping and hoping and hoping and hoping for Erik to return.

  She looked at Emory and thought how close she’d been to losing her. She couldn’t bear the thought. She kept seeing her daughter paralyzed as the predator charged.

  She and Erik had spent countless hours exhaustively teaching Emory to hunt, and survive, and fight in this unforgiving world. Yet, when it came to her first true test, she had frozen.

 
Alma had failed as a parent. She needed to work harder to prepare her daughter for what was coming.

  The world had always been uncertain, but never more so than now.

  Something had happened, something had changed both Alma and her daughter. And that something had marked them.

  People would be coming.

  It would never stop.

  She had to ensure that Emory was prepared for whatever their enemies attempted, human or otherwise. That was her job as a mother.

  Emory fretted over the wolf attack, but Alma reframed it as a blessing.

  For one, it proved that Emory needed more training. They would start as soon as they got to where they needed to go. Second, at least they finally had something to eat besides fish.

  They feasted on wolf and leftover stew. There was a time, before the world ended, that canine would have been considered inedible, but living in the mountains had turned old ways of thinking upside down.

  Food was harder to come by. And more dangerous to go out for.

  Add the Sentinels searching for them, and there was no doubt that Alma had to leave the comfort of their cabin and face the risk of traveling south.

  It would be difficult, but the right choice was always the harder one to make.

  Erik had spoken of a second way to get south. It would take longer and was even more dangerous. They would have to edge The Ruins, then take a homemade raft through dangerous waters. But it was a legitimate option.

  She reached into her sweater pocket and pulled out the map he’d drawn for her. A big X marked their destination — Callan’s Corner. From there, he could message his brother, Randall, who lived in the Outer Territories.

  She lay down beside Emory, hugging her tight, still hoping that tomorrow wouldn’t be too late.

  And that Erik would show, because despite her years of preparation, and never needing anybody other than Emory, Alma was no longer certain that she could do this all on her own.

  Five

  Johan Pascal

  Pascal stood alone in the shadows of the massive metal wall and city gates, smoking a cigarette while staring out over the wooded valley dipping into the east. The sun would be setting behind him soon and tonight his bed was already calling. He wondered if Valery would be around after he got off.

  Ranger Zhao was in the tower above and behind him, ready to sound the alarm should trouble come. Thankfully, and unlike a few other Rangers, Zhao let Pascal be. He was probably whittling another of his wood figures of an owl or something.

  Pascal had turned away six different merchants since the meeting, five of whom should have known better than to ask with the city still closed.

  The door squeaked open and Pascal’s hand found the hilt of his sword.

  “Relax,” said the woman joining him outside the gate.

  Olivia had changed from her dress into jeans and a blue sweater. Her hands were casually in her pockets, though her visits were never indifferent.

  “When were you going to tell me about what happened with Elijah?”

  “I’m sorry, Vice Mayor, with everything going on it slipped my mind.”

  “Slipped your mind?” Olivia looked at him skeptically.

  “I didn’t want you to worry. Did he tell you?”

  “Of course. My son tells me everything.” She held out her hand, requesting a drag. He handed it over and she deeply inhaled. “God, I miss these.”

  Olivia handed it back to him.

  He spoke before taking a drag. “I wasn’t sure what to say. Elijah was worried about me putting it on his charts.”

  “Have you?”

  “I was going to discuss the incident with you and your husband first. Ultimately, you all oversee the Registry. If you don’t want it on there, well …”

  “How many people saw?”

  “All the Cadets.”

  “No other adults?”

  “No.”

  “Do you think he’s … changing?”

  Pascal knew what she was asking. He shook his head, adamantly. “No, he’s not a danger to anybody. It’s … probably stress. He was really nervous about fighting in Cadets.”

  “He wasn’t fighting in Juniors?”

  “He wanted to join Cadets. I’m guessing he didn’t tell you everything?”

  She nodded, biting her lip, probably already planning to lay into him later at home. She took his cigarette but didn’t return it.

  “And you let him fight the Cadets?”

  “He is of age.”

  “Yeah, but …” Olivia stopped herself. “No, he’s right. He is growing up and it’s time for him to make his own choices.”

  What could he say? Pascal didn’t know the first damned thing about raising kids. He’d lost his wife and his baby girl in the upheaval after The Event. Still, he understood a parent’s instincts to protect their children and the balance of being protective enough to keep them safe without harming their future capabilities.

  She nodded. “Do you think it should be on his chart?”

  “I’m not the expert here.”

  “No, but you are an Alt. You have experience with … well, others where it didn’t go well. Do you think he needs the doctors at Fortress to oversee his development?”

  There was no way she wanted to hand her kid over to McTaggart. Olivia was testing his loyalties. He was in a tricky spot. As a Ranger, McTaggart was his boss and he couldn’t exactly express any doubts he had about the general. But he was tasked to serve the mayor, the vice mayor, and the city of Hope Springs.

  “I think that’s for you and your husband to decide, Vice Mayor.”

  She nodded, finished his cigarette, and dropped it to the ground before squishing it with her heel. “Thank you for your discretion. And the kids? Will they keep it to themselves?”

  “I’ve already instructed them that they are to keep Cadet business to themselves, and that includes telling their friends or family. I think we’re good.”

  “Still. Kids talk, right?”

  Pascal wasn’t sure what she was getting at. Her dark brown eyes were impossible to read. He wasn’t used to personal mysteries. He’d always prided himself on being the kind of person who stayed two to three steps ahead of everyone else. But Olivia Freeman was at least two or three ahead of even him. And Pascal was never sure if he could trust her. But he did like and trust her husband, which made it easier than it might have otherwise been.

  “These kids will keep their mouths shut. If not, we’ll handle it.”

  “And if the general asks why you didn’t report this new ability?”

  “I’ll say I chose not to … at my discretion.”

  “Good. Thank you, Ranger Pascal.” Olivia turned and left.

  And Pascal could finally exhale.

  From above, he heard Zhao call out, “Damn it!”

  “What?” Hand back to his sword, in case danger was coming.

  “Nothing. Just a splinter.”

  Pascal laughed. “Should I call a medic?”

  “Fuck you,” Zhao said.

  And with that, silence returned. Pascal smiled and lit another cigarette.

  He glanced at his watch. One more hour until the night shift took over.

  A horse and wagon were approaching down the road. It was late for a merchant. Yet, as they drew nearer he recognized the weathered wagon, the pair of horses pulling it, then the old man riding a third steed beside it. Nathaniel and his daughter, Charlotte. Nomadic traders who fixed, sold, and traded watches and jewelry from town to town.

  Nathaniel was a tall, bulky man with slumped shoulders and a long face weathered by the sun. His eyes, behind thick dark-framed glasses, were so pale blue they sometimes looked colorless. His overalls matched perfectly.

  “Good evening, sir,” Nathaniel said as they approached the gates. “Hoping to rent a room for the night before setting up in Market Square tomorrow.”

  “Sorry, Nathaniel, the city is still on lockdown.”

  “Still?” Charlotte peeked out from the
wagon. “I told you, Dad. We should’ve stayed in John’s Township.”

  Charlotte looked around fourteen or fifteen, a bit taller than most girls her age, with curly brown hair and bright hazel eyes. She hopped out of the wagon wearing a long green dress and clunky black boots, walking in circles to stretch her legs.

  “Hey, Pascal,” she said, giving him a friendly smile as she approached him. “How are you doing?”

  “Okay. And you? How’s your training?”

  “Haven’t had much time lately. Dad’s back’s been acting up.”

  “Just a momentary setback.” Nathaniel served in the military in his prior life, and had trained his daughter to defend herself. Why they hadn’t settled in a town, even a small one like Callan’s Corner, Pascal had no idea.

  Most nomads were wanderers by circumstance. Most had committed crimes and were banished from a Coalition City. Others were merely too unstable or crazy to live by society’s rules and too vulnerable for the dog-eat-dog of shanty town. People like Nathaniel were different. He could contribute to society, but wouldn’t bow to rules he didn’t agree with.

  A proud man who didn’t subscribe to The Code like everyone else in the cities. Pascal understood pride, but at some point it verged on selfish, especially when subjecting their child to the ever-present threats of nomadic life, all because of some ideological opposition to those in power.

  Nathaniel even had a tattoo on his arm: Die Free > Living Under Your Thumb. Pascal didn’t know if it pre-dated The Event and he’d never been happy with any form of governance, or if the ink was in specific response to this particular post-apocalyptic leadership.

  Pascal could appreciate the sentiment, but still saw it as shortsighted. What would happen to Charlotte once the old man could no longer scare bandits? Why consign her to a nomad’s life in pursuit of his idealistic vision of freedom?

  “When are you opening up?” Nathaniel asked.

  “Still waiting to hear from the mayor. Not for at least a few more days. Some of the merchants and traders have gone to The Slums.”

  Nathaniel shook his head. “I refuse to step foot in that place again. It’s chaos, full of only sinners and thieves.”

  “I’m getting a staff,” Charlotte said. “Last time I was here, Declan said he’d trade me for one if I fixed his wife’s wedding ring.”