Yesterday's Gone: Seasons 1-6 Complete Saga

by Sean Platt

  She went inside the room and into an explosion of purple. Light-lavender walls, dark-purple curtains and bedding, and dark-purple wood trim on the door, closets, and baseboards. It was a room Callie could definitely live in. Very cute. On the walls were some anime posters Callie wasn’t familiar with. She was strictly a Marvel and DC girl. In the corner, a shiny, creamy-purple BC Rich electric guitar and Peavey amp.

  “Cool!” Callie said, picking it up and strumming with a dark-purple pick that matched the strap. She wished the power were on so she could do a little shredding. She wasn’t a great guitar player by any stretch, and didn’t have the patience to learn other people’s songs. Mostly, she played her own tunes. But she hadn’t played anything in more than a year, since her band broke up due to excessive bitchiness of two of its members.

  The strings felt good beneath her fingers. Felt right. She regretted not playing more.

  She strummed a few chords, trying to remember a song she’d been working on. Just when she got it, and fell into a rhythm, she heard the door slam open downstairs.

  Shit! Bob!

  She sat the guitar on the bed, ran to the closet, and slid the door open. Despite the room’s neatness, Meghan’s closet was stuffed with boxes and mountains of clothes. Callie wedged herself inside, trying to keep quiet while also listening for sounds of footsteps coming up the stairs. It was a tight squeeze, but she managed to get in and slide the door shut, leaving the thinnest of cracks, still allowing her a thin sliver to peek outside. She wondered what she’d do if Bob came into the room. If she’d stayed where she was, she could have innocently claimed that she was just looking for Charlie.

  But now that she’d hidden, her intentions were clear. She was on the run. And he would be pissed. And worse, if he realized she’d drugged him, he’d probably kill her. She grabbed the gun from her jacket pocket, and wondered if she could pull the trigger. This morning, when she realized Bob had raped her, she could easily have shot him. But now, a few hours later, her anger had been replaced with a steady drip of mounting fear.

  The closet was an echo chamber for her rapid heartbeat and shallow breaths. She put her left hand over her mouth as if it could silence the sound of her breathing.

  A crash sounded downstairs, something being knocked over.

  Bob was pissed.

  Then another crash.

  And another.

  Suddenly, Callie began to realize it probably wasn’t Bob downstairs. As if the intruder sensed her realization, the creature made its horrible clicking.

  And it wasn’t alone.

  Thirty-Eight

  Boricio Wolfe

  Oct. 18

  Somewhere in Alabama

  Boricio took off his blindfold.

  Well, fuck me.

  He almost didn’t believe what he saw.

  That pile of shit Moe wasn’t wearing a blindfold, and he sure as hell didn’t have a fucked up face. The other captives were as they said, knees on burlap and rags over their faces. And like he said, Adam looked just old enough to buy beer without getting carded. But Moe, that fucker was on his knees, and though his hands were behind his back and bound like everyone else’s, he was in full custody of his eyesight. For now.

  Moe drew a surprised breath the second Boricio leapt to his feet.

  They stared at one another, neither speaking. The prisoners rustled beside them, sensing movement and tension, but could see nothing and prove even less.

  Boricio slithered toward Moe, but Moe didn’t flinch or move. At least not much. His lips were quivering, and his breath was scattered all over the place.

  Boricio sniffed the room then put his hand at the back of Moe’s curly mat of hair and yanked it by the root. Moe whimpered. Boricio leaned in and whispered low enough so only Moe could hear him, barely.

  “The itsy bitsy spider, crawled up the water spout ... ”

  Boricio’s fingers crept along the back of Moe’s neck.

  “Down came the rain and washed the spider out. Out came the sun and it dried up all the rain ... ”

  His fingers crawled over to the other side, the longest one making a circle inside Moe’s ear. “The itsy bitsy spider, went up the spout again.”

  “What ... what do you want from me?” Moe started to shake.

  Boricio bit the edge of Moe’s ear, right at the cartilage, just enough to hurt like a hard-on bent in half, but not enough to draw blood. He whispered again:

  “The itsy bitsy spider, crawled up the water spout. Down came the rain and washed the spider out. Out came the sun and it dried up all the rain ... ”

  “You don’t want to kill me, man.” Moe said, more statement than plea.

  “Don’t I?” Boricio raised an eyebrow. The prisoners strained to listen. Boricio lowered himself to a squat. “What are you really afraid of? I’m unarmed and all you have to do is yell. Are you that big of a pussy, or is there a bigger, badder wolf out there than ole Boricio?”

  A final whimper, then a vomit of words: “Look, we don’t have time at all because any second now Jackson is going to come back in here and when he does, he’ll be bringing Brock and Veronica with him and that’s going to be big, bad news for all of us. I don’t have the time to tell you everything, but I swear I can help. I can save your life, not just in here, but out there, too. I don’t think you know what’s out there. But it’s not what you think ... oh my God, I think I hear them outside ... ”

  A rustling outside the door …

  “Sit down, man, please.” Begging from Manny.

  “You’re going to get us killed.” Jack agreed.

  “I think they’re right, sir.” Adam made three.

  The rustling grew louder, then stopped.

  “We’re not finished,” Boricio said, kissing Moe on the cheek and returning his blindfold, and laying back down on the ground with his hands beneath him.

  A single set of footsteps preceded the sound of cloth scraping concrete followed by a squeaky hinge and burlap whipping air. A sixth mat was added to the floor, confirmed by the thud of a body.

  A second later, Dead Guard Walking’s bad breath was stinking up Boricio’s personal air again. “Looks like I got shit to tend to on the immediate side,” he said, “but you and me got unfinished business ‘fore this day gets to being yesterday.”

  Boricio smiled. “You know, I was just thinking the same exact thing.”

  Another slap hit the side of Boricio’s head, but Dead Guard Walking must’ve been in a hurry because Boricio barely felt it. A second later, the door whined shut, and the guard’s scent fled the room.

  Boricio was back on his feet and in Moe’s face. “Alright, piggy, squeal. You got seconds, and I mean short ones, before I start creating new ways to fuck you up, starting with ones that hurt most, followed by the ones that just make me laugh.”

  Boricio introduced his heel to Moe’s jaw, hard enough to prove he wasn’t worried about getting caught, though he forced his fist in Moe’s mouth to muffle his cry anyway.

  “I ain’t ready for them to get back in here quite yet,” he said.

  Boricio grabbed another thatch of hair and said, “Squeal, pig!” then started whistling the tune to Gimme One Reason.

  Moe spoke in a whimper. “I was one of you. No different. Same thing happened to me when Veronica brought me here, just like all of you guys. Only difference was it happened to me on the first day. They told me I was gonna get spared so long as I played ball and told them what the prisoners was saying each time they was in here and so that’s what I’ve been doing since. I just told you the thing about my cheek because I didn’t want you to be suspicious. I’m not one of them, I’m just trying to stay alive.”

  Boricio stopped whistling. “Why don’t you have a blindfold?”

  “They want me to keep my eye on things. Let them know if I see anything weird. But I’m still locked up, no different.” Moe tilted his head back to gesture at his bound wrists.

  “That’s the sorta that’s all there is that makes a man s
top breathing. I suggest you talk faster and actually start saying something, fucknut.”

  Moe swallowed, then continued to push words through a cry. “I think these people are survivalists, you know like the folks you hear about up holing away for the end of the world up in Montana. And this place is some sorta compound.”

  “Survivalists?”

  “More than survivalists, though, I think they’re a cult. I’d reckon every group has a leader, but these guys kept talking about a prophet or something.”

  “A prophet? Like Waco shit?” Boricio said.

  “Exactly. No one’s told me anything direct, but I heard a bit, including from some kid who disappeared the first day. Seems he was one of them until he had a change of heart up around 2:15 a.m. a few days ago. Guess it was family fun when it was all Kool-Aid and unicorns, but as soon as it was real, he wanted out. But there is no out, so Jackson was allowed to take care of things as he saw fit. I didn’t see how fit that was, but I could hear some of it, and it sounded awful.”

  “Solid job,” Boricio said, standing back up. “I’ll give you a B-. ‘Course, you’ll need at least a B+ to keep breathing, so it’s a good time to step it up. Tell me, what makes Señor Prophet so special, and what are they doing with the people they toss in here to trade bullshit with you? And don’t give me none of that ‘I don’t know shit,’ because the only thing that’s gonna keep you from earning a big fat C is some solid info. Now.”

  “I can only guess about why they’re bringing people in here. For sure they’re looking for information. But it also seems like they’re waiting for someone in particular to show up. They also seem keen to know everything they can about everything, but I’ve no idea how much they actually know. But they seem to have some big plans.”

  “What plans?”

  “I don’t know ... ”

  Boricio’s nostrils flared.

  “But everyone here does, and I know it’s something bad. They’re sorting things out; seems like they’re gearing up to go after someone, but I don’t know who. As far as what makes the Prophet so special, I think he dreamed about whatever happened before it actually happened. I can see how that would give a man a mighty lot of power. I know it ain’t much, but it’s the best I got, and it’s honest to the word.”

  Well now, I don’t think that’s what I ordered at all. Dreams have been daffy as a diseased duck for days, which probably wouldn’t mean shit if they weren’t so goddamned Technicolor. And it’s a sour gallon of fucking milk that I don’t have a clue what they mean.

  Boricio tried not to think about his own weird-ass dreams. Wasn’t like Moe was gonna be much help figuring shit out. That fucker rode the short bus and licked the windows on the trip. “What else can you tell me about the grounds? How many guards?”

  “Not sure how much more I can help,” Moe said. “I’ve never been out of this room, except for about 15 minutes on the second day when they were cleaning this one, though it didn’t look no different when we came back in. I guess I did see some stuff then.”

  “Like what?”

  “There’s a station just outside this main building, seems like a communication shack or something. And then there’s a second cluster of buildings, looks like there’s a farm with a silo, plus a big, long building, might’ve been stables.”

  “How many people you figure are in this place?”

  “No idea, never even seen anyone from the other buildings. I seen maybe a dozen people total, but there could be 10 times that. Or more.”

  Moe didn’t wait for his B+, just started begging instead. “I’m like you, man, just lucky enough to wind up here a few days earlier. I’ll help you, I want to help you. These people scare the fuck outta me. And I’m the only one in the room who knows the way out of here, at least sort of. There’s a garage by the communication shack. I’m sure there are cars in there. I’ll take you there. If you don’t waste time, you will survive. I want to get out of here, and I want to help you.”

  “Long as you’re not one of them, it’s fine with me,” Boricio said. “Every number matters.”

  Yeah, we’ll just see about that you Benedict Arnold motherfucker. Give me a reason to reach down your throat and pull your tongue out and gut you like a pig.

  The newest prisoner stirred.

  “I think our new friend is awake,” Adam said.

  Boricio couldn’t have the new prisoner making noise and drawing anyone to the room; not before he was ready. He placed his hand over the prisoner’s mouth, “Shhh,” he said. “You’ve been kidnapped. But we’re gonna get you outta here.”

  Uneasy recognition blended with the confusion on his face. “Boricio?” asked the prisoner, who looked to be around Adam’s age.

  Boricio paused, got down next to the kid, and clutched his throat. “How the fuck you know my name, kid?”

  “Sorry,” he said, “I’m... I’m not sure what I meant.”

  A controlled rage rumbled inside Boricio. “The fuck you talking about, boy? You said my name clear as fucking Windex. You wanna tell me why, or you want me to tear off your arm and beat you with the soggy end, you Kids-Eat-Free-On-Tuesday fuck? You don’t use my name and not tell me why, unless you want it to be the last thing you do.”

  The prisoner swallowed. “I’m sorry, man. My name’s Charlie Wilkens, and strange as this sounds, I met you in a dream. Last night. I fell asleep, and there you were, talking to me, just like you are right now. And then again, you were talking in my head when these people kidnapped me.”

  Boricio stared down at Charlie, curiosity creeping through him. “Oh yeah, what did I say?”

  Charlie gulped again. “You said that your father was a fucking cunt and that nobody fucks with Boricio. You also said that the only thing to do when you find a pussy is to fuck it.”

  Icy shock wrapped around Boricio. The words were his alright. He vaguely remembered dreaming something along those lines, too, but the specifics were as lost as everything else in his recent memories.

  Well that’s about 14 inches of fuck me silly. Looks like Benedict Arnold might be onto something with this Waco motherfucker and the dream machine.

  “No crazy talk,” Boricio said, relaxing his grip on the kid’s throat. “I don’t have time for bullshit, or to figure out where we met before. Start with how you ended up here in the first place.”

  “I was with my stepdad, Bob. He also survived, which is unfortunate since he’s such an asshole. We came across another survivor, a girl a little older than me. Once Bob decided not to crush her head with a crowbar, he went ahead and fucked her in the pool. Stole her away from me. So fuck him like the rest of the world.” Charlie drew a quick breath, then added, “And fuck you, too.”

  The defiance on what was exposed of the kid’s face was enough to make Boricio smile. It was obvious he never would’ve said what he had if given a second to think. And he sure as shit wouldn’t have done it if the blindfold wasn’t blocking the view of ole Boricio. Even now, the kid looked like he wished he could swallow his tongue, but he was still, unwilling to show fear. Even if his quivering chin betrayed him ever so. Still, Boricio had to give him credit for guts.

  The room was silent. Manny, Jack, and Adam stayed quiet through the exchange with Moe, then the entire room had given him and Charlie the floor. Everyone was right where Boricio wanted — so terrified they could barely breathe, and ready to worship him as their new lord and savior if given the chance.

  “So, who’s up for busting out of here?” he asked.

  Smiles and nods circled the room. Boricio reached into his boot and peeled back the sole, and retrieved his emergency razor blade, then moved in a line, freeing each of the prisoners from their restraints and blindfolds. When he got to Moe, he leaned in, blade to Moe’s face, and said, “You give me one reason, and I’ll kill you ‘til you’re a second from dying, then stop so these Kool-Aid-drinking motherfuckers can decide when you get your last two breaths, you dig?”

  Moe nodded. Boricio turned to the room, slip
ped the razor back in its plastic case and slid it into his pocket.

  “You’re all untied. That means you’re all invited to be valuable members of Team Boricio. Now if you’re not on Team Boricio, then that means you’re on Team Fucker. And let me assure you, every single person on Team Fucker is gonna die. So,” Boricio gave the group his biggest grin, “who wants to be on Team Boricio?”

  Everyone nodded.

  “No one does a thing without my say and only when I give it. I don’t know who these people are or why they want us here, but I can assure you, any fucker who walks through that door will be crawling out with a red smear behind them, if they’re lucky enough to crawl at all.”

  Charlie laughed.

  Boricio smiled. Kid had potential.

  Thirty-Nine

  Edward Keenan

  Oct. 16, 2011

  Early evening

  Cape Hope, North Carolina

  “What are we gonna do?” Teagan asked, as the helicopter grew from hum to thunder as it drew closer. “Where can we hide?”

  “We can hide in here.” Ed said. “But if they’ve got F.L.I.R., they’d still pick up the heat signature on the SUV’s engine, exhaust, and brakes. If they’ve got ground troops, they’d come looking house to house.”

  “Are they looking for us?”

  “Don’t know,” Ed said, “Maybe they’re looking for survivors. Maybe they’re here to help.”

  “You think?”

  The pregnant teen stared at him, wanting to believe things might be okay. Ed didn’t want to shatter her hopes.

  He knew she was thinking of the dream where the men in helicopters came to take her baby. The more he considered it, the less credence he gave the supernatural nature of her dream. It was a first-time mother’s fears of losing her child, that’s all. Amplified in a young girl who found herself suddenly without parents, or anyone else to care for her.