Yesterday's Gone (Season Four): Episodes 19-24

by Sean Platt

  But nobody would ever know.

  Hell, he didn’t even realize my sacrifices.

  Marina met the doctor’s eyes. “I can’t go in and see my own father?”

  He stammered, not used to anybody, let alone Marina, turning his questions back on him. She waited, watching him stew in between the desire to snap at her and the caution … just in case her father did return. Father would not take kindly to reports of Dr. Phillips being abusive to his daughter.

  She wondered if he truly believed her dad was coming back. Sure, the others on his payroll probably did, but Dr. Phillips was a man of science, instrumental in many of Father’s scientific and technological breakthroughs with The Current, but not one given to talk of miracles and prophecies.

  “Yes, you may see your father,” he said, as if granting permission. Marina didn’t bother to remind him that she didn’t need it.

  No, there’ll be a time to get forceful, and probably in five minutes or so. But right now, I need to get through this as argument free as I can.

  She turned from the doctor, and her hand finally found the doorknob. She turned it, then stepped inside. The doctor tried to follow, but Marina stopped in the doorway, blocking his entrance, met his eyes, and said, “Yes?”

  He looked back and forth nervously, realizing he’d overstepped his bounds.

  Marina waited for him to leave.

  With the doctor gone, she entered her father’s bedroom, closed the door, and softly turned the lock to keep the man from her intentions.

  Father’s bedroom seemed about as cold as it could get without refrigeration. The room was all white — a pristine ode to cleanliness, order, and minimalism, and took the entire third floor. The room had no furniture, except for the California King and the large chair beside it.

  A sprawling window ran along the western wall, opening to the sea, a cliff below.

  Marina glanced at the tripod-mounted camera to her left as she entered his room, wanting to turn off the video feed and cut prying eyes from her father’s deathbed. But first, Marina wanted to spend a few minutes at his side, before his minions stormed the room and tried yanking her away. Once she set the wheels in motion there was no going back from her plan. They’d probably call the police, not that she thought she’d be breaking any actual laws by killing a broadcast and giving her father’s death a shred of dignity; if it wasn’t too late. But who knew what her father’s men were capable of?

  She sat in the chair to his right, grateful that her back was to the camera. She didn’t want the vultures seeing her tears as she looked at her father. Other than his skin’s ashen appearance, he looked sleeping more than dead. She reached out and touched his hand as it rested at his side, above the white comforter.

  His skin was icy to the touch, another indication giving truth to the lie that he was only sleeping.

  As Marina stared at his face, she felt her anger dissipate, replaced with regret — regret for things she’d never have the chance to tell him. Not just the things she was angry about regarding the Church, but also kind things: thanking him for being a loving father despite his busy schedule; thanking him for rising to the job when her mother died on her 5th birthday; and thanking him for not forcing his beliefs upon her and letting her choose her faith, even if he did pull on her guilt strings to get her to help him at the end. There were so many horror stories of powerful fathers who abused their children through either actions or neglect; her father may have been a confused man, blinded by warped beliefs, but he was also a loving dad who allowed Marina to fumble and find her way.

  He’d been better in recent months, thanks to the machine, which had cured the illness that left him perpetually tired. She never thought he would actually die on Oct. 15. Had she truly believed the prophecy, Marina would’ve said all the things she’d meant to — would never have held back. Even now, as he lay dead, she didn’t believe the prophecy. If anything, Marina figured one of two things happened — either faith that he would die killed him, a self-fulfilling prophecy, or he killed himself to turn prophecy true. Perhaps the “good doctor” had even helped, a matter that Marina would be looking into soon enough.

  Either way, her father was gone, and he would never hear the words she longed to say.

  Marina squeezed his hand and whispered so the cameras wouldn’t hear her, “Thank you, Daddy.”

  His fingers tightened around hers.

  Marina jumped up from the chair, startled, staring down at her father’s inert fingers. She looked at his hand, motionless on the bed, thinking for sure she must have imagined his grip tightening around her fingers. She told herself that it had to be some sort of muscle spasm. She wasn’t sure how long people still moved after they passed away, but four days seemed unlikely.

  As Marina stared at her father, leaning closer, searching for any sign of movement at all, she felt suddenly foolish, like everyone watching the feed’s live stream was seeing her and laughing. She imagined the Internet haters making mash-ups of her jumping back, inserting all sorts of stupid stuff into the video to make her, and her family, look even crazier than their public image already suggested.

  She turned to the camera, and locked her gaze, deciding once and for all that she’d had enough. It was time to pull the plug.

  Marina walked toward the camera and leaned in, looking for the button to stop the recording. Then she heard a voice behind her: her father.

  “Marina?” he said, his voice raspy, dry.

  No, it can’t be.

  She turned, slowly, certain she was imagining her father’s voice as sure as she’d imagined him squeezing her hand.

  But she wasn’t.

  His eyes were open, and he was staring right at Marina, repeating her name.

  “Daddy?” she asked, voice quivering as her heart found new ways to hammer.

  * * * *

  CHAPTER 1 — Dan Konig

  Chicago, Illinois

  September 2013

  Dan eyed the clock at the front of the Shoe Emporium thinking that it wasn’t possible for time to move slower. He had two hours left on his shift, then life would change forever.

  Tonight, Steph would have a C-Section, and their daughter would be brought into the world. Steph had wanted to have their baby the “old-fashioned way” — though not so traditional that she went without medicine — but the doctor convinced her that the C-section was the way to go because of prior complications. This was their third attempt to have a child, and the furthest Steph had made it — eight months and two weeks.

  His stomach churned in anticipation and dread.

  They were hours from change that would last forever. He tried telling himself he was ready, though he had no idea how true that was.

  When they first started trying, five years earlier, Dan had a better job, drawing decent scratch at a construction firm. But two years back, the housing market took another dive, and Dan was suddenly unemployed, having to take whatever job he could get — an assistant manager gig at Shoe Emporium for $11.40 an hour. Not exactly the stable foundation to start a family. But when Steph got pregnant, accidentally even though she was on the pill, what could he do? He wasn’t about to tell her to abort their child.

  They’d figure a way.

  Just like they’d always done before. Just like his own dad had done.

  Two months ago, when Dan finally realized that Steph had an excellent chance of going full term, he admitted to his father that he was scared shitless.

  “I’m not making nearly enough, insurance will kill us, and I don’t know what we’re gonna do. I’m not ready.”

  His father, not usually one for warmth or reflection, surprised him with advice. “If we all waited until we were ‘ready,’ nobody’d ever have kids. That fear will make you a good father. You’re worried, and that means you care; you’ll do whatever you need to.”

  Tears welled in his eyes as Dan thought back on their exchange.

  “Jesus, Dan, you turning pussy on me,” Gary said, returning from l
unch.

  “Just thinking about tonight.”

  “Yeah, I’d be crying, too, man,” Gary joked. “Your life is over! That’s why I’m never gonna knock any of my chicks up.”

  “No, you’re never gonna knock any chicks up because you can’t get laid,” Dan said, laughing.

  Gary looked around, “Damn, it’s dead in here. What’s up with that?”

  “I dunno,” Dan said. They made commission on shoes sold, down time was never good for employees. “I let Brianna go home early. So it’s you and me until Jeff comes in at 5.”

  “Fucking Jeff,” Gary said. “You should hear what he did last night. He was closing and … ”

  A woman entered the store, pushing a stroller. Dan made the sign to “cut the bad language, there’s a customer in the store.”

  Gary went into the back to clock in.

  Dan smiled at the young mother, a cute brunette who looked a bit like Steph. She was pushing a little girl, around 2. “Hi, can I help you?”

  “Hi, do you have girl toddler sneakers, preferably in Velcro? Maybe with Dora or something cute?”

  The little girl looked up to Dan, big, blue eyes, and an adorable smile. Looking at her, and how cute she was, made him that much happier about his approaching fatherhood.

  The little girl said, “Dora?”

  “No, I’m sorry, we don’t have Dora,” he said, not wanting to break her heart. “But we do have some Disney Princess shoes.”

  Dan looked at the mom and said, “Let me show you,” as he walked around the counter and headed towards the right wall of the store.

  Suddenly, an impossible sound thundered over the horrible dance music the store played on a loop — gunshots.

  For a moment, Dan thought he must’ve imagined the sound, or that maybe it was something else, like a car backfiring or maybe someone messing with the mall’s public address system.

  Then a second sound ripped that notion away: many, many screams.

  Dan looked out the glass storefront, across the way to the food court at hundreds of people running in every direction.

  He saw the shooter: a man dressed like a cop.

  “Oh, my God!” the mom said, eyes wide and darting back and forth, searching for somewhere to run.

  Gary came running from the back of the store, saying, “What the fuck?”

  His cursing mattered not at all.

  Dan’s heartbeat sped up as he grabbed his cell and called 911.

  The dispatcher came on, asking for his emergency.

  “I’m at Middletown Mall, and there’s a man shooting people!”

  The dispatcher asked for details as shoppers raced toward the shoe store.

  “Shit, he’s coming!” Dan said, putting the phone in his pocket as he saw the man walking through the mall like he was strolling the park, raising his rifle, and shooting in semi-automatic bursts as if playing Grand Theft Auto.

  Don’t come here, don’t come here.

  Dan watched in horror as a group of young women raced toward the store as if Dan was handing out bulletproof jackets. The gunman slaughtered all three, killing them yards from the entrance.

  The little girl in the stroller screamed, as the mom yanked her from the seat and ran toward the stock room.

  “Yeah, come back here,” Gary said, ushering the woman back as if it was his idea to give her and her child sanctuary.

  Dan was frozen in place, watching, unable to believe what he was seeing. The gunman was looking around as if searching for his next target. Dan stayed there, half hidden behind a display of sports jackets, not daring to move and attract the man’s attention.

  If I stay here, maybe I’ll blend in, and he’ll look for someone else.

  The gunman looked straight at the shoe store’s window, not even 90 yards away, staring straight at Dan.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  More gunshots — a cop on the other end of the food court, taking shots at the attacker.

  The gunman turned around to fire at the cop, Dan seized the moment to race into the back of the store.

  Dan entered the storage room, slammed the door behind him, and locked it.

  He called out, “Gary?”

  “Back here!” Gary said from somewhere in the back of the stock room.

  Dan couldn’t see him beyond the 20 rows of tall shelving. He was about to call out and ask where they were when gunshots ripped through the door behind him.

  The girl and mother screamed. Dan spun on his foot, nearly slipped, then raced along the aisles, ducking into one just as the door burst open.

  Dan froze in his spot, near the front of the aisle where he would be easily spotted if the gunman turned right and started walking.

  Shit.

  Dan’s heart was racing, so loud he was certain it must’ve been echoing throughout the otherwise quiet stock room.

  The room was dimly lit, but offered few hiding spots and no back door. The only way they could avoid the gunman was to stay hidden on the other side of the shelving long enough to sneak back to the front of the store, or until the gunman gave up looking for them.

  In other words, shit was not looking good.

  Dan heard the man’s footsteps, boots, coming towards him.

  Fuck!

  Dan considered running to the end of the aisle, where he could turn down another one, or hide at the end and stay out of the gunman’s line of sight. The end of the aisle was 40 feet off, and may as well have been a mile. If Dan ran, he would surrender his location.

  So, he stayed still as the man continued toward him.

  Turn down another aisle. Turn down another aisle.

  The man kept coming.

  He fired his gun, six quick shots.

  In the back of the room, the little girl screamed. It was muffled, probably under the mother’s hand, but loud enough to broadcast location.

  The gunman turned down the aisle beside Dan’s and started running toward the back of the store.

  Dan froze, not sure what to do. He could probably make it back out into the front of the store and get away. But at the same time, he couldn’t just leave Gary and the mother and little girl back there to die.

  But what the hell can I do? I don’t have a gun!

  Dan heard running up one of the other aisles, and the little girl screaming. They may as well have painted a target on their backs.

  Dan heard the gunman turn and start back up the aisle, looking to head them off.

  He had to do something.

  He looked at his hands, then at the tall shelf in front of him and ran at it, hands out, hoping he could send it toppling onto the gunman.

  Dan heard the mom and girl run from the stock room, and smiled. He saved them. He couldn’t believe it.

  The shelving had tumbled, taking the next two rows with it. Dan heard the man scream as he was buried under shelving. He wasn’t sure where Gary was, but Dan didn’t care quite as much about his safety as the woman and her child. Gary could handle himself.

  He ran, eager to join the woman and her kid, and run as far as they could from the chaos until more cops showed.

  Dan reached the doorway and felt an explosion of pain in his back as the gunman fired several rounds into his flesh.

  Dan went down in an instant, face down, unable to turn and see the gunman shaking the shelving loose and stepping toward him.

  Dan heard the boots approaching, and begged God to spare him so he could see his little girl born.

  Please, God, don’t …

  God didn’t answer his prayer, though.

  The gunman then did his best to make sure Dan could complain to God personally, and shot him dead.

  * * * *

  CHAPTER 2 — Mary Olson

  Mary lowered her foot on the Volvo’s gas pedal, increasing her speed to exactly as fast as she dared without getting stopped. The trip should have taken 15 hours, but she was hoping to make it in fewer.

  Mary was exhausted. They would’ve booked a flight, but she would’ve been hard
pressed to pass Paola off as a child when she looked to be in her mid-20s. No way she could’ve gotten on a flight without ID. So, they drove through the night and into the next day, eager to hit California and get help from the one person who might be able to help them — Boricio.

  Paola slept in the passenger seat, looking so little like her 13-year-old daughter that Mary couldn’t stop crying. Her little girl was gone. In fact, Paola was wearing Mary’s favorite blue dress and black shoes. Mary didn’t expect to be sharing clothes with her daughter for at least another three years.

  But just like that, her little girl was gone, and Paola’s childhood was snuffed to nothing.

  At first, Mary didn’t know what to do after Paola had come home and told her what happened at the hospital. It wasn’t as if she could call the doctor and say, “Hey, my daughter just aged 10 or more years after magically healing some kid.”

  While Mary wasn’t a cynical person, usually, she was just suspicious enough of the government not to go waving a red flag and alert them to supernatural changes in her daughter. She could picture Paola spending years in a lab, probably on this world’s version of Black Island.

  No way in hell Mary was going to let that happen.

  She had cried for most of the night after Paola fell asleep, scared and praying her daughter wouldn’t age another day in fewer than 24 hours. Mary told her to sleep in bed beside her, so she could keep an eye on her, not that Mary had any clue what in the hell she would do if the poor thing started aging in front of her. It wasn’t like she would be able to wake her and stop it.

  But it was far better than the alternative — going to sleep and risking the possibility that Mary would wake in the morning to see a woman her age, or older, laying beside her. If that happened, Mary would lose her mind. She was barely able to maintain her scant sanity as it was, trying her best to act like everything was OK ever since their return from the other (dead) world, if only for Paola’s sake.