by Sean Platt
YESTERDAY’S GONE
EPISODE ONE
Copyright © 2011 by Sean Platt & David Wright. All rights reserved
Cover copyright © 2011 by David W. Wright
Edited by Shane Arthur.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, events, or locales is purely coincidental. The authors have taken great liberties with locales including the creation of fictional towns. Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited.
Visit: https://SerializedFiction.com
Layout and design by Collective Inkwell
CollectiveInkwell.Com
* * * *
Dedication:
To You, the reader.
* * * *
INTRODUCTION
When I was a child in 1979, there was a TV show on NBC called Cliffhangers. Each week, they’d bring you three 20 minute segments of ongoing serials. One story was a horror tale about a vampire, the other was a sci-fi/western hybrid, and the last one, a mystery. I don’t remember much of the stories. But I do remember how excited I got each week when the show was about to come on.
And how frustrated I got at the end of each segment when the announcer would tell you that the adventure would be continued next week.
“Arggghh!”
God, how I loved being teased and tormented by that show.
Of course, the network had the last laugh when after just 10 episodes, they cancelled Cliffhangers — before they finished the stories!
The ultimate, “ARGGGHH,” but not a good one.
THE GOOD “ARGGGHH”
Anyway, we’ve all had those “Arggghh!” moments when our favorite shows leave us hanging another week to see what happened. Or, in the case of a season ending cliffhanger, we’d have to wait a whole summer!
“ARRRRGGGGHHHH!!”
I love shows like these. My writing partner, Sean, loves shows like these.
I’m guessing you love shows like these.
Whether we’re entrenched in The Wire, Battlestar Galactica, LOST, X-Files, Game of Thrones, Dexter, Deadwood, Mad Men, or any of the other great shows on TV, there’s nothing better than episodic TV and the cliffhanger.
In 1996, Stephen King released The Green Mile as six chap books, each of them around 100 pages, the first five ending with cliffhangers. He released one a month until he told the entire story.
While writers have been doing serialized fiction forever, and I’d read a few serialized stories in magazines (and comic books), this was my first experience with serialized storytelling in book form.
King had me hooked from book one.
I remember going to the bookstore the minute it opened on the release date of each new book. Then I raced home to devour the book. As a writer, I loved the concept.
SERIALIZED FICTION
Sean and I attempted to release our vampire thriller Available Darkness as serialized web fiction a couple of years ago, posting chapters weekly on our blog. We drew a few readers, but most people emailed us saying the same thing:
“I hate reading on the web. When are you gonna come out with a book?”
This was also the exact moment that our business was taking off and we were drowning in work. Putting a book out was not gonna happen. So we reluctantly put Available Darkness on hold until we could finish it properly and release it as a book.
And then last year, eBooks and Print On Demand took off. Suddenly people were reading on Kindles and iPads in record numbers.
That’s when we knew we had to finish Available Darkness and get it out to the few loyal people we left hanging. (Released August 9, yay!)
But in this era of indie publishing, we also saw another opportunity. To get back to what we really wanted to do — write serialized fiction and get it to you. As a writer, there’s no more awesome feeling than creating something that people get wrapped up in and can’t wait for the next installment.
And unlike 1996, you don’t have to drive to a bookstore to get the next copy. Instant downloads from Amazon at a low price.
THE PLAN
We’ve got a few stories we’re working on in the background. Our plan is to release a new episode of Yesterday’s Gone every three weeks (updated from our original once a month plan) until the first season is over. Each book will be 100 pages or so (just like The Green Mile, that seemed like a good size) and each series will be six books.
And then we’ll either release season one of our next title like HBO rotates its hit shows, or go straight into season two of Yesterday’s Gone, depending on how things go and where we’re at with our other books.
I’m not sure how many other writers are out there doing serialized eBooks. But I think the time has never been better for this type of fiction.
And we’re looking forward to taking you on one hell of a ride and giving you some “ARGGGHH!” moments that will make you throw your Kindle across the room.
Or just slam it down gently into your pillow.
Let us know how we’re doing. Leave a review at Amazon or stop by https://SerializedFiction.com and drop us a line.
Thank you for reading,
David W. Wright
See you on August 22 with Episode 2!
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BRENT FOSTER
Saturday
October 15, 2011
morning
New York City
On the day everything changed, Brent Foster’s biggest concern was getting an hour to himself. But hell if he wouldn’t have settled for 15 minutes.
His head was pounding when he woke, as if he’d spent the night partying rather than staying late at the paper. Fortunately, it was his day off. He glanced at the alarm clock and saw that the blue numbers were black. The fan he used to drown out the sounds of his neighbors and traffic was off too. The power must’ve gone out.
Great.
Judging from the morning sun coming through the opening in the curtains, he figured it was probably 9 a.m. And since he couldn’t hear the sounds of his rambunctious three year old at play, Gina must’ve taken Ben for a walk or play date at the park.
He smiled. He loved when he had the apartment to himself. Moments alone were so rare these days. He worked under constant deadlines in the newsroom, still always hustling and bustling, even with the layoffs. Then, at home, his son was usually awake and in need of some daddy time.
“He just wants to spend time with you,” his wife would say, tugging at Brent’s threadbare guilt strings. “You’re always working.”
Brent wasn’t completely antisocial, even if Gina might argue otherwise; he just needed time to decompress when he woke and when he got home. He was just wired that way. If he didn’t get time, he grew moody and anxious. And he was short with Ben, which carried the rough consequence of feeling shitty for hours, one hour for every second he was uncool to Ben. The last thing he wanted to be was like his own dad, yet some days, he was headed there with a full tank of gas and a brick on the pedal.
He was in a better mood when he could start the day alone. Today, it seemed, would start just right.
Brent walked into the living room, popped open the fridge, off but still cold. He grabbed a bottle of water and took a deep swig as his eyes scanned the counter for a note from his wife. She always left a note when she went somewhere. But, apparently, not today. Brent took another swig of water and headed down the hall to his son’s room. The door was closed; big blue wooden letters spelled BEN on the door. Brent peered inside. The bed was unmade, curtains drawn, even though Gina always opened them when Ben first woke. Both pairs of Ben’s sneakers were sitting on top of his blue wooden toy box that doubled as a benc
h.
Brent was confused. Gina wouldn’t take Ben from the apartment without shoes.
He went back into his room, fished the cellphone from his pants, and glanced at the time. 10:20 a.m. Later than he thought.
He dialed Gina’s cell and put the phone to his ear.
No sound on the other line.
Phones are down, too?
Brent dialed again, same result.
Mrs. Goldman.
They had to be at the apartment across the hall, Mrs. Goldman’s. Her husband had passed away a few months earlier. Gina had started bringing Ben over to keep her company. She loved Ben and he loved eating her cookies — a perfect match.
Brent slipped on some sweatpants, then headed across the hall and knocked on the door. The lights in the hall were out, save for four emergency lights spaced every five doors along the ceiling.
Mrs. Goldman always took forever to answer the door. Brent suspected she was going deaf, even though she had a keen ear for neighborhood gossip. He knocked louder. Still, no answer.
Mrs. Goldman never went anywhere. Ever. Her only other family was her worthless son, Peter, who never visited. The few times Gina had invited her to the store or for a nice afternoon lunch, Mrs. Goldman declined. She didn’t care much for the city. Was only there because her husband loved it. Now he was gone, and she was happy to spend her days watching TV, reading her mysteries, and playing bridge with some of the other ladies twice a week.
“Mrs. Goldman,” Brent called, “Are you there?”
Nothing.
Weird.
Brent didn’t know the other neighbors on his floor, but Gina had recently become friends with a young mother a few doors down. Maybe they went there, Brent figured. He walked toward the end of the hall, but couldn’t remember if the woman lived in number 437 or 439.
He tried knocking on 437 first.
No answer.
He tried a couple more times, then went to 439.
No response.
What the hell?
People were always home, or at least it seemed that way. Brent was never able to sleep in because his neighbors were loud and the walls were thin. He’d wanted to move somewhere quieter for years, somewhere with neighbors who actually left the building every now and then. Brent turned and tried the door across the hall, 440.
No response.
What the hell?
Brent turned around and headed up the hallway, stopping to knock at each door along the way.
One, two, and then five more doors. Nothing. He continued down the hall, his heart thudding, knocks turning to pounding at each door.
By the time he reached the end of the hallway, he was hot and sweaty, yelling. “HELLO?! ANYONE?!”
Nothing but black silence. The darkened hall seemed to constrict as his mind started racing.
Impossible. There’s no way that nobody’s home. No fucking way. Unless . . .
Terrorists.
The word bubbled to the surface as an answer to a question he’d not yet had the courage to ask. They were in New York, so it wasn’t implausible. He raced back to his apartment, door still open, went to the windows and pulled the curtains aside, then looked down on the city streets. The empty city streets.
Brent was speechless, his heart on pause, eyes swimming in and out of focus.
“What the fuck?”
It didn’t add up. If there were an attack, there would be bodies. If there was an evacuation, surely his wife would’ve woken him. Unless maybe it happened while she was out and unable to get back.
That thought died on the vine when he spotted Gina’s purse and keys on the kitchen table, right where she put them every night before bed, ready for the next morning.
He looked back down. No people. No cars on the street. Well, none that were moving, anyway. Brent could see a handful that were either in the middle of the street, or had crashed into the cars parked on the opposite side of the street. He could see exhaust from some of the cars, their lights still on.
It was as if everyone on his block just simultaneously vanished. Everyone except Brent.
He went to Ben’s room again to get a look from his son’s window, which had a slightly better angle at the cross street. Something sharp stung his foot. He cursed as he stumbled, glancing at the carpet to see a small blue train.
Stanley Train, Ben’s favorite toy, which he carried with him everywhere, including to bed. It was there, just sitting on the floor. Brent bent and picked it up. Its wide eyes and eternally giant smile stared back at him. Wherever his little boy was, he was without his favorite toy.
He set the train on Ben’s pillow and returned to his room. He got dressed, then grabbed his keys, wallet, and phone. He shoved everything in his jeans, then went to the kitchen, found the notepad and a pen and left a note for Gina.
“Where did you go? Went outside to look for you. Knocked on doors at our neighbors, nobody’s home. I’ll be back at 1 p.m. If you come home, wait for me.
Love,
Brent”
Halfway through the front door, Brent thought of something, then went back to his son’s room, grabbed Stanley Train from the pillow and put it in his pocket.
**
Brent took the stairs down to the next floor, and started knocking on those doors, despite not knowing anyone on this floor.
At the sixth door without any response, he worked up the courage to try a doorknob. Locked.
Halfway down the hall, he got an idea. He found the fire alarm and pulled it. The alarm blared; a banshee shriek amid the quiet. Brent covered his ears, watching the hall, waiting for people to flee.
Not a single door opened.
“Fuck it,” Brent said, and went to apartment 310, tried the knob. It was locked. He backed up a bit, kicked at a spot right below the doorknob and was surprised at how easily the door burst open. Why even have locks?
“Hello?!” he shouted.
No response.
The apartment was as vacant as his own. Pictures on the wall showed a Puerto Rican family of four. Parents with two twin boys, about 10 years old. He was about to leave the apartment, but movement grabbed him. Something just beyond the sheer curtains covering the living room window. He moved closer and saw the slinky silhouette of a cat sunning on the windowsill. How it could relax with the alarm blaring was beyond Brent, but then again, so were most things feline.
He went to the curtain, pulled it aside, and saw the white long-haired cat stretched out, face nuzzled against the warm windowsill. As he reached out to pet the cat, it started to roll over to show its belly. As it turned, Brent jumped back.
The cat’s face had no eyes or mouth.
Brent fell back two steps, letting the curtain fall into place, his heart racing, half expecting the monstrosity to jump on him or worse. He stared at the curtains, dread creeping up his spine.
What the hell is that?
He watched the cat’s silhouette as it laid back down. He worked up the courage to pull the curtain aside again to make sure he’d seen what he thought he’d seen. The cat’s face was turned down, so he had to reach out, hesitantly, again and pet its head to get it to look back up at him. As his fingers touched the cat’s fur, he felt a slight shock, like static electricity. The cat didn’t seem to notice the shock. It began purring in response to the touch, then lifted its chin to meet Brent.
Only this time, the cat had eyes, wide blue ones, and a mouth.
Brent shook his head, feeling stupid. He continued to pet the cat’s head as the alarm kept ringing.
“You deaf, kitty?” Brent asked.
No response. Which was a good thing, or Brent might have just jumped right out the window.
He glanced out at the street below to see if tenants were pouring from the building’s lower floors because of the fire alarm. If so, he didn’t see anyone.
As the curtain drifted back into place, he saw movement on the street below.
He snatched the curtain aside again, and glanced down at t
he apartment building across the street. A man in a dark sweater, baseball cap, and pants emerged from beneath the green awning and onto the street, looking around. He was too far away to get a good look at, particularly under a baseball cap, but something about his gait suggested he was nervous.
Brent jumped up, excited, and began smacking the window, yelling, “HEY! HEY!”
The cat leaped down and scurried out of sight.
The man on the street didn’t seem to hear Brent. He was walking north along the street, sticking to the sidewalk. Brent stopped trying to get his attention. While the man did glance over at the building a couple of times, likely drawn by the sound of the siren, his attention was mostly on something further down the road that Brent couldn’t see.
Brent watched, waiting to see where the man would go.
He seemed to be looking for someone. The man pulled a pair of binoculars out of his jacket and scanned the street in both directions. Then, he raised his binoculars up toward Brent. Brent waved frantically. For a moment, the man paused, and Brent was certain that he’d seen him. But he put the binoculars down and turned quickly to the north side of the street as if he’d heard or seen something.
The man lifted the binoculars to his eyes and focused to get a better look at whatever had his attention.
Brent turned, pushing his face against the window, struggling to see whatever the man was now staring at, but the angle was marred. He looked back down at the man, only to see him running as fast as he could in the opposite direction, and back into the apartment building he’d come from.
Brent pressed his face against the window again, struggling to see what scared the hell out of the guy. Whatever it was, he couldn’t see it.
Hide, a voice in Brent’s head said. Hide now.
It’s coming.
* * * *
MARY OLSON
Saturday
October 15, 2011
morning
Warson Woods, Missouri
Mary woke up sticky.
Another dream about Ryan, the sixth one in the last two weeks. Weird. She probably hadn’t thought of him for a month before that. Or longer. Though she couldn’t help but picture her ex from time to time since their daughter was his spitting image — well, a cuter, girly version, anyway.
