Yesterday's Gone: Seasons 1-6 Complete Saga

by Sean Platt

  And they always did. He would find her first; under the bed, in the closet, behind the oak tree outside, behind the hot water heater in the basement, or in the pantry. Once he sniffed her out, he would open her hiding place door with a playful loud roar, then they would spend a few minutes laughing before holding hands and adventuring off together on a quest for Mommy.

  He never took more than a few minutes to find her, and no matter how different the hide-n-seek dreams were, they always had the same sort of ending: the three of them eating ice cream, watching a movie, or doing any one of the million-and-one things Paola had gone from doing to missing each day in the real world.

  Something was different about this dream, though.

  The hide-n-seek dreams always started good and kept getting better. This one had just started and was already turning into a creeping kind of terrible. The shadow of something ugly twisted the familiarity of the usual dream, souring her warm nostalgia into something wretched.

  Paola could’ve sworn she was in the kitchen, but was confused by the long hallway now in front of her. That made what was happening feel like even more like a dream. She was always retracing her steps in her sleep.

  I was in the lobby, then I walked through the restaurant and into the kitchen. But now I’m in a long hallway. And it looks like it goes for miles, like the hotel in Vegas where we stayed when we were still a family.

  Paola spun around. The endless hallway was mirrored on both sides, with 100 identical doors crowding each direction.

  No, this was not the hide-n-seek dream. This was one of the other repeating dreams, where her daddy wanted to show her something, but never got around to it. In these dreams, she always felt lost and alone as she tried to keep up with him, following him for what felt like forever, through twisting halls and endless, winding stairwells. The buildings were always weird and never stayed the same shape for long.

  This felt mostly like that, but this world wasn’t soft like her dreams.

  That’s how she usually knew she was dreaming. Whenever she wondered whether or not she were dreaming, she could push hard on a wall, tree, or other inanimate objects to know for sure. If the object gave under pressure, she was dreaming.

  The world she was walking through now was not soft, though. Despite the changing, impossible architecture, nothing budged under her touch.

  “You’re doing great, Shortcake. Almost there. Just a few more steps.”

  The hallway disappeared, and the doors went with it. Paola blinked and was back in the kitchen, standing in front of a long, steel table, a lot longer than it should have been. On top of the counter, directly in front of Paola, lay a large butcher knife, almost cartoonish in size.

  Paola picked up the blade, its metal handle cold to the touch, and rotated it in her hand, staring at her warped reflection and wondering why she looked so real if this were only a dream. She looked at herself in dream mirrors all the time, but never had her reflection seemed so real.

  She set the butcher knife back on the counter, then walked the half mile or so through the kitchen and into the milky clouds of fog that covered the world.

  She walked for more than a mile, except now the distance had turned real. Not like the fake miles inside the hotel that acted like forever but were only a feeling.

  Rocks, branches, and a shallow pool of shattered glass dug into her feet, stinging and tearing her flesh. She looked down, surprised to see blotches of red on her white skin, brown on the black asphalt.

  The pain in her feet made the dream feeling fade.

  She would have forced herself awake right there, but then she saw a square clearing in the night sky ahead with no fog at all, but rather a neon, blinking billboard that read, DADDY THIS WAY with a big, red arrow aimed in the direction she was walking. She would walk on.

  Just past the billboard, Paola saw the bright, white canopy of a gas station, its rows of yellowed and aged fluorescent lights cutting through the fog. The station sat in the middle of all the light, making it look like an oil painting hanging from the middle of a big, black frame. The darkness surrounding the station made it seem as though all the world’s light was concentrated under the canopy. Most of that light gathered in the middle, bathing a tall man slouched against a fuel pump.

  A chill went through Paola.

  The man was her father, only not quite. Same hair, same smile, same eyes, but different clothes, as though he were dressing up to play her daddy, but he’d missed the finer details that made her dad’s style. He was even wearing one of those hats they wore in old films and Indiana Jones movies. The hat looked fake, but the stubble on her daddy’s cheek was real so Paola raced forward, the pain in her feet all but a distant memory.

  “Daddy?”

  “Paola!” He took off his hat, fell to his knees, and wrapped his arms around her. “I’ve missed you so much, and I was so worried.”

  “I’m so glad you’re okay!” Paola said. “Do you know what happened to everyone?”

  “No, but I do know how we can find out. You have to come with me right now, then we’ll come back and get your mom before she wakes up.”

  “We should go and get Mommy first.”

  “No, we can’t, because she’s sleeping right now and we’d have to wake her.”

  “She won’t mind. Come on, Daddy.” Paola waved her arms back toward the hotel.

  He sighed, then shook his head. “It’s okay, Shortcake, I promise. She won’t even know you’re gone. And as soon as we get back, we can all go out and get ice cream. Your new friends can come with us, and everyone will be happy. It’s just like playing hide-n-seek, except right now your mom’s sleeping instead of hiding.”

  Paola shook her head. “She won’t mind if we wake her up. No one will. They’ll be excited. And she’ll probably be mad if I leave without telling her.”

  “But it’s me, I’m your father. Besides, it’s my week. You’re supposed to be with me right now, anyway.”

  That doesn’t sound like Daddy at all.

  “I want to go back to the hotel, Daddy.”

  Paola’s father rose to his feet, returned his hat to his head and flashed Paola a movie star smile. “Come on, Shortcake. We’ll be 15 minutes tops.”

  Paola shook her head and took a step back. The dream part felt like it was fading.

  “Okay then,” he held his hand out for Paola, “We’ll wake her first, but we’ll have to be careful. You know how fucking awful she is when she doesn’t get her sleep.”

  Paola froze.

  Dream Daddy would never say anything mean about Mommy. Or use that kind of language. Neither would Real Daddy.

  “Why did you say that, Daddy?”

  Paola knew she’d never hear an answer because her father’s face started to change right that second, mouth first as it drooped horribly. The nose went next; shifting, contorting, and folding itself inside out in an angry-looking, liquid motion. It looked like the devil was giving birth, like every bad thing Paola had ever seen, heard of, or thought up, was suddenly given two long and skinny legs.

  Her father’s skin grew bright-red, wet, shiny as the muscles and bones beneath the flesh seemed to churn like someone was running a mixer in the thing’s insides. The monster looked kind of like the black thing they’d seen in the road, but different in ways Paola couldn’t quite place as she had turned away from the creature in the road pretty quickly. It was then that Paola realized with horror that she could not look away from this thing that was not her father.

  Its eyes, dark, black, and evil, were the only constant as its face shifted form again and again like it was searching for the right fit. Her head began to hurt as if something were pressing hard sticks against her skull. Or fingers.

  And that’s when she realized it had reached out and was clutching her skull, and somehow forcing its way into her mind.

  Memories began to flicker past her mind’s eye. Things she’d not thought about in years.

  I’m 5, and we’re sewing a pillow for the Toot
h Fairy. We have to hurry because my tooth is hanging to my gums. Daddy comes in the room smiling. He just finished building a tiny bed for the Tooth Fairy, in case she gets tired and wants to rest before she finishes for the night.

  Her headache grew worse as if her head were being crushed beneath the pressure of the monster’s fingers. And just like that, she could no longer remember what her daddy had built for the Tooth Fairy. And a moment later, she could no longer remember what age she was when the Tooth Fairy visited. And then after that, the memory itself was gone, leaving her confused, as if trying to recall a name she’d heard once five years ago.

  He’s digging through my mind like when Mommy digs through her garden. He’s filling his baskets with memories instead of flowers, and yanking them up by the roots. He’s taking them with him.

  She cried out and tried to smack the monster’s arms away, but her body wouldn’t cooperate. It wasn’t hers to control any longer. She’d become little more than a puppet.

  A few moments later, she lay on the cold, concrete ground of the gas station, unable to remember what happened, or how she’d gotten there. Nor could she remember her name.

  The only thing she knew for certain was she was about to die.

  Twenty-Six

  Charlie Wilkens

  Oct. 17

  Early morning

  Pensacola, Florida

  As they got comfortable in the house in Pensacola, Charlie settled into the hope that things might be okay. They hadn’t seen any creatures since leaving Jacksonville, but they also hadn’t seen survivors. That was just fine by Charlie.

  The house, a three-story mansion on the water, belonged to Bob’s brother, Derek, who was gone to no one’s surprise. Rather than be upset by the news, Bob was relieved to find the brother he hated was on the highway to heaven or hell or where-the-fuck-ever.

  The house was easily the nicest Charlie had ever been inside. The photos of Derek and his family arranged in a neat row on the wall told Charlie exactly why Bob didn’t care for his brother. He was gay, with a black boyfriend and an adopted Chinese toddler girl. Even if Bob weren’t racist, the boyfriend wouldn’t jive with Bob’s hard-line, anti-queer views.

  Charlie wondered how someone like Derek — successful, good-looking, gay, and who didn’t hate minorities — could be related to Bob, who was the tail’s side of the coin on all those things. Well, except the gay part. Charlie figured anyone as homophobic as Bob was probably deep in the closet hiding behind a pink taffeta gown or two.

  Charlie had gotten a taste of Bob’s homophobia the previous fall when he tried growing his hair out to look less geeky.

  “What are you, a faggot?” Bob harangued him repeatedly.

  One time, Charlie was feeling snarky, and answered, “Yeah, want a kiss?”

  Bob answered with a swift smack in the mouth. That night at dinner, Bob demanded Charlie cut his hair or he would hold him down and shave him bald.

  “You’ve got a choice,” Bob said, “You have your mom take you to one of those faggy salons so you can get it cut nice and short or I will strap you down and shave you.”

  “Mom,” Charlie pleaded, “He can’t do this.”

  His mom had that look.

  She wasn’t willing to turn the burner up on Bob’s temper. “You’ll look handsome, honey. We’ll take you to the place Chad’s mom takes him. You like Chad’s hair, don’t you?”

  Charlie just shook his head. He could hardly look at her. He was more pissed at her than Bob. She was his mother. She was supposed to fight for him, not help the enemy. Charlie fled from the table. The next morning, he took his bike and went to the barber he’d gone to for years and got a shorter haircut, vowing to grow it out the minute he turned 18.

  Now, as he drifted in Derek’s pool, Charlie considered growing his hair out again. It was already longer than it had been in years, though Bob hadn’t seemed to notice in some time. The world was gone; Bob couldn’t get too pissed. It wasn’t like Charlie’s haircut would cost him a job with some Fortune 500 company.

  Charlie glanced at Bob, who manned the barbecue grill, cooking some recently-thawed burgers from Derek’s deep freezer. He thought about mentioning his plans to grow his hair, but Bob had been in a decent mood today. No need to rock the boat.

  Callie, who had been in the house reading, came out in blue fleece shorts and a gray T-shirt.

  “Look out,” she said, jumping in next to Charlie, causing him to go under and swallow a huge mouthful of chlorinated water.

  He came up gagging, and saw Callie laughing.

  “Thanks,” he said, splashing water at her.

  She splashed back, and moved closer to him, then jumped behind him, and pushed him under the water.

  “Hey!” he said, coming up, and grabbing her shoulders.

  For a moment, time seemed to slow, and their eyes locked again, as they had in the parking lot. He noticed her nipples poking through her tee, could see the outline of her breasts, as the wet shirt clung to her. He quickly glanced away, but not before she’d noticed. She smiled, then dunked him again.

  He came up, this time behind her, and wrapped her head in a playful headlock. As their bodies touched underwater, Little Charlie was at full attention. As she tried to break free of the headlock, her ass rubbed against his cock, and he couldn’t help but think she noticed. She pulled away, laughing, as she pushed off of him and swam away.

  He went underwater, and closed his eyes trying to wish his embarrassing erection away.

  Baseball … Bea Arthur … that old guy on those bran commercials WITH Bea Arthur.

  When it was safe to come up, Callie was at the edge of the pool, Bob standing over her, chatting her up. Though he was clearly checking out her tits, Callie didn’t seem to notice. She was either the coyest of flirts ever or naive to what men were always focused on. Bob was just smooth enough not to get busted by Callie, but more than a couple of times, Charlie had caught him sneaking peeks. Each time, Bob would wink at Charlie or make a crude gesture.

  Bob said he was just encouraging Charlie to “tap that ass.” But Charlie couldn’t help but think Bob wanted to do some tapping, himself.

  Charlie felt sick, watching Bob joke with Callie while she giggled in waves.

  Is she flirting with Bob? Or is she so nice that she’s oblivious to his creepiness?

  It wasn’t as if there were anything between him and Callie, though they had been getting closer — whenever Bob wasn’t around as the third wheel.

  While Callie was kind of a bad ass, she was also nice, funny, and kind of geeky. Not in a socially awkward way like Charlie, but in the things she liked — comics, video games, and sci-fi and fantasy books. All the same things Charlie liked. It was as if God, or whoever or whatever made everyone vanish, had picked the perfect girl to strand him with. He couldn’t help but think fate had brought her to him. Or perhaps, fate’s cruel sister, irony, to create and present someone so much like him, yet so much better looking that she’d never have anything to do with him.

  Charlie had been relegated to the “friend” role far too many times with attractive girls. If you fell into the friend zone, you never escaped. One girl (who was rejecting him at the time) told him, “A girl knows within 10 seconds if she’ll sleep with you. If you don’t make a great impression right away, you’ll never get with her.”

  Needless to say, Charlie had never made that kind of impression on any girls. He had too many things going against him. He was geeky and homely, with zits, and as more than a few girls had also told him bluntly, he was “too nice.”

  Charlie told himself that “too nice” didn’t really mean too nice. It was code for too ugly, or perhaps the girl was too immature to appreciate a nice guy. Girls his age seemed to like so-called bad boys. And given the number of young women (even 10 years older than him) who seemed to be attracted to losers, he wasn’t sure when that infatuation with assholes ended. He hoped it was before they got old, or he was screwed.

  Callie didn’t seem li
ke other girls, though. So, he had to be very careful not to miss his one chance at bat. He had to make a good impression before she could put him in the friends-only zone. The way he saw it, he had a couple of things going for him. They met in an emotionally charged moment. He saved her life (a brave and selfless act). And, as far as they knew, he was one of the last two men on Earth, and the other was an old, drunk asshole. Even if Charlie wore headgear, had uncontrollable, explosive diarrhea, and suffered from involuntary spasms, he was pretty sure he made a better match for a woman than Bob.

  But Charlie also had things working against him.

  Aside from not being Brad Pitt, he was also a white guy. A VERY white guy, so pale he would likely be a lobster after an hour in the pool. And he didn’t know if Callie even liked white guys. He wasn’t even sure what she was, if she were light-skinned black or mixed race, which the blue eyes made likely. In either event, white guys might not be her thing. He had never been attracted to a black girl before now. Nothing racial, just not something he’d ever considered, just like he wasn’t attracted to redheads. You like who you like, not much you can do about it. But that also meant Callie liked who she liked, and geeky, pale guys might not be on that list.

  And for all he knew, she might like assholes … like Bob.

  Yet, he felt something with Callie. When they spoke, when their eyes met, moments were there, just outside of time, when they seemed to connect on a deeper level. He didn’t know if it was just his brain’s way of lending importance to lust because he was experiencing it, or if it was something real and deep. And maybe Callie was feeling it, too?

  He’d been trying to work up the courage to make some sort of move since last night, but each time they were alone and in deep conversation, Bob would show up to cock block Charlie. Either Bob was oblivious as hell or even more evil than Charlie thought.