Yesterday's Gone: Seasons 1-6 Complete Saga

by Sean Platt

  “What about your mom?” Luis asked.

  “My mom got to see Ben. She loved him and doted on him like a good grandma does. But she died a year to the day my dad did; a stroke.”

  “Jesus,” Luis said.

  Brent stared at Stanley’s smiling face, and told himself he wasn’t going to cry even as he felt his chin quiver.

  “So, that’s why you worked so hard and never saw your family?” Luis asked, “To prove to yourself that you were the man your dad was? To be a good dad like him?”

  “Ironic, eh?”

  “No doubt,” Luis said.

  They passed the next several minutes in silence until Brent fell asleep in his chair.

  He woke in the darkness to the sound of a car outside.

  Fifty-Four

  Luis Torres

  Oct. 16

  5:40 a.m.

  East Hampton, New York

  Luis woke about five minutes before Brent, having heard the car stop across the street at the docks, where it had sat since, two spots from his own, with the lights on. Luis grabbed a chair and his shotgun, then sat in the darkness, watching and waiting.

  Though he could only vaguely see the taillights through the dark and fog, the car looked like a Toyota.

  “What’s it doing?” Brent whispered, yawning as he took a seat next to Luis.

  “Maybe waiting for the ferry, too.” Luis said.

  “Another survivor? Well, shit, they ought to turn off the lights and not call so much attention to themselves!” Brent said.

  “Maybe they haven’t seen the aliens or monsters, or whatever the hell those things are,” Luis said.

  “Think we should go out there?” Brent said. “Let ‘em know there’s at least two more people and tell them to turn out the lights?”

  “I dunno. Shit could go south real quick if we approach the car in the dark, even if they’re friendlies. We’ll wait. Besides, we don’t know if they’ve attracted any unwanted attention. So, we stay put until we need to move.”

  “So, we use ‘em as alien bait?” Brent asked.

  “Well, not intentionally, but it’s a good way to see if there are any out there before we go out.”

  “We’ll step in to help if we need to, right?” Brent said.

  “As long as I don’t see Red Sox bumper stickers on the car,” Luis said with a smirk. “Otherwise, they’re on their own.”

  “What time is it?” Brent asked, yawning.

  Luis glanced at his watch, and through a yawn said, “Five forty. Got another hour or so before the sun is up.”

  “Mind if I take a shower?” Brent asked.

  “Go ahead, but take your gun. You’ll hear me shooting if I need you.”

  Brent paused before he started up the stairs, “How’s the arm?”

  “Stings like a bitch,” Luis said. “I’ll check it out when I shower.”

  “You’re not feeling weird or anything?”

  “If you’re asking am I gonna turn into a zombie, I’m not getting a craving for brains or anything ... yet.”

  Brent laughed, if a bit nervously, then went upstairs with a flashlight in one hand, his gun in the other.

  Luis turned his attention back to the car, wondering if he should take a chance and head outside. He didn’t like having unknown variables in play. And not knowing who was in the car when they needed to get to the docks shortly was a pretty big variable as far as he was concerned.

  “Why don’t you turn your damned lights off?” he whispered before getting up and heading toward the kitchen. He was famished and craving junk food, something he rarely allowed himself back before the world flushed its people. He found a box of granola bars in the pantry. Chocolate chip peanut butter. Close enough to junk, he supposed. He ripped the foil from the bar and took a bite.

  Wow, this is like the best granola bar ever!

  He downed it in seconds, then gobbled another. He went to the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water from the more than 20 that filled the bottom crisper bin. He wasn’t sure how long before the plumbing stopped working in a world without people to power the water plants, but figured they probably had enough bottled water to last a few hundred years. He never saw sense in paying for bottled water, but was glad enough people had been frivolous enough with their cash to create a demand that might supply survivors for a century.

  Of course, he hoped it wouldn’t come to that, hoped Black Island would offer hope, to let them know this event, whatever it was, was localized. That the rest of the world was alive and kicking, thank you very much, and the prophetic dreams Luis had been having, along with the other 215ers, were just a weird ass coincidence.

  He also hoped his daughter and Brent’s family were still out there, too. And while he was feeling hopeful, he went ahead and hoped Joe’s bite wouldn’t turn him into one of those fucking creatures.

  But Luis knew better than to get his hopes up.

  He had a bad feeling. And as the hours ticked, the certainty something horrible was going to happen grew even stronger in his gut. He grabbed a third granola bar, then returned to his post at the window.

  The car’s lights were off.

  He put the granola bar down, picked up the shotgun, and scanned the distance between the house and parking lot. He saw nothing but darkness. Perhaps the driver had finally decided he or she didn’t need the lights on and would simply sit and wait for morning. Luis would sit, too, and wait for the sun to come up so he could get a better idea of what he was dealing with.

  Brent came down, dressed in black sweat pants and a grey T-shirt, two or three sizes too large with a picture of a golf ball on the front, as big as a target. Luis laughed. “Damn, bro. That is hideous.”

  “Wish I’d thought to pack some clothes,” Brent said. “Don’t worry, I saved all the cool clothes for you.”

  “Can’t wait to see what passes for cool in this house,” Luis said, looking at his bloodied jeans and tee shirt. “But I’m good, I’ve got some clothes in one of the bags.”

  “You fucker,” Brent said with a laugh. “You’ll be dressed like usual, while I’m wearing Oldy McOlderson’s tacky workout gear.”

  “I don’t know,” Luis said with a grin. “I think you make it work.”

  “Fuck you, sir. So, what’s happening with the car?”

  “Lights went out while I was in the kitchen, but I haven’t seen anyone, so I’m thinking they’re just waiting until morning when the ferry rolls in. Once the sun’s out, we can check it out, if you want.”

  “Alright,” Brent said, searching for something to eat in the kitchen. “Oh, man, you ate the last of the granola bars?”

  “Sorry,” Luis said, laughing. “Didn’t see your name on ‘em.”

  “That’s okay,” Brent said a minute later. “I found some Pop-Tarts. I haven’t had these in forever. Of course, it’s the damned unfrosted cherry ones.”

  “And without power, we don’t have a toaster,” Luis reminded him.

  “Oh well,” Brent said, returning to the window with a Pop-Tart and a bottle of water. “You gonna shower? I’ll stand guard down here.”

  “Alright, if anyone gets out of the car, come get me. Don’t go out there, or answer the door if they come knocking.”

  “Okay,” Brent said, sitting down.

  “And keep your gun ready,” Luis said, as he headed up the stairs with his bag, flashlight, shotgun, and one of the first aid kits he’d grabbed earlier.

  The flashlight stood on the sink, its light bouncing off the mirror and ceiling of the bathroom giving Luis just enough light to bathe by. He stood under the shower, allowing the cold water to wash the blood and dirt from his body. Would’ve been better if the water were piping hot, but Luis didn’t care. After recent events, any water felt good. Cleansing. He leaned forward, allowing the pulsating jets to massage his shoulder blades. He glanced at his right arm. The bandages were soaked and sure to fall off soon if he didn’t do anything.

  He remembered how Joe’s face had changed aft
er he’d been infected. The black veins and splotches on his skin right before he turned.

  He continued staring at the bandage, wanting to change the dressing, but not wanting to see what laid beneath. If he was infected, he was as good as dead. He knew it like he knew the sun would rise. What he didn’t know, was how quickly the infection would spread. Would he even know it was happening? He remembered the look in Joe’s eyes — at first white, then all black, almost alien-like in the way they seemed to bore into Luis. Nothing was left of Joe in those eyes; it was all alien, monster, whatever the fuck the infection had put into him.

  Luis leaned against the shower wall and began to claw at the bandage with an immediate need to see.

  The wet bandage fell to the shower floor with a plop. Luis stared at his arm, not believing the dim light’s certain lie. He reached from the shower and grabbed the flashlight, and trained it on his arm.

  The bite was gone, completely healed, though the burning and pain were still present.

  What the fuck?

  He put the light under his chin, and began to rub his other hand along the wound. The skin was smooth, as if never broken. He brought his arm closer for a better look, when something moved beneath his skin.

  “Fu … ” he shouted, the light slipped, bounced around the shower floor with a loud echo, before coming to a stop. Luis grabbed it, focused the beam back on his arm, waiting for movement.

  Maybe I’m just seeing things.

  Something moved again, and this time he was certain he’d seen it. And not just one thing moving, but several worm-like shapes, just beneath the surface of his skin.

  Luis stared in horror. Eyes wide, unable to look away.

  Infected.

  No, I’m not going out like that.

  Luis yanked the shower curtain aside, threw the light into the sink where it rolled before pointing at the mirror, and grabbed the shotgun. He sank to the floor of the shower, water pouring over him, blinding him, as he wrapped his lips around the barrel of the shotgun.

  He prayed that suicides didn’t go to hell, and he would see his wife and daughter again in the great beyond.

  Fifty-Five

  John Larson

  Oct. 17

  Early evening

  Belle Springs, Missouri

  The afternoon was long. Despite creeping danger outside and mounting evidence that they should leave, Desmond wouldn’t budge. A weird kid, a crazy old man, and the Olson Twins had made sure of that.

  At least they had finally managed to fortify the hotel. Four entrances were there, but before they effectively blocked them all, the party was vulnerable. And leaving in the morning or not, that wasn’t going to fly, which is why he, Desmond, Mary, and Will spent the afternoon moving furniture and shoving it against the windows and doors.

  Desmond even walked two blocks to where he’d seen an oversized 4 x 4, then brought it back and parked it flush against the rear door of the hotel farthest from them and therefore most susceptible to attack.

  That made John feel better, but not much. No, much didn’t come around until his third, maybe fourth, shot of scotch.

  He would have been content to drink the day to memory, sleep off the stupidity of everyone around him, then wake in the morning and get the hell out and onto the road. But he preferred to drink alone, and no one would let him. Everyone kept dropping by the bar to check on him and make sure he was okay. First Will, then Mary and Desmond together, and now Jimmy, who wasn’t old enough to drink (though that didn’t stop him from getting high), so he just sat beside John on the barstool with a stupid grin, a glass of soda, and his endless reserve of verbal vomit.

  “Come on,” Jimmy said, “Isn’t there any part of you that sees this as an adventure?”

  John stared at Jimmy, poured himself another shot, then lifted it to his lips, tilted his head and drained it with a grimace.

  “You don’t know me well enough to realize that ignoring me just makes me more eager to break down your defenses,” Jimmy said.

  John stayed silent.

  Jimmy said, “It really, really sucks about Jenny. I’m sorry about that, believe me. But there’s nothing you can do to change it, and every minute you spend thinking about it now is a minute you’re not spending living the only life you have left.”

  John poured himself another shot, then set the bottle on the bar and turned to Jimmy. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. You’re a kid. You don’t know the first thing about love or loss or sacrifice, and you don’t know what it feels like to lose the one thing in your life that matters most.”

  “Fuck you, man.” Jimmy shook his head. “I don’t mean any disrespect, but that’s bullshit. You think I woke up with my family and friends gone without feeling a thing? No, I woke up just as scared as anyone, and I’ve stayed just as scared, but I’m not letting those feelings live my life, or stink up the air of everyone around me. We’re all in the same boat. You don’t have a monopoly on sorrow, dude. We’ve all lost people we love. And we’re all trying to survive and make the most of this.”

  “Well,” John said, “looks like one of us is just more honest than the other.” He drained his shot and poured another.

  “Hope the end of the world heightened your tolerance to alcohol, because you’re on your way to the floor. Again.” Jimmy slid from the barstool, gave John a mock salute then sauntered off.

  Punk-ass kid was way too full of himself. Of course, he missed his family, but that wasn’t the same. You were born into your family, you didn’t choose them, and they didn’t choose you. Losing the one person who knew you inside out and upside down, the one who could soothe your wounds and make sure you’re loved, well that was something else. The loss had left John with a hunger that all the grain in the world had no hope of sating.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder. Desmond, again. Fuck. For a guy who acted like the role of leader bore the weight of a cross, he sure wore his duty with a smile.

  “Anything I can do for you, boss?” John said.

  “No need for that,” Desmond said, then sat on Jimmy’s empty barstool and reached across the bar for an empty glass. He studied the row of bottles, then grabbed a short, stout flagon of Tres Campañeros and poured himself a shot. “Any chance there’s something I can do to help you, or even better, a chance you’ll let me?”

  “Any chance you can turn back time, bring back the dead, or hell, recover your common sense long enough to stop listening to an old hippie and lead us out of this deathtrap?”

  Desmond sighed. “We’re doing the right thing by waiting until tomorrow,” he said. “I know this is hard on you, and I know it’s hard to stop thinking about Jenny. I didn’t lose anyone, not like that at least, and I’m not so callous as to say everything will be fine. But I can offer the cliché ‘It’s better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all,’ because I believe it. Everyone in here is suffering, John. Jimmy lost his family, Paola lost her father, hell, Mary almost lost Paola. Your grief doesn’t run deeper than theirs, and you need to help us all out by letting your best self surface. You’re one of the nicest, most caring people I’ve met. Please,” he added, “we need you.”

  Desmond swallowed his shot.

  John’s body started to quiver. “It’s not that easy, and believe me, you don’t understand.”

  “Then help me understand. I’m here for you. Whatever you need.”

  John suddenly shattered. Through cracked sobs he started spewing: “Jenny and I never fought. And I mean never. Twice in seven years. The fight we had the other night was only our third one, but it was the worst one of all.”

  John wiped his eyes, caught his breath, then completely unraveled.

  “We never argue, never even raise our voices in anger. We talk about everything, so we never have any pent-up bullshit that sabotages most people. We’re lucky; most couples don’t manage to get what we had in a lifetime.” John started to choke, and for a moment, he felt like he was going to lose his liquor in chunks.
>
  He drew a deep breath then said, “But that night, everything went to hell.”

  “What happened?”

  “It started small. Jenny had a God-awful day at work. Her boss was riding her ass all afternoon, her assistant didn’t show because morning sickness turned into all-day sickness, and Jenny dropped the ball on some big report she’d been working on for two weeks. She hated her job, and a lot of this was the same old shit, so it would’ve been fine, but she got a flat on the way home and that just amplified everything.”

  John took a moment to breathe, then continued. “She called Auto Club, but it turns out that somehow, I’d let our membership lapse. She tried to call me, but my cell phone was off, so she ended up stuck in the rain for over an hour.”

  John wiped his eyes.

  “Soon as I walked through the door, she launched right in, yelling at me for the first time since she saw me answer my ex-girlfriend back on my Facebook wall two years ago, which was Fight Number Two, in case you’re keeping score. So, I asked her why she was so hysterical. She said I didn’t pay the Auto Club bill and that I obviously didn’t care about her safety. I told her that was ridiculous and she said not to call her ridiculous. I told her I wasn’t calling her ridiculous, but that saying I didn’t care about her safety was ridiculous. I asked her what happened, and she told me about the flat tire. So I asked her how long it had been since she took the car in for service. Definitely the wrong thing to say.”

  The tears had stopped, and John found control of his voice. “Things went from bad to worse. For some stupid reason, I told her she was acting just like her mother, even called her Mrs. Rasmussen. She was standing behind the kitchen bar when I said it, and she threw a bottle of ketchup. It sailed behind me and skidded across the floor. It was plastic, so it didn’t break, and I laughed, but that just seemed to make her madder.”

  John took another drink, then continued. “We spent the next two hours fighting, saying some horrible, horrible things. Things we’d never said before. She told me that I wasn’t a real man because I didn’t know how to do the things that real men knew how to do. And as the Man of the House, I should’ve looked after the car and made sure it was always serviced and the Auto Club dues paid.” John swallowed. “So, I told her maybe she ought to service her man a bit more often, but it didn’t really matter anyway, because she fucked like a corpse.”