Yesterday's Gone: Seasons 1-6 Complete Saga

by Sean Platt

  Paola had taken to Sarah’s daughter, Rebecca, who had just turned 13 two weeks ago. While Desmond wasn’t buying the bond between Mary and Sarah just yet, Mary was playing a good game, side by side with Sarah during the daily chores of cooking, cleaning, and laundry. Will and Linc were doing their part, too, keeping their hands busy and noses down.

  Scott, like Luca, seemed genuinely happy in his new environment, and particularly happy to be around girls his own age, judging from the awkward smiles and stolen glances Desmond had noticed.

  While the others seemed ready to call this place home, Desmond wasn’t so sure how long he could put up listening to a second-rate evangelist who just happened to have outlived the rest of the parasites. Mary was all he had in the world, along with Paola and Luca, of course. He’d be goddamned if he was going to be barred from their lives, seeing them only after breaking bread, where “The Good Lord’s Word” was spread more than butter, or at random times when they had intersecting chores. He’d rather face bleakers and monsters and whatever else the Apocalypse had in store than be forced to surrender the most of himself.

  But for now, he’d wait — coiled, at the ready — with his mouth shut and eyes open.

  Each evening after dinner, Desmond and Will exchanged the day’s tidings. Will had already confirmed that the third floor of the men’s house was only for The Prophet, John, and Rei, and that there was no doubt something fishy between Rei and John. Will was also positive that the third floor housed the weapons; not just because it would make sense for The Prophet to want them nearby, but because the locked door at the top of the stairs was the first and last stop in between each of the soldier’s shifts. Will was sure that’s where weapons were picked up and dropped off. No one was packing unless they were on active duty.

  Desmond wondered if The Prophet followed that particular part of The Word. God only knew what the man was packing under his weird-ass white robes.

  There were four soldiers standing guard at all times throughout the compound: one per rooftop on each of the three homes and a fourth sitting in a booth beside the entrance gate. Each of the houses had a small, makeshift tower on its roof: a small room with a desk and chair, a Bible, and a 14-page stapled copy of The Word, which served as a neat summary of the New Unity’s much longer dogma.

  Linc was the only one of their crew so far who had been assigned guard duty. Will got the skinny from Linc, who passed it to Desmond. According to Linc, each tower had a floodlight and a switch. Flip the switch and every alarm in the compound started screaming.

  Desmond looked up from his two-by-four as Will entered the workshop. He smiled at the old man’s appearance, wondering what The Prophet really thought of him.

  Will sported a wild look from the moment Desmond met him, with unevenly cut hair, shorn close, and a couple of days’ worth of stubble. But lately, it appeared that grooming his hair or beard was the last thing on his mind.

  Will’s hair wasn’t especially long, but it was much longer than anyone else’s in the group, including Luca’s, who had his overgrown locks trimmed just two days prior. And what it lacked in length it made up for in general wildness, jutting out from his head, thick tufts in every direction. The hair on his head made Will look untamed, but what really added to the old dog’s feral appearance was his barbarous-looking beard. Will’s beard was mostly white, but the black thatches that peppered his whiskers looked almost angry, the way they smothered the white around them. And the hairs were thick, like wire. Will had a habit of running his hands through his hair and tugging his beard when making a point, which happened most times he opened his mouth. It made him appear extra wild, along with the way his eyes would fade along with his voice as he fell deeper into thought.

  Even Desmond would agree that Will was the smartest of the group, but he was also the looniest. And he seemed the most likely candidate to piss off the powers that be at The Sanctuary, something that Desmond was constantly preparing to defend, if needed.

  “What’s up?” Desmond said.

  “You’re wanted outside,” Will replied. “They’d like us to go on a supply run.”

  Desmond raised his eyebrows. “A supply run? You mean they’re letting us free range birdies out of the coop?”

  Will laughed. “Apparently so. And Old Man Testament must be warming to us, too. We’re supposed to report to the third floor to check out firearms.”

  Desmond’s eyebrows lifted higher, the bewilderment on his face telling.

  “I know,” Will said. “Crazy. Seems I was right about the weapons being on the third floor, doesn’t it?”

  “I never question whether you’re right or not,” Desmond smiled. “I just wish you’d enlighten us more often.”

  Will ignored Desmond’s comment; he just ran his hands through his hair, then tugged on his beard and said, “They’re waiting, so head on up to the third floor and get a gun from Rei. And see if they’ll give you something with a clip.” Will held up an old fashioned revolver. “This is fine, but I’d prefer something faster in a fight.”

  Desmond nodded. “Anything else?”

  Will shook his head. “No, not for now. Still trying to figure what in the hell is up between Rei and John. Can’t get my finger anywhere near it.”

  “Not sure I even want to know,” Desmond confessed. “This whole place makes me feel, I don’t know, like I’m in a bad horror movie version of Catholic school.”

  Will’s half laugh wasn’t reassuring. Will pivoted and strolled toward the door only to stop halfway. He turned and said, “Remember, something with a clip if you can.”

  A minute later, Desmond was knocking on the locked door atop the third floor. “Brother Desmond,” Rei said, opening the door, blocking access to the room beyond, his smile wide and scarily genuine.

  Desmond returned a smile thin enough to see through and said, “Will told me to report for a firearm; he said we were going out on a supply run.”

  “Brother Will is correct,” Rei said. “Please wait here.”

  Rei closed the door, locked it, then came back a minute later, unlocking and opening the door and handing Desmond a Colt Revolver, identical to Will’s, along with one box of ammunition.

  Desmond held the revolver in his hand. The weight felt good, great even, but it wasn’t his gun, one he was very familiar with. “I’d like one of my own guns, something with a bit more power,” he said.

  “This is your gun, assigned by the New Unity. It’s what’s best.”

  “Look,” Desmond tried taking a step forward, but Rei blocked the entrance with his body. “You all are holding onto a lot of my guns. I understand the need for safety, security, and all that, so I surrendered my arms like a good boy and haven’t said boo since. But if you’re sending me outside, and giving me a gun anyway, I see no reason why I can’t have one of the guns I came in with.”

  There was a long moment of silence, then Rei shook his head sadly as though the answer was simple and Desmond was simply too dim to see it.

  “Sometimes,” he said, “you must accept things on faith. This is one of those things. New Unity knows what’s best, for you and for us all, Brother Desmond. New Unity is your new home, and you must let us help you learn to trust. We’re here to take care of you.” He smiled again, sickly sweet, then placed both his hands around Desmond’s right one, closing his fingers around the revolver. Rei leaned several inches closer to Desmond and said, “Be well, and travel safe, Brother Desmond. Please come back to us whole.”

  The door swung quietly closed in Desmond’s face, followed quickly by the sound of the lock clicking into place. The situation wasn’t worth pressing. Not now. So Desmond descended the stairs, his insides a volatile cocktail of defeat and fury.

  Will was already in the back seat of the midnight-blue Sequoia when Desmond climbed inside. They were being chaperoned by two of the Sanctuary’s soldiers, a loudmouth big guy named Paul and a near-mute skinny guy named Ricky. Flashes of Laurel and Hardy stormed in Desmond’s mind.

&n
bsp; “So, what sorts of supplies are we gathering?” Desmond asked to the front seat.

  Paul was driving. He turned and said, “Food. There’s a Costco not too far from here. It has everything we need.”

  “Why keep making trips?” Desmond shrugged. “Can’t one of you big guys drive one of those 18-wheelers back to The Sanctuary? Seems like the smart thing to do would be loading one truck all at once, making just one trip to the old Big Box and back, and be done with it. But who am I to say, I never foresaw nothing worth foreseeing.”

  Desmond smiled, winking at Will, then leaned in his seat while Paul glared at him in the rearview, silent. Will kicked Desmond on the ankle, hard, a slight scowl on his face saying, not now.

  Desmond figured they were getting close when a mile marker on the road promised civilization in four miles, but the sign was splattered with what looked like fresh blood, filling Desmond with a sudden wave of dread. He placed his hand over the revolver and said, “That sign look like that the last time you hit Costco?”

  Paul said no, trying to sound tough, but his voice cracked through a gauze of panic.

  A sudden, thick fear drowned the cabin as they took the highway exit and drove a couple of blocks to Costco’s giant, nearly empty parking lot.

  They proceeded to the front of the store and parked on the sidewalk.

  They were about to get out of the truck when Ricky screamed “Demon!” a split second before the first one flew into the passenger side door with a jarring thud. The beast cracked the window, coating it with black blood, before it skittered away, hunched over like a wounded dog running away to lick its wounds.

  Paul turned off the truck, his hand oddly calm.

  “What the fuck are you doing?!” Desmond shouted. “Let’s get the fuck out of here!”

  Paul ignored him.

  More of the monsters appeared, racing toward the truck, about 10 of them in total. They rammed into the truck at full speed just as the first one had done, cracking the windows and bashing in the doors. Desmond and Will took aim at the windows and held, waiting for one to breach. Desmond chanced a glance back to the front seat to see why Paul wasn’t driving away. The queer reality he saw took a full second to register: The two men held hands in prayer, as still as statues.

  Paul whispered fast: “In the name of the Good Lord and under the protection of The Prophet, His window to The Wasteland, I COMMAND every Demon that has followed me, was sent to me, or transferred to me, to depart my body now. In the name of the Good Lord and under the protection of The Prophet, His window to The Wasteland, I cover myself and all my property with the blood of Jesus. Demons as I sleep and Demons as I wake, I command you to stay away. Banish all evil thoughts from inside me. And as we step from this truck, I beg the Good Lord to build a Fiery Wall of Vengeance around us.”

  Paul released Ricky’s hand, then turned to the back seat. “You ready?”

  “Let’s leave. We’ll find another store,” Desmond said.

  “No, we fight. We have the Lord on our side; we do not back down from Satan’s minions.”

  With that, he opened the door, stepped outside, and fired into one of the creatures.

  Desmond turned to Will, shrugged his shoulders, opened the door, and joined in the firefight. Will followed.

  Paul and Ricky were machines. Every bullet found its mark in a symphony of grisly screams, on a stage displaying a ballet of gore. Desmond and Will each managed to take down a creature or two each, though it was hard to tell for sure as Paul and Ricky seemed to put a shot in every one of the bastards. There were enough broken bodies to make a true count difficult, but Desmond guessed there to be enough body parts strewn about to account for 20 or so of the fiends.

  When their last bullet casings clinked on the concrete, Paul and Ricky hopped back into the truck, leaving Desmond and Will standing outside confused.

  “Are we canceling our shopping trip?” Desmond asked, following Paul and Ricky back inside the vehicle with Will behind.

  Paul glared in the rearview. Ricky remained silent.

  Will turned to Desmond and said, “Seems our righteous new friends have been taken by surprise. Those creatures were attacking in formation, which I’m guessing they haven’t seen before. So, Paul up there has to swing back to The Sanctuary and make a full report. That sound about right, Paul?”

  Desmond figured Paul would keep doing his Ricky impersonation, but instead, he snapped back.

  “They’re Demons, not creatures,” Paul said. “They’re Satan’s minions, the very same that The Prophet has warned us about. You saw how The Good Lord protected us back there. You can’t deny the truth.”

  “What I saw,” Desmond said, voice cool, “was a couple of well-trained crack shots hitting every one of their marks with high-caliber automatic weapons. The Good Lord would’ve been looking out for me and Will a little more, too, at least if He saw fit to make sure we’d left The Sanctuary with better guns.” Desmond couldn’t help the last words ringing in a sneer.

  They cancelled their shopping trip. The drive home was silent. Desmond could feel Will’s burning disapproval, which was fine. It only echoed Desmond’s own disapproval of allowing himself to be dragged down into the ridiculous emotions of the situation. He knew better than that. That’s what he’d been doing for the last decade – working with people online and off, always making the compromise that would satisfy the majority. Now, here, he was acting like a petulant child. Junkie behavior, throwing tantrums when he didn’t get what he wanted, which made sense since what he wanted more than anything right now was Mary.

  Part of him wished that he’d never driven back to Warson Woods, but kept driving that morning of Oct. 15. Survival is a hell of a lot easier when it’s a table for one. No one else to worry about. Nobody else to keep track of. Nobody else forcing him to act against his instincts by catering to the whims of a religious despot. Desmond had his own ideas of sanctuary and they had nothing to do with some archaic rules handed down by imaginary beings and interpreted by delusional at best, deceptive at worst, men.

  Yet, as they drove back to the compound and swung into the hangar, he knew that such thinking was futile. He’d grown to love Mary and Paola, Luca too. And hell, he even loved Will, if only in the role of crazy uncle. So, he’d continue to play along until he thought of a better plan.

  Desmond opened his door to the sounds of panic.

  “What’s happened?” Paul yelled to a passing guard. The man made a sharp detour then a beeline toward the hangar. His story was half out of his mouth before his legs stopped walking.

  “Rebecca and Carl are missing. We can’t find them anywhere. Last time anyone saw them was just after breakfast. We searched all the buildings of the compound without success. The Prophet says we should now start searching the woods.”

  The porch creaked across the way as John’s feet hit the bottom stair. He crossed the courtyard, came into the hangar and slapped Desmond on the shoulder, handing him his holster with a Glock inside it. “Come on,” he said. “We’re going to find Rebecca and Carl.”

  John then turned to Paul, “Desmond and I are going to circle round to Dawn Creek Road and will search the woods on the north end. Lenny and Eli are gonna take the south end. We’ll all meet up in the middle, okay?”

  “Yes, Brother John,” Paul said.

  John turned, walked into the hangar and climbed into a silver Audi that looked so new, every mile on it had to have come after Oct. 15. John turned the key, and the Audi hummed to life. Desmond was surprised by the sudden turn of events, but understanding would have to wait. He nodded an adios to Will, then joined John in the Audi. John punched the accelerator, swung a right out of the hangar, and headed away from the compound, all while Desmond scanned the courtyard in search of Mary.

  Desmond had already decided to bury the hatchet with John before they started talking. Whatever was happening at The Sanctuary wasn’t John’s fault. He was the symptom, not the disease. John was a good guy before Oct. 15 from what D
esmond knew, even if he was a little annoying. And really, after losing your wife alongside the rest of the world, who wouldn’t be looking for a few magic beans? You never knew what people were really going through until you were lacing up their boots. So, who was he to judge John for taking off and leaving them stranded? People did bad shit when they were at their lowest. Hell, Desmond had ruined the wedding of the one serious girlfriend he’d ever had. It didn’t even make sense; he had been genuinely happy for her. But he drank too much and said a lot of stuff he shouldn’t have said, at the wedding or anywhere else. He’d thought about it with redwood-thick regret maybe once a week since. And the end of the world hadn’t stopped it. John had his own shit to think about, too. No one could argue; he saved them back at the house and brought them to where he thought they’d be safe. Even if he was misguided, John’s intentions were probably good.

  “I’m sorry,” Desmond said, “about everything. Not just about lately since we came to The Sanctuary, but all of it. Back at the Drury. Hell, back on the bridge. I’m sorry.”

  John kept driving, and Desmond kept talking.

  “It was hard, you know, after you left. Mary and the kids were scared out of their minds. And Jimmy . . . ” Desmond had forgotten about Jimmy for a moment. He felt a cold chill run through his body and hoped John hadn’t noticed his bristle. “It was all too much at once. Then you disappeared. And the next month, well, it was awful.”

  Desmond didn’t want to dive into deeper detail; in fact, he wanted to leave the conversation right there and never pick it up again. Fortunately, John swung off the highway and into a thatch of woods on the right.

  “Rebecca loves this patch of woods,” John said, diverting the conversation. “Before last October, she used to live just on the other side.” John pointed through the windshield, toward a rolling hill dotted with the first promise of spring. He decelerated, killed the engine, and stepped from the car.

  Desmond followed, gun drawn. “You won’t need that,” John offered. “I can’t feel a single Demon right now. We’re safe.” He cupped his hands next to his mouth and screamed. “Rebecca!”