Yesterday's Gone: Seasons 1-6 Complete Saga

by Sean Platt

  “You’ve got this,” Desmond said. “I’ll cover the outside, make sure nothing else gets in. You get to Scott and the kids, okay? Scream if you need me.”

  Mary nodded, then stepped inside the house, gun raised, looking first toward the living room on the right, then toward the kitchen on her left. Two pairs of bleakers; four total. The first two were rifling through the kitchen; one was pulling out a butcher knife, looking at it with its head turned like a dog trying to figure out Algebra, while the two in the living room were roaming in circles, seemingly lost.

  Relieved by their lack of attention, Mary flew up the stairs, hoping none had thought to hit the second floor. Her hopes were dashed when she saw the trail of blood on the wooden floor leading to the end of the hall where Scott lay in front of Paola’s door, trying to fight off two bleakers with his bolt action rifle. His shirt was bloody, and he looked minutes from bleeding out.

  “Paola?!” Mary screamed, “Are you okay?!”

  “MOM!” Paola’s panicked voice yelled from the other side of the door.

  Scott looked up to Mary, eyes glazed. “I’m so sorry, Mary,” he sobbed when he saw her.

  Mary said nothing, just opened fire on the pair of bleakers at the bedroom door, then shifted her aim to the third bleaker, which managed to take the rest of her bullets without having the decency to drop.

  FUCK!

  “Stay inside!” she yelled again, then ran to the end of the hallway, swinging her arm in a wide arc and lodging the butt of her gun into the surprisingly soft back of the bleaker’s skull.

  The bleaker turned to Mary, its mouth agape, with its jagged rows of malformed teeth. She took another wide swing, making matching entry and exit wounds on each of the bleaker’s cheeks, chunks of wet, black flesh and teeth hitting the wall and floor. What was left of the monster’s mouth collapsed on itself as it rattled a wretched sound of surprised anger, stumbled, then fell to the floor, thrashing.

  Scott slid the rifle along the floor to Mary. She picked it up and swung down, taking out the rest of the creature’s skull until it stopped moving.

  “Where are the bullets?” she asked, sure that she’d drawn the attention of the four bleakers downstairs and would need to be armed.

  Scott pointed to his duffel bag at the end of the hall – the same bag they’d found him with two months ago when they first saw him, dehydrated on the side of the road in lower Tennessee. It was a kid’s bag, black, with white lettering that read BOMB TECHNICIAN: If you see me running, you’d better start running, too!

  Mary stepped past him, feeling a bit shitty not to bend down to check his wound but also recognizing that she needed to prepare for the other monsters or none of them would get out of the house alive. She reached into the bag, retrieved the box of bullets as sounds of the bleakers stumbling up the stairs caused her hands to shake. She slipped the first bullet into the magazine, then the second. A bleaker was at the top of the stairs, clicking and shrieking, mouth open wide.

  She slid the third bullet into the magazine, then tried to squeeze the fourth, but it was a tight fit. She struggled, hands shaking, fingers betraying her, pressing hard to get the bullet into the chamber as the creature moved closer. She wished like hell that the boy didn’t have a bolt action. But that’s what she had. Four bullets. Four bleakers.

  Fuck!

  The fourth bullet slid into place, and she clicked the magazine into the gun’s stock, glanced up to see the bleaker barreling towards her, slid the bolt back and forth loading the chamber, then raised the rifle as the bleaker was nearly on top of her. The shot ripped through the bleaker’s chest and launched it back into a second bleaker that had come into the hallway.

  “Desmond,” she screamed, “I need you up here NOW!”

  No reply. She fired a second shot, taking out the second bleaker’s face.

  Outside was a thunderstorm of chaos. It sounded like more bleakers, more engines, more gunfire, more shouting.

  More of everything.

  Mary managed to squeeze off two more shots, bringing down the third bleaker, before the final one — that she knew of, anyway — got through and was on her. The monster clawed at her arm, tearing the fabric of her sweater, but narrowly missed her flesh as she squeezed out of the way. Her rifle fell, just out of reach, as the creature stood to its full length and glared down at her with its alien eyes. Its mouth opened wide, and it leaned over, shrieking so loud that she had to cover her ears or risk her eardrums being burst.

  The bedroom door behind the bleaker swung open, and Luca ran into the hallway, screaming.

  “NO!” He charged toward the bleaker, punching the back of its body. Luca looked to be 14, rather than the eight years his lifetime provided. And though 14 was bigger than 8, it wasn’t big enough to stand against the 6-foot-5 or so bleaker that turned around and swatted an angry black fist at the boy, sending him sprawling back along the bloody hardwood floor. The bleaker turned back to Mary, who watched as Paola slipped into the hall and put her arms under Scott’s armpits and dragged him into their room. Scott’s eyes were closed, and Mary feared the worst.

  Once she had Scott inside, Paola cried out, “Luca, come back!”

  Mary screamed. “Do what she says, Luca! Now!”

  The bleaker turned its attention back toward Luca. The boy got up, sliding in Scott’s blood, then scrambled into the bedroom, buying Mary a half minute to grab her rifle from the floor. Luca slammed the door shut a nanosecond before the bleaker slammed the weight of its body against the door, clicking and shrieking. The door burst in, and the creature lunged towards the opening.

  One bullet.

  Mary aimed and pulled the trigger but missed.

  She cried out as the creature stepped into the room with the children. With her child.

  “No!” she screamed, jumping up.

  Just then Desmond appeared with two of the black-outfitted men, all armed.

  The three men raised their weapons in unison, took careful aim, then fired into the room. The creature fell to the floor with a thud as Mary screamed out, “Paola!”

  Mary stood up and ran into the room as Paola ran into her arms and buried her head in her mother’s chest, sobbing. Luca wrapped his arms around Desmond’s waist. “Sorry I couldn’t help,” he said.

  "You don’t need to be sorry for a thing,” Desmond said, then put his hand on the back of Luca’s head.

  “What happened?” Mary asked Desmond.

  He shook his head. “You don’t even want to see what’s outside. If these men hadn’t shown up when they had, we’d all be dead.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Don’t know yet, but there are a lot of them. Six cars and more than a dozen men, at least. And it looks like another car was coming when we came inside.”

  “I think Scott might be dead,” Mary said, trying not to cry as she gestured to the boy lying on the floor. She knelt next to him, feeling for a pulse and shook her head. Blood soaked the floor beneath him. Even if they managed to start his heart, there was no way to replace the lost blood.

  The sound of several sets of heavy footsteps echoed into the living room, then fell quiet. Seconds later, footsteps creaked up the stairs. Two tall men stepped into the hallway and in front of Paola’s room. The taller of the two — a near giant with a broad face and crooked nose — studied the room, then nodded his head. He approached one of the two men with Desmond — a tiny soldier with a thick Brillo of chestnut hair — and said, “Looks like we lost Rutu and Sal.”

  The soldier shook his head. “They’ll be missed,” he said.

  Desmond looked down to Scott. "We’re down one, too."

  Without a word, Luca knelt by Scott.

  Mary started towards Luca, but Desmond squeezed her hand, pulling her back.

  “Let him try,” he said.

  Luca sat down on the floor, legs crossed, and closed his eyes, going to a place in his head no one understood.

  The hallway settled into a lingering silence, most of them
likely believing that they were witnessing one child mourning another.

  Desmond waved a hand to the new people to indicate that everything was fine. The morning light poured through the window as if Luca were drawing it in and turning up its volume until it obscured him, and Scott, in its brightness. The air crackled with electricity, making the slightest of hums. This was the second time Mary had seen Luca work his magic, yet it seemed no less amazing than when he’d saved her daughter.

  When he finally stood, Luca was a full foot closer to the ceiling.

  Luca’s hair, cut by Mary just three days before, fell in wild tufts to the base of his neck. A thin line of stubble lined his upper lip and the base of his chin. His baggy pajamas were now long shorts, straining their seams. No one could say when his shirt had fallen to the floor, but Luca was bare-chested. Strong, tight muscles replaced the soft flesh of moments ago. Luca faced the onlookers, embarrassed, then walked slowly to Desmond, slipping his arm awkwardly around his waist.

  Scott stood, still bloody, but only on the outside. “Wow,” was all he managed to say.

  The front door slammed downstairs, sending a roll of thunder through the awkward silence. There was no pause, just a single set of footsteps from the front door to the stairs, ending with a face in the hallway that made Desmond and Mary gasp in unison.

  “Hello,” John said, “It’s been much, much too long.”

  Two

  Brent Foster

  Manhattan

  March 20

  Manhattan was surreal from the interior of a chopper.

  All the intricate plumbing systems man had set into place to keep the island dry had surrendered within days. With nobody left to keep nature at bay, much of the city looked as if it were a Venetian waterway. Except Venice had boats. Manhattan was riddled with floating bodies and the rotting remains of humans and animals. The only living things were the aliens, which was the unofficial label that Black Island Research Facility had given the creatures.

  Some of the carnage came from whatever happened on Oct. 15; some of it was from the nuclear fallout that happened after the nuclear power plant meltdowns that began shortly after Brent arrived at Black Island. The fallout and acid rain had subsided considerably, but there were pockets of the world that would be uninhabitable for centuries due to radiation leaks, which poisoned land and water for miles.

  They hadn’t found a single soul for months, yet the Black Island Guard continued to send teams into the city once a week in hopes of finding survivors, a hope that dulled by the day.

  The strange fog that had hovered above the city for several weeks after The Incident had cleared, but the city still seemed off, as if something had permanently shifted the New York Brent once knew into an alien landscape he could barely fathom. It would be easy to blame it on the city being underwater, submerged up to the second floors of most of the downtown buildings, but that wasn’t it and Brent knew it. There was something else he couldn’t put his finger on. Something else crawling beneath the city’s landscape, like spiders under a rock, which made it far more sinister.

  “You regret coming?” Michael asked from the seat across from Brent. Michael was one of the first Guardsmen to befriend Brent when he first arrived at the island. Michael was in his mid-40s, a pudgy police officer from Brooklyn before Oct. 15 and one of the first to get drafted into the Black Island Guard, which now stood 30 strong, including Brent, the latest recruit.

  “No, I had to see for myself,” Brent said through a lie. He did regret it. Whatever hopes he had that they might find Gina and Ben standing on top of a building, waving for help, were murdered the second he saw the vacuum of life.

  No people, and no red on the chopper’s infrared screens. At least, nothing human.

  This is what was left. Nothing.

  Brent had become almost numb to this new reality without his family, but it didn’t make the realization easier to swallow. It was another nail in two coffins he had tried to bury months earlier.

  “I’m sorry, Brent,” Michael said. “I know how hard it is.”

  “It is what it is,” Brent said, staring out the window. He caught movement out of the corner of his eyes, a pack of aliens scrambling across the rooftops, fleeing the chopper. They moved fast, leaping with almost graceful execution like a herd of gazelle.

  “You hear that the alien they had in Level 7 is dead?” Michael asked.

  “No. What happened?”

  “Just died. Nobody’s sure why. Pembrook said the scientists want two more caught and brought back. They’re gonna send a unit out tomorrow. Probably gonna send half the squad to make sure there’s not a repeat of last time.”

  “Last time?”

  “Two months ago. We lost four guys on that mission.”

  “I had a friend, Luis, who took down a pack of them in Times Square all by himself,” Brent said with a slight smile. It was the first time he’d spoken of Luis since arriving on the island, but probably the hundredth time he thought of the man who’d saved him more than once, and in more than one way. “He would’ve been one helluva Guardsman.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “He got bit, and a Guardsmen killed him on sight.”

  “Shit, I’m sorry.”

  “Like I said, it is what it is.”

  He was an hour late, and the moon was already peeking over the horizon when Brent arrived at Jane’s house for dinner. The house, one of 50 on Black Island (now unofficially called New Eden by some), was where the civilians lived. He, however, stayed inside the underground base — a sprawling bunker and laboratory, most of which extended several levels beneath the sea floor — along with the other Guardsmen, scientists, technicians, and the de facto President, Andre Pembrook.

  New Eden was, at least as far as Pembroke said, the last place on Earth to have power, water, and enough supplies to last at least a hundred years. Brent wasn’t sure what supplied the power. There were solar panels on the homes and atop the research facility’s above-ground levels, and rows of them on the east end of the island, but he couldn’t imagine that these alone could supply such an immense operation.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said, as Jane answered the door in a floral print dress.

  “Brent!” Emily cried out, running toward him, pigtails bouncing.

  He swept the girl in his arms, pulling her into a hug as she plastered his face with kisses.

  “How was your day?” Jane asked, as he made his way to the dining room, the table set and ready for dinner. The house smelled delicious, like lasagna, which sat in a casserole dish on the table. Jane was incredibly resourceful, and it was amazing what she could do with the rations allotted each island home.

  “Good. Dinner looks great!” he said, taking a seat at the end of the table across from Jane. Emily, her daughter, sat in a chair between them. Though the house was in great condition, especially compared to the city, it reminded him of a home straight out of his childhood, in its out-of-style furnishings. It was as if all the homes on the island were decorated in the ‘80s and never upgraded.

  “Are you ready to say grace?” Jane asked, and Emily began reciting a prayer.

  Brent clasped his hands together and closed his eyes, going through the motions. He might not believe in prayer, but he didn’t want to offend his hosts or interfere with how Jane was raising Emily.

  “How was your day?” he asked, as Jane scooped pasta onto Emily’s plate.

  “OK. The kids were good.”

  Jane, who was a teacher in her former life before she quit two years ago after her heart attack, taught the kids at the island’s daycare/school. There were six children on the island other than Emily, and Jane taught and looked after them until everyone else returned from work. Everyone on the island was assigned a job based on their skills. There were cooks, maintenance people, farmers, a medic, a seamstress, mechanics, welders, custodial and laundry workers, an electrician, tech people, and others whose jobs helped keep the island running.

  There
were also a group of scientists Brent had heard of but never met. They never surfaced from Level 7. Their work, and existence, were shrouded in mystery.

  Not everyone was suited for their jobs, but the island was stocked with training materials for nearly everything you needed to know about anything. There was little, if any, need for a journalist in the post-apocalypse, so Brent wound up working with the island’s Guardsmen, thanks to Michael, who helped ensure he was up to speed on gun training. Michael was no Luis, and given his laid-back personality, Brent didn’t think he’d fired too many rounds in the line of duty, but he was a decent shot in practice.

  “We painted pictures,” Emily said, with a big smile. “I made something for you. May I get it, Mommy?”

  “Yes,” Jane said, handing Brent a plate of lasagna. “It’s still warm; I got a late start.”

  Brent scooped a forkful of lasagna into his mouth as Emily ran to her bedroom. “This is delicious,” he said.

  “Thanks, though I would kill for some fresh mozzarella.”

  “No, it’s perfect as is.”

  “Here you go!” Emily said, running to the table with a huge smile and a painted picture in her hands.

  The painting was of a man and woman on a playground with a little girl in a swing. He recognized the blue swing as the playground on the island they’d gone to every weekend since their arrival. “It’s Mommy, me, and you!”

  Emily stared at him, eyes glimmering with joy, waiting for his response.

  “Thank you,” he said. “This is great work. I’m going to hang it in my room.” He gave Emily another big hug, and caught Jane giving him a weird look, as if to apologize for Emily’s exuberance.