Yesterday's Gone: Season One

by Platt, Sean

  Charlie collapsed to the back of his seat.

  “Funny thing is, I think I would’ve been able to tolerate Bob if he hadn’t been such an asshole to my mom. But he treated her like total shit, always tearing her down and making her feel small. She used to be fun, before Bob. You can call me a pussy, but she was probably my best friend before she met him. And over time, he sucked her dry, took her joy and turned it into fear and emotional slavery.”

  The truck was quiet for nearly a full minute, when Boricio glanced in the rearview and said, “Pussy.”

  Charlie closed his eyes and then burst into laughter. Adam joined and the three of them laughed for about half a mile. Ahead, was a gas station. Lights out, nobody home. Boricio parked, then turned back to Charlie and Adam.

  “Most of the world’s fuckers are dead,” he said. “But, Charlie, it looks like you got yourself a raw deal with your personal fucker making it through the apocalypse and then taking your bitch on top of it. How would you feel about the three of us gentlemen paying a friendly visit to dear Ole’ Bob?”

  * * * *

  LUIS TORRES

  October 17

  6:40 a.m.

  East Hampton, New York

  Brent, Jane, and Emily stared out the window as the ferry’s lights sliced through the morning fog. The ferry wasn’t supposed to resume until 8 a.m. but the clock read 6:40 a.m.

  “It’s time to go,” Brent said, turning to Luis.

  “I dunno,” he said, “Something’s weird. Ferry wasn’t supposed to show until eight.”

  “Maybe they’re early,” Brent said, “Or maybe eight is the departure time, but they board early.”

  No, something was wrong. Luis felt it in his gut.

  “I dunno,” Luis said. “I say we wait a bit.”

  “What are you talking about?” Brent said. “You think aliens commandeered a ferry?”

  “No, it’s not that,” Luis said, now literally feeling something in his gut. Sharp pain pierced his stomach, causing him to double over. He felt like he had the worst case of food poisoning ever.

  “You okay?” Brent asked.

  He shook his head, no he was not alright.

  He raced up the stairs to the dark, windowless bathroom, then fell to his knees, just making it as his insides flew up and out his throat, then exploded into the toilet. He slammed the door, then reached out and grabbed the flashlight from the sink. He clicked it on, then set it back on the sink, light pointed at the ceiling.

  He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, hoping that was all he had in him. The invisible blades twisted in his stomach another time. He cried out then let loose another explosion into the toilet. The liquid came out thick, like black ropes. He grabbed the flashlight and pointed it into the toilet bowl to see what he’d evacuated. The vomit actually looked like rope. No, not rope. It was moving.

  Like worms.

  He slammed down the metal toilet handle to flush the mess, then glanced at his arm again. The worms beneath his skin had multiplied. On a whim, he looked at his left arm, which hadn’t been bitten. Worms were racing under his skin there, too. It was spreading throughout his entire body. Infected!

  What the hell is in me?!

  Outside, Brent knocked on the bathroom door. “Are you okay?”

  “Go away!” Luis snapped, reaching out and locking the door.

  He puked again, then stood and swung open the mirrored medicine cabinet so hard the mirror shattered.

  He scanned the shelves until he found what he was looking for — an old fashioned razor blade.

  Brent banged on the door. “You okay?”

  Jesus, this guy is annoying.

  “I’ll be out in a bit,” Luis growled, “Go away.”

  He grabbed the razor, looked back down at his arm, at the damned fucking worms, and ran the blade across his right forearm.

  He clenched through the pain, as blood poured into the sink. His blood was dark amber, almost the color of liquid rust. He set the blade down, and dug two fingers into the open wound, fished for two of the bastard worms, wet and white with streaks of blood, and circled his fingers around them, and pulled. Rather than breaking apart as he feared they would, the worms held as he pulled them like slick noodles from his arm. He pulled six inches, twelve, and finally a full fifteen inches in length until he’d pulled two entire worms from his body.

  He held them up, inspected the heads: a tiny open mouth, with several needle-like teeth. The worms slithered in his hand, slippery and coated in a mix of blood and black liquid.

  Jesus Christ.

  He threw the worms into the sink in disgust. They smacked the sink like wet spaghetti, then darted toward the open drain and vanished down into the plumbing.

  His mind was in full panic mode, wanting, no, needing to yank every last one of the fuckers from his body. He was about to dig back into his arm when he noticed the wound had begun to heal itself.

  Panic receded, replaced by awe as he watched his skin stitch itself together, leaving the wound a memory.

  What the fuck am I?

  He stared into the mirror, and saw something moving beneath the skin just under his left eye. He closed his lids and leaned forward, letting the top of his head press against the cold mirror.

  A knock at the door. Again.

  He unlocked the door, yanked it open, and saw Brent.

  “What?!” he yelled.

  Brent stepped back, eyes wide. Luis realized he was losing his temper, something he rarely did. He prided himself on remaining calm under any stress. But this was something else. Stress, anger, and fear were dueling for control of his mind… likely along with whatever had invaded his body.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. He wasn’t feeling sorry, but knew what he was supposed say. In reality, he felt a sudden urge to hit Brent. Hard. He swallowed it.

  Brent said, “We’ve gotta get going. I don’t wanna take a chance that the ferry will leave without us.”

  “I’m not going,” Luis said.

  “Why not?” Brent’s eyes scanned the bathroom; broken glass, blood, black liquid, and a razor blade. No fooling this reporter. “Oh my God, what happened?”

  “Just go; get on the ferry with the girls, and leave.”

  “I’m not going without you,” Brent said. “Come on, these people at Black Island can help you.”

  “Really? And how do you know that, Mr. Reporter Guy? Is that something your fucking paper wrote about?”

  Even though Luis knew he was completely overreacting, he couldn’t help himself. He was getting increasingly pissed each time Brent opened his mouth and didn’t just leave him be. He shouldn’t have to explain himself.

  “We need to get you help,” Brent said, eyes meeting Luis’s.

  The rage subsided, as quickly as it came, replaced by fear, regret for what he’d said, and a new, bottomless sorrow. Whatever was inside him was fucking with his emotions big time.

  “You need to go without me,” Luis said. “Something’s happening. And I don’t want to hurt anyone.” He was on the verge of tears.

  “I told you, I’m not leaving you, man. We’re gonna get through this. We’re gonna find our families.”

  Luis smiled, unable to meet Brent’s eyes. “That dream, again?” The smile dissolved to tears as he pictured his daughter’s sweet smile. He thought again of their final day together. So many kids these days seemed to be almost born jaded, yet Gracie was still innocent, loving him with a sincerity and openness that melted the walls he’d so carefully built around his heart... just as her mother had done.

  He swallowed hard, tears stinging his eyes.

  “Do you think she’s still alive?” Luis asked.

  “I do,” Brent said, putting a hand on Luis’s shoulder. “I really do.”

  “Goddamn, you hopeful bastard,” Luis said, trying to manage a smile.

  “And you think the people on the island can help me?”

  “Yes,” Brent said.

  “How do you know, though?”
Luis asked, entirely aware he sounded like a scared child, but unable to keep his emotions from riding off the rails.

  “I feel it, just like you all felt your visions of October 15 were real.”

  Fair enough.

  Downstairs, Jane called, “Come on, I think the ferry is about to leave.”

  “Leave?” Brent shouted, “It’s not even close to eight!”

  Luis closed his eyes, fighting back the tears. He wanted to believe Brent. Wanted to have faith. Wanted to take a chance and believe he wasn’t going to become a monster like Joe had. That he might see his little girl again.

  Stranger things had happened.

  He stood.

  “Okay, let’s go.”

  * * * *

  CALLIE THOMPSON

  October 18

  Pensacola, Florida

  Callie spent much of the day alone after Bob saved her and brought her back “home.”

  She couldn’t tell for certain if he knew that she’d drugged him or not. He was acting weird, telling her he needed time to “think about shit and stuff.” Which was fine by her. She went up to her room and decided to pass time. Without power, though, she didn’t have much to do. So she went to Charlie’s room hoping he’d left behind some books or comics, anything to read, really, other than the business books which made up most of the home’s library.

  She was disappointed to find that he’d taken the duffel bag which had the good books and graphic novels. She was about to leave the room when she saw a smaller blue duffel bag in the corner. She put the bag on the bed and unzipped it. Inside were a dozen or so spiral notebooks, most of which were well-worn, outsides filled with doodles and sketches of monsters, shapes, and alien landscapes. Charlie was a pretty decent artist.

  She pulled out the top notebook with a green cover. The pages were filled with math problems interspersed with more doodling. The next few notebooks were also filled with schoolwork, though some pages had better drawings. One of them was an ink sketch of a girl sitting at a desk, which he’d obviously drawn during class. The way he’d drawn the girl with such detail, features soft while his other images were rough and unfinished, seemed to indicate a crush on the subject. It was like peeking into the mind of a teenage boy, something she’d never had such open access to.

  She was somewhat surprised that his drawings were not all pornographic in nature. She imagined most boys who had the talent to draw, would draw all sorts of lurid stuff, both real and imagined.

  Charlie was a nice kid. Callie smiled.

  She heard Bob downstairs making something in the kitchen. She stuffed Charlie’s notebooks back in the bag, rushed to her room, and shoved the bag under her bed. The thought of Bob catching her looking at the spirals made her stomach turn. No doubt he’d want to check them out and likely have a good old laugh at Charlie’s expense.

  Callie had known a lot of guys like Bob in school. Insecure, usually jock types, who seemed to thrive on bullying those weaker than them. Different than them. She never understood why so many girls went for such assholes. Then again, girls acted the same way, viciously going after anyone who didn’t fit into their tightly-formed cliques. Callie had run-ins with such people until she learned to stand up for herself.

  When she was in eighth grade, this girl, Brianna, decided to make it her personal mission to make Callie’s life miserable. She started spreading rumors, intentionally bumping into her, laughing, and name calling. Callie never let the bitch see her sweat, though. She did her best to ignore the girl. But at night, she often cried to her mom. Her mom always told her she was doing the right thing to ignore the abuse. Eventually, her mom said, Brianna would find someone else to pick on.

  That hardly seemed like an answer to Callie, though. Even if the girl had moved on to someone else, she was still being a bully. And that her mom thought it was okay so long as Brianna wasn’t picking on her, bothered Callie.

  After four months, it was apparent that Brianna wasn’t going to find a new target, though.

  One day after gym, Callie went to her locker to change out of her sweaty gym clothes, and was shocked to see that someone had opened her locker and doused her clothes, her purse, and books in vinegar. They also wrote “NIGGER DYKE” in big red marker across the inside of the locker.

  “Geez, Callie, douche much?” Brianna said, cackling with her catty clique.

  Callie wanted to cry. But she wouldn’t let Brianna have that satisfaction. She closed her locker, and began to walk away, intending to tell the gym teacher, Mrs. Parker.

  And then something hit the back of her head.

  She turned around to see a wad of paper on the ground.

  And that was it.

  Callie lost it. She ran straight at Brianna, screaming like a maniac, and shoved the girl backwards into the locker.

  Brianna’s eyes were wide in disbelief.

  She never expected someone to hit her, least of all, Callie. Brianna might have backed down right there, if not for the girls all gathering around them, chanting, “fight, fight, fight,” like a mob demanding blood. Callie had little doubt whose blood they wanted to see. People only rooted for the underdog in movies, not in middle school.

  While part of her wanted to turn and run away, and take back the last minute of her life, another part told her she had to own the moment and do what needed to be done.

  She cocked her arm back and punched Brianna in the face as hard as she could. And again, as Brianna scrambled sideways and fell to the ground.

  Callie fell on top of her, swinging, fists pounding into Brianna’s face, head, and chest, screaming the whole time — in part because she was enraged, but also to scare anyone else from even thinking about jumping in to help Brianna. No way could she take on a whole mob of girls.

  Finally, someone did step in. Arms closed around her and pulled her off of Brianna. Callie screamed, and was going to turn around and strike out until a voice in her ear said, “Calm down!”

  It was Mrs. Parker, who’d always been super nice to Callie. She wrapped her arms around Callie until she calmed down, while the rest of the girls gathered around Brianna, who was still on the ground.

  “She’s not getting up,” one of the girls said.

  Another coach, Mrs. Timmons, rushed over and picked up Brianna, “We’ve gotta get her to the school nurse.”

  As Mrs. Timmons carried Brianna out of the locker room, Callie realized how badly she’d hurt Brianna. The girl’s face was covered in blood as if she’d been attacked by a dog or something. And as the door closed and Callie sat transfixed by the moment, she realized everyone in the locker room was staring at her. Staring at her with a mix of fear and something else, which Callie would soon recognize as respect.

  At first, Callie was afraid she’d hurt Brianna so badly that the girl might die. When she didn’t die, Callie was worried that Brianna was so embarrassed by the event that she’d spend months plotting revenge, which would lead to an ever-escalating war that would end up with someone dead. However, that didn’t happen, either. Brianna had to be on her best behavior as her parents were busy trying to sue the school and even Callie’s mom, painting Brianna as the golden child who was roughed up by a thug. There were even accusations that it was a hate crime, with Callie being the perpetrator. But too many girls had come forward and told what Brianna had written on Callie’s locker.

  Nothing came of the threats, thankfully. And Brianna’s dad got a new job, so the family moved at the end of the school year.

  That was the last time anyone had fucked with her like that. Sure, some petty shit happened, but no outright bullying.

  Once Callie heard Bob go back to his “thinking room,” she grabbed another spiral notebook from Charlie’s bag, and settled into the bed. This spiral was black, no drawings on the outside, and in neater condition than the others. She opened it and her eyes widened at what she’d found — Charlie’s diary.

  She closed it at first, her gut telling her not to read what she had no business reading. Howeve
r, curiosity led to an inner debate over whether any real harm could come from sneaking a peek. Perhaps, she reasoned, she might gain a better understanding of him, which might help her find him. That seemed like a good reason to read, she decided.

  She wasn’t being nosy, just caring.

  She found herself back in the pages which were dated a year ago.

  Dear Dad,

  I don’t know how much longer I can take this.

  Nothing is the same.

  If you could see mom now, you wouldn’t even recognize her. She used to be so vibrant and happy. She liked to do things. She liked to do things with me. But now, Bob sucks up her time and energy like some sort of black hole.

  He’s a freaking vampire, sucking joy and happiness instead of blood. It’s like the lives we lived before he came along don’t exist. It’s like YOU never existed.

  Sometimes, I’ll mention you at the table, and mom will get all uncomfortable like it bothers Bob, so I ought not to do it.

  What the hell? She’s betraying you for BOB?!

  God, dad, if you could see him, you would just laugh. He’s nothing like you. If someone looked up the antonym of you in a thesaurus, they’d see this smiling cancer of a human.

  I don’t know why mom had to marry him.

  I mean, I could maybe understand if he had lots of money or something.

  I like to think sometimes you can read these letters I write to you. That sometimes you can see our lives from wherever you are. But times like this, I think it’s better that you can’t see us. You can’t see what’s become of mom.

  Or how I’ve let it happen.

  Love,

  Charlie

  Callie’s eyes filled with tears.