Tomorrow's Gone Season 1

by Sean Platt

  Stewart stared at him dumbly. “Why the hell didn’t you just tell me that you worked with the Rangers?”

  “I wanted to see how you treat the regular folk ‘round here.”

  “I’ll have to confirm your story.”

  “Of course.” Wolf smiled wider, nice and smug.

  “You really don’t remember anything else from what happened last night?”

  “No, I do not.”

  Stewart’s shoulders, and his stupid face, finally relaxed. He dug into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper and unfolded it. “Do you know these people?”

  A woman and a young girl. Alma and Emory, according to the caption.

  Wolf suddenly remembered everything, including what happened when he’d touched the girl. An explosion of some sort that knocked him on his ass. And something else at the edge of his memory, elusive and needling.

  He felt desperate to find the girl.

  Images strobed in his mind. Memories of the mother and her daughter, stuck in a snowy cabin, desperate and trapped, waiting for someone.

  Did I know them before?

  No … that don’t seem right.

  It’s something else — but what?

  “The Sentinels were looking for them. Do you know where they are now?”

  “The mother is dead. No word on the girl. Any idea why they were running?”

  “About as well as I know Portuguese.”

  Stewart eyed him skeptically, but let it go. “I’ll go send a message to the mayor of Riverside. If your story checks out, we’ll release you immediately.”

  He left, the door locking shut behind him.

  Again Wolf was left with only his reflections.

  Something was different, but he couldn’t place it.

  Something was missing. Something important.

  Something that would surely change everything forever.

  Thirteen

  Richmond Freeman

  Richmond and Olivia sat in the City Hall meeting room across the table from General McTaggart, council members Childress and Antonetti, and Brother Serenity in a closed-door Small Council session. McTaggart had been giving them the rundown on what had happened to Callan’s Corner.

  “And the prisoner? Does his story check out?” Richmond asked.

  “Yes, though we’re not letting him go just yet. He might know more than he’s saying.”

  “Like what?”

  “There was one other survivor,” McTaggart said.

  “Oh?”

  “An old man at the bar. A breath from dead when we got there. Our men went to move his body and he woke with a start, babbling about how that girl brought the storm.”

  “Brought it?”

  “Yes. I believe she’s an Alt. Three months ago a man showed up at Fortress seeking refuge after a bandit attack. While medicated during his recovery, he told one of our doctors that he was from Stratum, then started rambling about how they were doing experiments on Alts there.”

  “What kind of experiments?” Richmond asked.

  “Supposedly they were trying to create more powerful Alts.”

  Brother Serenity leaned ever so slightly forward, just enough for Richmond to note it. Rarely did the monk show emotion during meetings.

  He glanced at Richmond, then resumed his usual posture, almost as if embarrassed to have displayed his interest to the room.

  Olivia turned to the general. “Why would they be trying to create more powerful Alts?”

  “We never got a chance to ask. He went quiet when we questioned him.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Your men are usually more convincing.”

  “We tried to interrogate him further, of course, but he grabbed the Ranger’s blade and cut his own throat. I’m guessing that they’re looking to weaponize them, same as the bandits are doing with their attacks on Coalition merchants. They could be planning to counter the bandits, or they might be wanting to make a move on us.”

  Richmond folded his hands across his chest. “This happened three months ago and you’re only telling me now?”

  “We’ve been working on getting a spy into Stratum, but so far to no avail.”

  “And you’ve not told us that, either?” Olivia was visibly annoyed.

  McTaggart said, “With all due respect, I also don’t tell you every time a bandit shits in the woods. We’re constantly hearing rumors, and I’m reporting a small fraction to the council. We investigate and verify.”

  “On matters concerning Stratum, we’re to be kept in the loop,” Richmond sternly replied.

  “Yes, sir,” McTaggart nodded. “If it’s true that Stratum is up here searching for the woman and child, and that man at the bar said the girl brought the storm, we’re obviously dealing with a very powerful Alt. Maybe someone who knows something Stratum doesn’t want us to know.”

  “And you think Wolf knows where the girl is?”

  Another nod from McTaggart. “I think he knows something more than he’s saying.”

  “Okay, we’ll send Pascal in to talk.”

  “On that note, Captain Stewart reported that Pascal ignored a direct order and went into The Slums to get some merchant’s kid.”

  Richmond leaned forward. “What?”

  “Yeah, some kid who got sold to a pimp there.”

  “Why didn’t he wait for me? I’m meeting with Sebastian later. I could have negotiated the girl’s return.”

  “Sebastian?” McTaggart repeated.

  “Slum Lord. His name is Sebastian.”

  “In any event, do you really think he would have turned the girl over? Instead of denying they had her, same as they always do? Way I see it, maybe it’s a blessing in disguise. Something happens to Pascal and we finally have a reason to storm that infested place.”

  Olivia frowned. “You seem like you’re almost hoping he’ll fail.”

  “I don’t want any harm coming to my Ranger.” McTaggart smiled. “But … if something did, well, then maybe we need to look at the silver lining.”

  “I want a squad ready to escort me to The Slums in thirty minutes,” Richmond said.

  Olivia put her hand on his arm. “Are you sure that’s wise if Pascal’s gone and caused trouble?”

  Richmond sighed. “Sebastian has always been respectful in our past meetings. He isn’t going to harm me.”

  McTaggart laughed. “Yeah, he’s a real class act.”

  “Will that be all, General?”

  McTaggart looked taken aback. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good, then have the squad and horses ready for me. The Small Council meeting is adjourned.”

  “Yes, sir.” Another nod then he left the room.

  Richmond turned to Brother Serenity. “You know something about this?”

  The monk shook his head. “No, but I am deeply concerned if Stratum is experimenting on The Touched. These people aren’t freaks or weapons for their will. They are a gift from the Gods. And they should be exalted.”

  The Order’s reverence for Alts, or what they called The Touched, was an almost contagious strain of awe. Brother Serenity had always gone out of his way to show an interest in Elijah’s talents, teaching him some of their doctoring. Until Olivia — a non-believer — became concerned. Richmond believed in the Old Gods, but she saw it all as superstitious nonsense and refused to allow their son’s “indoctrination into that stupid cult.” Even though Richmond went to their temple and wanted to share the faith that brought him such solace with his son.

  “Can you do me a favor, Brother Serenity? Talk to the man in detention? See what he knows?”

  “Yes, Mayor.”

  “Thank you.”

  Brother Serenity stood, nodded, and left the room.

  “Maybe the general is right?” Olivia said, the second they were alone.

  “What?”

  “Maybe we let things play out, see what happens.”

  “Are you suggesting we leave Sergeant Pascal vulnerable? The same man who is training our child, who has pr
otected us and my father?”

  She looked away, pursing her lips, folding her arms across her chest.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “This about last night?” He hoped it wasn’t. He needed that conversation to die.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “You sure? Because it sure seems like you do.”

  Olivia avoided his eyes as she spoke, “Well, it’s just that you used to … well, never have a problem.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ve been stressed.”

  “Yeah,” she said, getting up and starting toward the door.

  Her disappointment may as well have been radiation. He had failed on her final fertile day, and now she was throwing poison his way. Her birthday was a month away, the big four-oh. She saw time as a vice, squeezing her chances for another child.

  He couldn’t tell her that he was tired of trying. Exhausted by the incessant swelling of hope, only to be deflated by yet another miscarriage. Five in a row, and still she longed for another child. And it was his husbandly duty to keep right on trying.

  “Richmond?” Olivia said at the door.

  “Yes?”

  “You would tell me if there was somebody else, wouldn’t you?”

  “Where’s this coming from?” He stood and went to her, then pulled Olivia into his arms. “Of course there’s no one else.”

  “It’s just that … it’s been a while since you’ve looked at me like you used to.”

  “I’m sorry, dear. Sometimes I get so wrapped up—”

  “That’s not an excuse. I’m just as involved in this job as you are. Even more so, seeing as I meet with all the people you can’t stand, and keep the peace with the people that hate each other.”

  “Yes, dear. You are the true mayor. They only elected me because of my father.” Richmond shook his head, hugging her tighter. “It’s not fair of me to use it as an excuse.”

  He wondered if he should tell her how he really felt. It would feel so relieving to finally exhale with the truth and shed that ugly weight from his shoulders. To shed the burden of guilt and shame.

  But it wasn’t the right time with her sobbing against his chest. She never cried like this. Rarely ever allowed herself to feel vulnerable. Telling Olivia now, after she had lowered her guard, was an unnecessary cruelty.

  So he held her body alongside his facade.

  Fourteen

  Emory Gray

  Emory was dreaming of the man from the bar. He seemed so familiar, despite her never having met him. His touch caused an explosion of light that knocked the both of them back.

  She woke to the sound of movement outside of the run-down, boarded-up cabin she’d found in the woods last night after fleeing Callan’s Corner, wondering who the man was.

  She grabbed the knife Mama had given her the day she turned five. It wasn’t her best or her sharpest, but it was the first and therefore Emory’s favorite. A black blade with a pink handle. Princess, she’d named it. A joke at first, a play on the fairytales that she had never especially liked.

  Emory scurried towards the slit in the boarded window to peer outside where she thought she’d heard the noise.

  But she only saw the woods surrounding her shack. She strained to listen and quiet her breath.

  Heart racing as she waited, she was certain the door would burst open at any second. That even long-abandoned, the owner would come back now, demanding to know why she had dared to break in. Or, worse, men like the ones from last night would come to take her life away.

  According to Mama, they’d never stop, which was why they had to travel south, heading toward where Erik’s brother, Randall Moore, could promise their safety.

  Movement, again, and this time Emory saw it — a raccoon, walking on the porch, sniffing around.

  Finding nothing, it fled.

  She could finally breathe again.

  Emory wished they hadn’t ditched their backpacks to flee, or that she could have at least remembered their last town location. It had been on their way to Callan’s Corner, that morning after the Sentinels spotted them, when they hid their bags in the brush alongside the river. But Emory couldn’t find the backpacks or their canoe.

  After the weird storm came and people went crazy with killing each other, Emory only wanted to run. She tried not to wonder if the storm was her fault, or if she had been the cause of all the deaths behind her.

  Emory knew she was special, that she could do things that nobody else, or at least very few people, could do. But summoning Ruin Storms wasn’t one of those things. It had to have been a coincidence.

  Callan’s Corner was near enough to The Ruins border — the place must have experienced similar storms before. Again Emory told herself that it had to be a coincidence.

  But it wasn’t.

  You know it wasn’t, Emory.

  More troubling than the storm, was the question that had been burning in her mind ever since last night: If I’m a healer, why couldn’t I heal my mother?

  Emory had healed four people so far, before her actions began to shine a spotlight on them. But she didn’t know her limits. She had never raised the dead, and maybe that was the problem, that her mom was already too far gone.

  What good is a power when it’s not there when I need it most?

  Emory’s gift was a curse. It drew unwanted attention from too many people. The kind Mama had said wanted to use her. For what, she didn’t know. Mama never told her, as if giving voice to it might invite it into reality. It was bad enough for them to go into hiding when she was little, bad enough that they’d always lived on the run from their enemy. Bad enough that Emory had never had a normal childhood, never had any friends, had never gone to school a day in her life.

  Again she thought of the men who had murdered her mother. Anger swelled inside her, deep and dark and terrible. Emory wondered if she could think another storm her way.

  Did I kill all those people?

  She saw bodies everywhere. She saw herself, looking down at her mother, unable to save her.

  I’m so sorry, Mama.

  So, so sorry.

  She’s gone, and it’s my fault. My fault we always had to run.

  She’s gone and I don’t know what to do.

  Her body trembled as an overwhelming sadness crashed over her. Tears streaked her cheeks, and Emory felt like she might split at the seams.

  She thought of her mama and what she said during moments like this.

  Snap out of it, Emory.

  Emotions don’t care for reality. You have to push that stuff down if you want to survive out here.

  She did the trick Mama had taught her — to slow her breathing, counting backwards from twenty-one softly, barely above a whisper.

  “Twenty-one.”

  “Twenty.”

  “Nineteen.”

  She wasn’t sure why twenty-one was the number, if it was something her mom had decided or if she’d learned it from someone else before the world had ended. Whatever the number’s origins, it usually worked.

  Mama started over whenever it didn’t.

  She needed only a rep to calm herself. The pain and helplessness were there, but now under the surface, out of the way, so some other part of herself, the Doer, as Mama always called that part, could do what had to be done.

  Emory looked around the dim and dusty cabin for supplies, anything she could eat or maybe take with her. Surprisingly, she found a few items — a backpack, seven cans of food, plus an opener. She didn’t trust the well water since the cabin looked like it hadn’t been used in ages, so she’d need to find some soon. Mama had taught her to capture rain water, and how to boil what she got from the river, but Emory hoped to find a town or something soon. She needed to find Randall. They had planned to message him from Callan’s Corner, but now she would probably have to find his place in the Outer Territories on her own, no matter the sprawl of her journey, or lack of a map.

  Emory could follow the southe
rn star if she traveled at night, when the world was dark and even more full of dangers. Still, with a little luck she could find a town and maybe pay for a carriage. She had a bit of money in her pocket that Mama had given her in case they got split up. But Emory didn’t know if it was enough to hire a ride, or whom she could trust even if it was.

  She stuffed the backpack with what little she found, then checked outside. Seeing no threats, she made sure her knife was in her pocket, ready to go, then headed south.

  Emory had been walking in the cool morning air for hours along the dirt road until the forest ended, branching onto a paved path that seemed more like a main road.

  She passed a few broken-down and stripped cars, but little else. No sign of homes or human life. The farther she walked, the more Emory felt like maybe she’d somehow gone in a circle. The road had twisted and bent a few times, and she couldn’t shake the sense that she was going to end up back up at the cabin. If she saw the porch she would break down and cry.

  If she walked west, Emory would eventually smell the river. She could follow its bend once she found it. Mama’s map told her that it ran right through a town called Hope Springs, a place she had wanted to avoid but wouldn’t explain. Another of Mama’s secrets.

  There was a lot Emory didn’t know about her past, and now that her mother was gone, she’d never ever have the chance to learn them.

  Why had Mama been so secretive? Sometimes Emory felt like she was ashamed of something. Her mom had powers, though not like hers. Maybe she had hurt people, too? Even on accident, that could mean trouble. Like what had happened to Emory.

  She would give anything to be able to see her mom again and ask her.

  She kept fighting the tears, instead counting backwards to center herself on the mission for food and water, perhaps a map to help her find Randall Moore.

  The road took another sharp turn ahead. As Emory drew nearer, she heard the sound of many galloping horses.

  She froze on the spot. The galloping got louder, and soon the sound of laughing men joined it in a chorus.