by Sean Platt
In many ways, Steven was too good to be true, and despite a life of privilege, Marina wasn’t used to feeling so happy. She had never met a man she could be with for longer than three months. People had a way of disappointing her, especially men.
Marina had never met anyone like Steven, a self-made millionaire who earned his fortune on a few, smart dot com businesses that he sold before the bubble burst. He now spent his spare time as an angel investor. His business acumen was the sharpest she’d seen since her father’s. He was handsome, charming, and — most importantly — in no way intimidated by her as so many other men had been. Instead, Steven seemed genuinely curious about both her and her church, which he’d known little of before meeting her, and only from what he was told by Master Puissant.
It was rare that Father allowed outsiders into their fold, and would never have sanctioned her whirlwind relationship with Steven, let alone his involvement in the church as her right-hand man. But Marina’s new beau had taken to the church and its beliefs as quickly as they’d taken to one another.
It wasn’t as if he was perfect; Steven was working through plenty of issues: abandonment stemming from his lack of a father, anger from his childhood, and other unspoken demons that haunted his soul. Steven claimed that Marina, and the church’s Restoring Sessions, had helped him heal his most open wounds — had, in fact, saved his life.
That kind of honesty and raw exposure was rare, particularly in men who had accomplished so much in their life. But with her, Steven said, he no longer felt fear.
Where is he?
The phone finally rang with Steven on the other side.
“Hey, Honey, where are you?” Marina asked.
“Sorry — my meeting with Gerald ran long.”
“Anything I need to worry about?” she asked.
“No, and remember, you pay me to worry about the little things — so you better not be paying me for nothing.”
“You’re right,” she said. “So, are we still on for dinner?”
“I’m on my way,” he promised, then kissed his receiver before leaving the line.
Marina took a sip of coffee, and returned to her car, tossing the empty cup into the garbage on her way. She climbed in the back of the car, then told her driver, James, where they were headed.
She slid into the limo’s seat, and tried to soften her mood. Even though she was on her way to see Steven, she couldn’t shake the ominous feeling bristling her body as she stood on the pier.
The Darkness is coming.
* * * *
EPILOGUE
IT stood in front of the bathroom mirror staring at ITS face, wondering if perhaps IT hadn’t altered ITS appearance too much, made ITSELF too handsome.
There was something IT had liked about Boricio Bishop’s rugged looks, the scars, and the ruined eye. Boricio was handsome and ugly at once — a rare feat that had managed to both woo and intimidate at will. But after a few months of living in Boricio’s husk, IT had decided the scars and patch didn’t allow IT to blend in as IT needed to.
Also, too many people knew Boricio Bishop’s shell.
So IT changed his face, fixing the eye, removing the scars, and allowing himself to again grow hair — blond, this time — short and closely cropped.
Now IT was known as Steven Warner. And with Warner’s good looks, and Boricio’s sharp wit, IT had become even more powerful and persuasive, working to take over the church from within.
IT wouldn’t make the same mistakes IT made on the other world.
This time, The Darkness would bide ITS time, gather forces, and find the vials that would tip the scales in ITS favor before taking control of the planet. This time the right way.
While The Darkness had won the battle on the other world, it was ultimately a Pyrrhic victory, leaving The Darkness with nothing to feed off of once the humans were consumed.
IT smiled into the mirror, perfecting ITS authenticity before leaving the bathroom and joining Marina for dinner.
Steven Warner leaned in and kissed Marina softly on the lips.
She smiled, “What was that for?”
IT said, “For all that you’ve given me.”
TO BE CONTINUED …
YESTERDAY’S GONE
::EPISODE 20::
(SECOND EPISODE OF SEASON FOUR)
“Old Friends”
* * * *
PROLOGUE — Will Bishop
The Alaskan wilderness
1978
Will Bishop stared down at the laminated map, pressing it to the frozen tundra. Ice licked its bottom as he tried making sense of the map, clashing with what he saw below.
“That cave ain’t on the map,” he yelled through his full ski mask, shouting to his unit’s men through a howling wind.
Renny looked back and forth, trying to make sure they were still looking south. “Shit!” he stared down the slope. “Think he’s in there?”
“Only one way to know,” Will said, folding the map and shoving it back into his thick jacket. He looked at his unit’s other five men, each hunched under their 60-pound Yukon packs, worn from three days spent searching for their missing pilot.
The pilot, Lt. Joshua Harmon, of an Air Force scouting plane, downed in a whiteout six days back, was missing from the site, probably having walked off from the crash and a mostly intact plane. The pilot’s locator was malfunctioning, so following a failed attempt by a team with dogs, Will and his unit were sent to find him.
Though Will wasn’t the unit’s commander — that would be Renny — he was the unit’s psychic, and the primary reason for them conducting a ground search rather than canvassing the terrain from above. Will’s abilities didn’t work nearly as well from the sky, but the ground paved a neat path for his instincts to follow. But it was hard to focus when he could feel the unit’s doubt and annoyance with him increase with every hour they didn’t find Harmon.
To make matters worse, a blizzard was approaching. If they didn’t turn back and head to base soon, they’d have to stay in the cave or dig igloos and hunker until the storm passed. Judging from their last call into headquarters, it could be 48 hours before another plane could reach them — one rescue operation to serve another.
As the unit drew closer to the cave’s open mouth, visibility was shredded by a wall of blinding white. The storm had moved faster than they expected.
“Come on,” Renny urged the group forward.
Will focused on the colorful jackets ahead, blue and red in a sea of white, as Renny led them toward the cave.
The cave was wider up close, large enough to fit their unit two times wide. Roman aimed his flashlight along the ceiling, then to the cave’s rear. Though wide, the cave wasn’t more than a few hundred feet deep.
“Hey, anyone in heah?!” Roman shouted. His Brooklyn accent echoed, but was barely audible over the wind’s scream.
“Well,” Roman said, looking at Renny and Will, “looks like our pilot ain’t here.”
“Wait a sec, guys.” Otis walked toward the cave’s rear, “Check this out.”
They all followed, lights on. Each beam settled on the same discovery: a hole in the ground, vomiting wide into an endless pit of nothingness.
“Hello?” Renny shouted down.
They cast their lights into the hole, trying to pierce the gloaming. The black was so black, and the pit so deep, their lights were but drops of rain in an oil barrel.
Renny looked at Will. “Well, Sparks, you got anything?”
Will hated Renny’s new nickname for him, but if Will said anything the name would stick, and he wanted it gone, like all of Renny’s idiot nicknames before it.
“I dunno,” Will said, closing his eyes to concentrate. “Lemme see.”
Will’s mind floated from his body. He reached out, into the darkness, searching: Hello? Lt. Harmon?
Will waited, his mind open like the pit.
The men around him shifted, impatient. Their thoughts were accidental drizzle in his head: They didn’t thin
k Harmon was here; they were annoyed, wondering when the blizzard would blow over, wishing they hadn’t followed Will into nowhere. A few thought they might die, freezing to a stupid death in the gut of a cave.
Will tried barring their thoughts, reach deeper into the open mouth, when suddenly he felt someone below … staring into him.
Harmon?
Nothing.
He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was prying into his mind.
As many times as Will had peered into others’ thoughts like open medicine cabinets, he had never felt someone on the other side looking back. It was cold, a horrible slither that poured ice water inside his skull.
Will tried to sever the connection and return his attention to the unit’s men, but whoever it was wouldn’t let go.
Not whoever — whatever.
The whatever, Will was suddenly certain, wasn’t human.
A shrill, almost digital scramble crackled through the howl. Then it was a whistle in his brain, exploding into shards of pain throughout his body.
Will thought his soul would crack; death sounded OK.
He fell to the ice, screaming as he clutched his head.
Tears froze on his face and bit him hard. Suddenly, the wind howled as it stormed the cave, as if the blizzard was searching for them. The harder it beat his unit, the louder it howled.
Men screamed. The ground shook, then collapsed.
**
When Will finally came to, he was in a bright-blue room.
No, not a room, but deeper in the cave.
His head pounded through clouded thoughts. He stumbled onto wobbly feet and saw the rest of his unit standing and staring, eyes as wide as their mouths.
Will was about to ask them what in the hell they were looking at, then saw his shadow. The light was behind him, yanking their attention.
He turned, slowly, then saw it: a box the size of a phone booth, black and metallic. Strange glyphs dotted its surface, oozing the same bright-blue light that seemed to hum all around them.
The air quivered like a mirage; energy thrummed in a low drone and caromed the cavern in echo.
“What is it?” Norberg asked. Blue smoke plumed from his mouth — despite his full ski mask — like hot breath on a freezing day. Each word floated in a wisp, then, like a match lit to the smoke, turned into blue fire before fading away.
“Whoa!” Otis said, then saw it from his own mouth.
While the men took turns speaking, experimenting with various words and sounds, and watching like awed children as every breath danced with a physical manifestation, Will felt the prying return.
It was coming from the box.
What are you? Will thought.
The weird, alien sound — like digital distortion — was back: communication without a language he could make out. Will turned, trying to discern the cave’s depth, and to hopefully see if there was another way out. He saw light from the cave above, where the ground had crumbled. It was hard to tell how far they’d fallen in the darkness, particularly with the light coming from the box, but it seemed like they might be able to climb out without much of a problem.
“I don’t like this,” Roman said, his voice shaky like the air. “We gotta get outta here. Feels like the walls are closing in!”
“Relax,” Renny said, “we can climb out. Get some pictures of this thing, first.”
“No!” Roman said, “No, we can’t tell anyone about it!”
“What?” Otis asked.
“There’s something wrong here, I don’t know how I know, but I can feel it!” Roman stared around the circle of men. “Can’t you?”
The men looked at one another, shrugging their shoulders, all except Will, who agreed — there was something seriously wrong.
Will spoke, “Can anyone else hear it?”
“Hear what?” Renny asked. “I don’t hear anything.”
Renny often ignored Roman, who tended to blow everything out of proportion, but Renny respected Will and his gifts.
Will had to back Roman up.
“I hear this hum,” Will explained, “something like a voice, but digitally scrambled, like it’s trying to talk. Nobody else hears it?”
“I do,” Roman said.
“Yeah, right,” Otis laughed. “You ain’t got the sparks!”
“No,” Roman said, hands out and pleading, “I do hear it! And I don’t like how it sounds! I can feel it … in my head, crawling like a roach, all twitching and shit. This isn’t good, guys; we need to get the hell outta here. Now!”
Renny looked at Will, “You think we should leave?”
Will looked at Roman; his eyes were already haunted. Will wasn’t frightened, but he was anxious. He agreed. “Yeah, I think we should leave.”
“And not report this?” Otis asked, “You’re kidding, right? This could be some Russian spy shit, or alien technology, and we’re just gonna pretend we didn’t see it? I don’t think so.”
Renny looked at Otis and Roman, then turned to Will. “Otis is right. We need to document this.”
“No! Nobody’s documenting shit!” Roman said; his gun was drawn from nowhere. Though his gun wasn’t aimed at any of them, his posture made it clear he would shoot dissenters.
“Whoa!” Otis said, “Calm the fuck down, Rosetti!”
“No, I see bad shit. This … this thing … it ain’t right. Can’t any of you see it?”
“See?” Will asked.
“Yeah, I’m seeing things, stuff that ain’t right. You don’t see it?”
Will shook his head, not sure if his abilities were letting him down, if Roman’s had grown, or if the man was simply losing it. Of their unit, Roman had bitched the loudest about their assignment; the harsh weather had clearly cracked him.
“I don’t see anything,” Will said. “What do you see?”
Roman screamed, “Get out of my head!” He raised his gun and fired at the black box.
Three things happened at once: Renny screamed, “No!;” the thing that was prying in Will’s head screamed, sending a sharp pain through his skull that sent him to his knees; and Roman fell, dropping his gun and clutching his head.
Roman hadn’t been lying. It was in his head, too.
A flash of white light drowned everything, like a detonation, but without any sensation of heat or pain. One minute they were in the cave, then, the next, they were above ground in the blizzard, with the cave missing.
What the hell just happened?
Will looked around at the men trading stares. Roman stood, shaking, gun dropped in the snow.
Renny decked him.
* * * *
CHAPTER 1 — Brent Foster
Manhattan, New York
September 2013
Brent stood outside the apartment door, nervous, hoping like hell he wasn’t making a mistake.
From the other side he heard a muffled TV — a good sign he hadn’t driven all this way to find no one at home. It was 7:30 p.m., later than Brent would have liked to come, but he’d slept late after finishing his last two articles. He couldn’t fail his clients; repeat business kept him from starving.
He looked at his phone’s screen and matched numbers on the door: 516.
He glanced up and down the enclosed hallway, which reminded him of his former apartment building’s halls: narrow, dimly lit, and desperate for fresh carpet and paint.
Stop stalling. Knock!
Brent knocked, hoping he was right and would see Luis alive.
It felt like an eternity since he was forced to watch Black Island Guardsmen murder an infected Luis; few nights settled without Brent staring into the memory. His heart pounded as he waited for the door to open. He felt odd, hanging so many hopes on Luis being alive. It wasn’t as if this Luis, if he were in fact here, was his Luis. The man he had known — his friend — did die on the other Earth. And he was never coming back. This Luis, assuming Brent’s theory on the 215ers was correct, had no clue who Brent was.
Still, Brent felt a flicke
ring joy at the chance of seeing Luis. When no one answered, he knocked again, louder, his eyes on the glass peephole in the center of the door, eye level. Brent thought he saw movement behind the glass, but couldn’t tell for sure.
A moment later, a man’s voice. “Yeah, who is it?”
Brent couldn’t be sure if it was Luis or not.
“Luis? It’s me, Brent Foster.”
“Who?”
Brent repeated, “It’s me, Brent Foster,” even though he knew that name meant nothing to this Luis. Saying his name as if Luis did know him seemed a decent ploy that might get him to open the door.
“I don’t know any Brent Fosters.”
Brent stepped back, trying to show as much of himself as he could to the peephole viewer and reveal himself as a harmless guy. He decided to take a chance, and say something that might make zero sense to this Luis. Because if it did, it would be impossible for him to keep the door closed.
“We met on October 15, 2011,” Brent said.
Silence …
“Luis?” Brent said after a moment.
The door opened, and the man — it was Luis, or rather his twin on this world — stepped into the hall, gun drawn and aimed at Brent. He looked up and down as if he expected federal agents to start charging towards them at any moment. “Who the hell are you?”
“My name is Brent Foster. We met on October 15. Well, I met another version of you. A you on another world.”
Luis stared at him, expression still confused and cautious, in that order.
“You were with Stan and Melora, part of the 215 Society, I believe you called yourselves. Any of this ringing a bell?”
“If this is a joke, it ain’t funny,” Luis said.
“I swear to God, I’m not joking,” Brent said. “I need to talk to you, I don’t have anyone else. They all think I’m crazy. Listen, Luis, I know about the dreams you had — the ones about the world ending on October 15.”
