Yesterday's Gone: Season One

by Platt, Sean

  A loud POP! on the radio was followed by the word “Boricio,” which despite its clarity, he knew he must’ve imagined. The world could disappear, sure, but some shit just wasn’t possible.

  Like the strength in his shoulders, it didn’t make sense. Boricio felt like he could ditch the Prius and run the rest of the day, though he hadn’t eaten since early yesterday and wasn’t hungry enough to bother with any of the crap food piled in his trunk, even though he’d taken the time to move it from the cruiser to the Prius.

  He was in mid-daydream, imagining pitting his new strength against some 250-pound pussy (the fat ones always liked to fight) when the broadcast from 90.7 suddenly jumped in volume. Boricio heard his name again, no doubt, followed by another 20 minutes of mostly silence seasoned with the muffled versions of the words gone, absent, defunct, dead, and buried, all crackling through the speakers.

  Only one word repeated though, several times, in fact.

  Extinct.

  **

  CHARLIE WILKENS

  “You in there, Charlie?” Bob shouted, rattling the door with his knuckles.

  Charlie’s head was still hurting, but Bob’s sudden appearance had startled him to readiness.

  The whole town ups and leaves and this asshole is still here? The end of the world and it’s me and Bob? Fu-uck me.

  Bob caught a glimpse of Charlie peering through the curtains, so there was no point in hiding. He grabbed the empties and tossed them in Josie’s closet, then headed downstairs and opened the front door.

  “What the hell happened?” Bob asked, pushing his way into the house without invitation. “Where’s your mother?”

  “I dunno, I woke up and you and mom were gone, then I went around the neighborhood and everyone else is too.”

  “Your mom’s gone?”

  “Yeah,” Charlie said, noticing that Bob looked genuinely concerned. “Where were you? I thought you were gone too.”

  That’s when Charlie noticed Bob was wearing his greasy work shirt and cap, with ‘Sal’s Towing’ in ugly cursive letters.

  “I had to cover someone’s shift last night. I was bringing a car to the impound and I must’ve nodded off waiting for the asshole to fill out the paperwork. Next thing I know, I woke up and everyone is gone.”

  “It’s not just our neighborhood, then?”

  “Dude,” Bob said, his eyes wide and nervous, “it’s the whole fucking world. Or at least everything I’ve seen for 50 miles on the highway.”

  Charlie stared, digesting the news.

  “Why are you here? Anyone home?”

  “No, I came looking for my friend Josie, and saw her door was open. So I came inside to see if she was here.”

  “So you broke into her house?” Bob said, his face showing a shadow of the asshole Bob hid beneath the surface.

  “The door was open,” Charlie explained. “I came in to see if anyone was here, maybe hurt or something.”

  Bob stared at him, likely trying to decide if he’d be a total fucking hard ass like he usually was or if he’d let it go on the count of it being the end of the world and all. He turned and headed out the door, “Come on; let’s go home. Your bike’s in the truck already.”

  Charlie wanted to protest, but knew he didn’t have a choice. He was, by all accounts, Bob’s bitch again. He walked like a dog behind him.

  **

  “So what are we gonna do?” Charlie asked, sitting on the couch opposite Bob, who was in His Chair — the chair nobody else in the house dared to sit in — drinking his fifth Nati Light.

  “Fuck if I know,” Bob said, his voice slightly slurred. “Wait for someone, the Army, The Marines, fucking X-Files, I dunno. If you ask me, it’s the goddamned Rapture. God came and took the good folks to heaven so us degenerates could rot.”

  “Don’t you think if it was the Rapture, there’d be a lot more people here than vanished?”

  Bob stared at Charlie for a moment, as if trying to figure out how he felt about Charlie’s response.

  “Shit, boy, that’s the funniest damned thing you ever said.”

  Charlie glanced at the ground and shrugged.

  “You ain’t so bad,” Bob said. “You should talk more instead of always staying up there in that room of yours.”

  Yeah, maybe I would if you didn’t always call me dumbass or retard, or slap me around.

  “How old are you now?”

  Charlie squirmed a bit, not sure where this was going. “Almost 18.”

  “Well, hell, ‘almost 18’ is old enough for a beer. Shit, I was drinkin’ when I was 13. Of course, times were different back then. Go get me another beer and get yourself one too.”

  “You sure? I don’t think mom would want me . . .”

  “Your mom ain’t here, now is she? She’s probably up there in heaven and seeing as you and me are still here, means we’re probably goin’ to hell. So we may as well have some good times till then, eh?”

  “I guess.”

  Charlie went to the fridge and grabbed the last two cans of beer, then returned to the living room and handed them both to Bob, just in case Bob was testing him.

  “Here, crack it open,” Bob said, throwing it to Charlie.

  Charlie pulled back the tab and beer sprayed all over his face and shirt. He let out a yelp before running into the kitchen so his beer could overflow into the sink. As Charlie cleaned himself, Bob was in the living room laughing his ass off.

  “Goddamn, you are funny, boy.”

  Charlie glanced at the beer, still about 70 percent full, then lowered the can into the sink, quietly spilling all but 10 percent or so down the drain. He returned to the living room taking a sip of the beer as he entered. The beer tasted disgusting. Like shit’s shit, if shit could shit. Nowhere near as sweet as the wine coolers he’d downed at Josie’s. He made an awful face and Bob laughed again.

  “Beer virgin!” Bob said like he was some kinda frat boy asshole. Charlie would’ve rolled his eyes if he didn’t think Bob would knock one of them onto the floor.

  Charlie took another swig, though most of it was thankfully gone. He pretended to drink longer than he had been, then put the empty can down and let out a loud burp. That ought to make ole Bob laugh his ass off.

  And it did.

  “Holy shit, you’re done?” Bob said, grabbing the can and shaking it, “Wow, that’s impressive.”

  Charlie smiled and sat back on the couch.

  “You didn’t pour it down the sink or anything, did ya?”

  Charlie’s heart sped up. He wondered if Bob had seen him, but the angle of the kitchen’s opening killed the clear view into the living room.

  “No, but I spilled half the can on myself. And . . . oh shit, the floor,” he said, realizing some had gotten on the carpet, also.

  “Hey, boy,” Bob snapped, a serious glare flamed in his eyes, “you watch your mouth, ya’ hear.”

  Charlie paused, staring at Bob, waiting for him to crack a smile or laugh, or tell him he was just kidding. Hell, Bob had just told him to drink a beer and now he was gonna’ get all hardcore about a curse word? Sure, Charlie never cursed in the house before, but that was out of respect for his mom. He never realized Bob would be Billy Bad Ass about a little foul language.

  Hypocritical fuck.

  Bob continued to glare, “You don’t use that language under my roof.”

  “Yes,” Charlie said, glancing at the floor, not even bothering to point out that it wasn’t his roof, but his mother’s, and that Bob barely contributed to anything, much less rent. God knew what he did with his money, but he sure didn’t give any to Charlie’s mom.

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, sir,” Charlie said, and shrunk into the kitchen to get some paper towels to clean the mess.

  As Charlie sprayed the beer stain with carpet cleaner, Bob got up and went to the kitchen. A moment later he yelled, “Hell, we’re outta beer!”

  Charlie cringed, wishing he’d mentioned that his was the last can. He was even mor
e glad Bob hadn’t seen him pour half the last beer down the sink. He dabbed at the stain, soaking it dry with the paper towels, pretending to be deep in concentration and hoping to avoid Bob’s wrath.

  Bob slammed the fridge, came into the living room, and said, “Come on, kid, we’re gonna hit the store.”

  Charlie jumped up, threw the dirty paper towels away and told Bob he’d be right out, after he went pee, using the word pee, because if shit ticked off Bob, piss would probably make him go nuclear.

  “Okay, hurry up, I’ll be waiting in the truck.”

  Great, we’re gonna go out and do some drunk driving in a tow truck. That should be a blast.

  **

  Bob was a surprisingly good drunk driver, though he still went too fast for Charlie’s tastes. When Bob saw Charlie clenching the hand holder thingee above the passenger side window, he vented another one of his dirty, ain’t I an asshole? laughs.

  “What? You think I’m gonna crash us? Shit, boy, I’ve been driving trucks since before you were an egg in your momma’s snatch.”

  Wow, there’s an image.

  “I’m sure you’re a great driver,” Charlie said, “I was just thinking maybe the beers might impair your driving a bit.”

  Charlie regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. He expected Bob to go ape shit.

  Instead, Bob laughed.

  “She-eeit, it takes more than a six pack of beers to get me intoxicated, kid. You ain’t even seen me drunk.”

  Charlie laughed, uncomfortably. He still had a few bruises that said otherwise, but he wasn’t about to say that!

  The streets beyond their neighborhood were creepy enough to keep the hair on his arms high the entire time. Not a soul on the roads. They passed a few cars here and there, which had seemingly been left running in the middle of the road or crashed on the sides of the streets, but not enough to cause any congestion.

  When they pulled up to Evergreen Square, the closest shopping plaza to their house, the emptiness got louder. The always-full parking lot had been reduced to just three cars. Bob pulled right up to the first spot in front of the Save-A-Lot.

  “Let’s go shopping,” he grinned.

  The store was dark inside, but not so dark you couldn’t see between the daylight and the store’s huge glass facade. The automatic doors were dead, so Bob went back to his truck, opened a side panel and retrieved a crowbar.

  “Stand back, kid, I’ve got a door to open.”

  Charlie thought Bob would pry the doors apart. Instead, being the subtle kinda guy he is, Bob smashed the glass with the crowbar, until he’d made a big enough hole for them to climb through.

  **

  The store was dark and damned creepy without people inside. While Bob grabbed a shopping cart and headed straight to the beer aisle, Charlie was tasked to fill another cart with as much water and food as he could fit. If any other people were left, it wouldn’t be long before they’d be looting the store too, Bob warned.

  “Anyone too stupid to loot was just smart enough to die,” he said.

  As Charlie navigated the aisles, he couldn’t help but feel a thrill from the all-you-can-grab shopping spree. Anything he wanted in the entire store — for free! He imagined Bob was filling his cart with nothing but beer. Maybe some canned meat products and pork rinds too. The idea made him laugh. He could hear Bob on the other end of the store singing some country song about beer, which made him laugh harder. If Bob weren’t such an asshole half the time, Charlie might actually get along with the prick.

  He loaded up on water and soda on one aisle and was shoving every battery pack, flashlight, and battery powered gadget he could find into his cart when he heard a noise one aisle over.

  He froze, listening. All he could hear was Bob’s obnoxious singing. He was in the middle of his aisle, ready to run in either direction. He crouched down and moved closer to the source of the noise and then he heard footsteps.

  Shit.

  The barren store, hell, the barren town, the lack of power, and the general creepiness convinced Charlie he was about to come face-to-face with a zombie.

  Shit, shit.

  He crept toward the front of the store, abandoning the cart.

  The footsteps, which were at the back of the store and heading away from him, reversed course, and were now following his path in the next aisle. He stopped. The other person stopped one step after.

  Charlie was frozen in place, Bob’s drunken singing sounded as though it were a mile away.

  He scanned his aisle, looking for something, anything he might be able to use as a weapon. He wished he were in the cutlery aisle, but the small tool aisle would have to do. He grabbed a generic-looking hammer, orange with a black handle. It wasn’t heavy, but it was metal, and he figured it could do a fair amount of damage.

  He started toward the front of the store again, this time on tiptoe, hammer ready. Silence on the other aisle. He wondered if his stalker was staying put or creeping along with him. He gripped the hammer as he approached the end of the aisle. Once there, he’d have to make a decision whether to round the corner and confront whoever was there or start running and yell for Bob. He’d hate to be imagining things, then go running for Bob like a big baby, so he decided he’d turn the corner and let fate figure it out.

  Bob was still singing, but now it sounded like the out-of-tune was coming from a mouthful of food. Fucker was probably chowing down on raw steaks.

  Charlie inched toward the soda display at the end of the aisle, his heart in his throat as he rounded the corner. His shaky hand clutched the hammer, as he considered the ways he might use it when needed. Swinging it would require getting in close, and if the other person — or persons — had a better weapon, he was screwed. He could throw it, but if he missed, he’d be empty-handed. And he’d be facing an angry attacker.

  He sat frozen and crouched at the end of the aisle, weighing his decision, and glancing toward the other end of the store to see if Bob was in sight. He wasn’t.

  Charlie heard the footsteps, now in full sprint toward him.

  He ducked down, and got ready to swing the hammer. As trouble ran toward him, he cried out, “Bob!”

  He stumbled back just as the figure in blue jeans and a black hoodie shot past him and darted toward the front doors.

  Bob came running, crowbar in hand, and glanced down at Charlie who had fallen to the ground. The person had hopped into Bob’s truck.

  Bob raced from the store, yelling, “Hey, fucker!”

  Charlie followed, gripping his hammer. As Charlie pushed through the front door, Bob yanked the hoodie-wearing punk from the cab and threw him to the ground. He brought the crowbar up and swung. The guy rolled out of the way at the last second and knocked Bob’s legs out from under him. Bob fell to the ground.

  The guy hopped up and raced across the parking lot. Charlie followed, driven by adrenaline, and a desire to do something good in Bob’s eyes by catching the bastard who tried to steal his truck.

  “Stop!” Charlie yelled, as he got closer, emboldened by both the hammer in his fist, and knowing Bob would surely be beside him in a moment and help him deal with the punk.

  Though Charlie couldn’t see anything beneath the hoodie, he could tell the guy was shorter and skinnier than him. So long as he didn’t have a gun — and Charlie didn’t see one — he figured he might have a chance to win a fight for once in his life.

  Charlie was almost close enough to grab the guy. He considered throwing the hammer at the back of the guy’s head, but didn’t want to slow down as he was almost ... catching ... up.

  Just inches away, Charlie dropped the hammer, reached out with both hands and grabbed the hoodie, then yanked the guy back. They collided in a rough roll to the ground which lacerated Charlie’s arms and bruised his ribs and back, but he didn’t release his grip, and the two rolled until they’d come to a stop with the guy on top of Charlie. Only it wasn’t a guy, but rather, a young black girl, close to his age, with short curly hair and pie
rcing, azure eyes.

  He let go immediately. She stood and their eyes locked in a tango of fear and survival. I’m not a threat, are you?

  Just then, Charlie heard Bob’s thundering footsteps, then looked up to see him running up behind the girl, screaming with the crowbar raised.

  “No!” Charlie screamed. The girl spun around just as the crowbar came down. It narrowly missed her head, but hit her hard in her right shoulder, sending her sprawling to the ground as she cried out.

  Bob immediately brought the crowbar up again and was about to take another, surely lethal swing, when Charlie leaped at Bob, pushing him back, and sending the crowbar back where it bounced off the ground with a hollow metal thud.

  “She’s just a kid!” Charlie yelled as Bob stumbled back, but didn’t fall.

  Bob’s bloodshot eyes were crazy, his nostrils flaring. He was out of breath.

  “She’s a kid, man. Relax,” Charlie gasped, leaning on his knees to catch his breath.

  Bob’s eyes relaxed a bit and Charlie turned to the fallen girl, lying unconscious on the ground.

  “Did I kill her?” Bob asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Charlie said, leaning down to feel for a pulse.

  Charlie wasn’t sure whether or not Bob was disappointed.

  **

  MARY OLSON

  Desmond was a fun neighborhood mystery. Everyone loved to guess where he got his money. No one knew what he did, but everyone knew he had to be one of the best. His house, directly across the street from Mary’s, wasn’t larger than hers. But it was just as big and ten times as impressive. You could tell that she was someone who was struggling to stay in such a grand home; he was likely living beneath his means.

  Desmond rarely wore anything other than jeans and a simple shirt, but on him, everything looked custom tailored. Even jeans and tees. He always had new toys, including cars. And new women, or so rumor went. And the one time Mary had been inside his house, she left thinking it was the most beautiful interior she’d ever seen. And his garden inspired jealousy from everyone in the neighborhood. She’d dreamt of the garden more than once.