Yesterday's Gone: Seasons 1-6 Complete Saga

by Sean Platt

  “How the hell would knowing we’re on another planet, dimension, whatever, change how we act?”

  “The less the others know, the better. Black Island Research Facility is attempting to figure out what happened, how to defeat the aliens, and repopulate the planet. If everyone suddenly thought this world wasn’t theirs, they might just storm the palace, so to speak, demanding to be sent back. There’s something to be said for keeping people in the dark about some things.”

  “I still don’t get why they told you.”

  “Because on our Earth I was one of the people who worked in the shadows, keeping the government’s secrets. I was good at my job. They need me.”

  “So, why are you telling me?” Brent asked.

  “Because I need you. I need you to help me do something. Michael was going to help me, but he’s dead now. You’re the only one I can trust.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ll explain more tomorrow. Let’s just say that I’m not willingly working for them. They’ve got my daughter, and possibly someone else I care about.”

  Brent stared, shocked. “They’re holding them hostage?”

  “Something like that. An insurance policy so that I do what they need me to do, something only I can do.”

  “What’s that?” Brent asked.

  “Find someone from our world. Someone who may hold the key to many of these mysteries.”

  “Who?”

  “A man named Boricio Wolfe. And you’re gonna help me find him.”

  Twenty-Two

  Ryan Olson

  Brookdale, Tennessee

  Feb. 17

  Late morning

  “You okay?” Carmine asked as Ryan limped into the mammoth apartment building.

  “Twisted my ankle, but I’ll live,” Ryan said, making his way through the front door, which was battered and blue, with peeling paint and a giant window where someone had thoughtfully drawn a giant penis in thick, black marker. Below that, what looked to be a gang sign. “I didn’t think you’d make it,” Carmine said. “Come on; I’ll introduce you to Gramps.”

  The hallways were dark, except for the dim light bleeding from the windows at either end of each hall, providing just enough light for Ryan to see the shithole in all its glory. There were two kinds of public housing: buildings where the residents worked to keep things repaired and as nice as possible, and then there was this — housing so decrepit and uncared for that you could sink a year’s worth of renovation and 10,000 gallons of paint into it, and it would still look ghetto. Even in the dark, the walls stank of oppression and decay. Toys, sacks of trash, and discarded furniture littered the hall, as if the residents couldn’t be bothered to take their trash to the dumpsters. The hallway smelled like rotting food. Ryan hoped it was food, at least. Then again, everything was food to something nowadays.

  Ryan choked back his belittling comments on the place. It wasn’t the kid’s fault he lived in a slum, and Ryan certainly wasn’t going to judge him or make him feel shitty. They reached the far end of the hall, and Carmine fished a flashlight from his pocket and clicked it on, then pushed through the doorway.

  “We’re on the fifth floor,” he said, almost apologetically.

  “The higher you are, the less likely you’ll have to deal with those monsters, at least that’s what I’ve found,” Ryan said.

  The stairwell was mercifully trash-free. The last thing Ryan needed was to trip and fall down the stairs. The notion of doctors died when the world turned out its lights on humanity. He figured his ankle would be okay in a day or so, but hoped he wouldn’t have to run anytime soon.

  Be careful what you hope for; you’ll tempt that cruel bitch, fate.

  “So one of ‘em got away?” Carmine asked.

  “Yeah,” Ryan sighed as they made it to the second floor.

  “Think he’ll come back? Think he’ll bring others?”

  “I dunno,” Ryan said. “But I think if there were others, they would have probably brought them this time. Unfortunately, he saw where you went. So, if he does come back, you and your grandpa are sitting targets.”

  “So, what should we do?”

  “Well, the way I see it, you’ve got two choices. You either move, or prepare to defend yourselves. That means learning how to use the gun I gave you.”

  “Gramps doesn’t much like guns.”

  “Well, Gramps needs to recognize that the world has changed. If you’re not armed, you’re at the mercy of man and monster, alike.”

  Carmine laughed, “Gramps still thinks he’s tough. A few months ago, we were at the park, and some crackhead came up with a gun and told Gramps to hand over his wallet. Gramps told the guy he had exactly 10 seconds to leave, or he’d whoop his ass so bad his mama wouldn’t even recognize his ugly face.”

  Ryan laughed, “What happened?”

  "The crackhead just stared at him for a long time, and I was sure he was gonna just shoot us right there on the spot. But then he just backed off. Said something like, ‘It ain’t even worth it’ or something. Gramps used to be a semi-pro boxer and taught for years when he got back from the war. He never got too well known, but he’d taught a lot of the great boxers in the day. So, he’s kinda close to being a local celebrity. Maybe the dude recognized him or something. But, like you said, things have changed. People now, they don’t care who you are or what your rep is.”

  “No, they don’t,” Ryan said, as he considered a third possible solution to their predicament. He could track Red Jacket down and finish the job. He’d have to wait until his ankle was better, and hope Red Jacket didn’t come back before then. But if he could find the bastard, he could make sure Carmine and his grandpa would be safe, from one asshole, anyway.

  “Fifth floor,” Carmine said, as he pushed through the squeaky doorway and into the hall, lit by large, grimy windows at either end. Ryan followed the boy to the fourth door on the left, noting that the hallway was in far better condition than the first floor. Gramps probably didn’t put up with trashy neighbors, Ryan guessed, liking the old brawler before they even met.

  Carmine knocked on the door twice, waited, then twice again, and said, “It’s me, Gramps,” before sliding his keys into the deadbolt. He turned to Ryan, “Wait here, a sec, and leave the gun in the hall, okay?”

  “OK,” Ryan said, leaning his rifle against the wall.

  “I’ve got company,” Carmine said as he entered the apartment, and placed the flashlight on a small end table beside the front door. “He saved me from some punks who tried to jack your meds. Is it alright if he comes in?”

  From his spot in the doorway, Ryan could see into the small apartment, well-lit by open windows in the living room. Though the apartment was small, and looked as if it had been decorated in the ‘70s, it was immaculate, orderly, and well-preserved.

  Gramps wheeled into view, emerging from a bedroom in the back of the apartment. The man was stocky, bald, and looked like he was in his early 60s. He was wearing powder-blue dress pants that hung loosely over where the bottom of the man’s left leg had once been, and a dark-blue polo shirt. He looked like he was about to head to the park for a Sunday stroll, but his face was stone-cold serious.

  Gramps eyed Ryan up and down, “Why’d you bring a stranger here?” he asked Carmine, though his eyes never left Ryan. Though the man had no weapon, his stare was intimidating, as if he might leap right out of the chair and kick your ass, even if you had a weapon.

  Ryan rolled his shoulders forward slightly, trying to appear less of a threat. He considered saying something, but kept his mouth shut and let the boy talk.

  “He was walking me home when these two men came at me with guns. They followed us here and shot at us.”

  “Yeah,” Gramps said, “I heard the racket outside. So, where is it?”

  “Huh?” Carmine asked.

  “Where’s this man’s gun? I heard three guns.”

  “Out in the hallway, sir,” Ryan said.

  “Get it,” Gramps sai
d.

  Ryan turned, heart in his throat, uncertain what the man intended to do. He retrieved the rifle, returned to the room, and handed it to Gramps.

  “A Nosler, eh? Good gun,” Gramps said, turning the rifle over in his hands before handing it back. For a man who didn’t like guns, he had no trouble making out the make and model.

  “I’m not all that familiar with them, myself,” Ryan explained. “I picked it up from an abandoned house for protection. Did some practice shooting; got decent.”

  Gramps stared at Ryan for a moment, as if somehow reading the man’s mind, making sure he was, in fact, safe. Though he felt absurd, Ryan tried to think nice thoughts, and not at all about the robbery at his store, just in case the man could read minds. Of course, trying not to think about the robbery gone south, or the dead bodies, only made them clearer in his mind’s eye. He hoped like hell his smile covered the sick feeling of remembering Clarissa’s body, dead eyes staring up at him.

  “Thank you for looking out for Carmine,” Gramps said, holding out his giant hand, “Name is Joe Turner.”

  “You’re welcome, Mr. Turner, my name is Ryan Olson,” he said, shaking the man’s surprisingly soft hand.

  “Carmine said a lot of nice things about you,” Ryan said, trying to be nice without kissing the man’s ass too much. Guys like Joe couldn’t stand a sycophant.

  Joe ignored the compliment, asked Carmine to shut the door, and invited Ryan to have a seat in the living room. Carmine handed Joe the medicine, which Joe looked at, then thanked the boy before asking Carmine to bring it to the kitchen and put it in the medicine cabinet. Ryan leaned the rifle against the wall beside the door and limped to the couch, trying to stay in front of Joe at all times, figuring a man in a wheelchair would be extra jumpy about strangers being out of his line of sight.

  “So, where you staying at?” Joe asked.

  “Over by the drug store, but I’m originally from Missouri.”

  “Missouri? What brings you ‘round here?”

  “I’m looking for my wife and daughter, hoping they’re still alive.”

  “They were gone when you woke up?” Carmine asked.

  “I dunno, well, I mean, my ex-wife, we’re divorced. We don’t live together. But I went to their house as soon as I realized what happened. But nobody was there. I noticed stuff was scattered all over, though, and found a list Mary, my ex, had written, listing a whole bunch of stuff that wasn’t in the house. My guess is they’re alive and that they packed a bunch of stuff, and took off. I have no idea where they went, though.”

  “So, you’re just wandering around, looking?” Joe asked.

  “Started out doing that, but lately, I’ve stayed put, kinda losing hope,” Ryan admitted. “So, what are your plans? Are you staying here?”

  “Got somewhere better?” Joe said smiling.

  “Wish I could say I did. You two, and those punks that came after your grandson, are the first people I’ve seen since October.”

  “Where all you been?”

  “Missouri, Kentucky, Arkansas, and here, so far. I was going to head down to Alabama next, maybe.”

  “What made you choose those places?”

  “I dunno, trying to stick to areas Mary might have gone, places she knew people, without going too far.”

  Joe stared at Ryan, again as if he were reading his thoughts. “There’s something you’re not saying.”

  Ryan glanced at Carmine, who smiled. “Gramps has a way of seeing the things you ain’t sayin’.”

  Ryan looked at Joe, “This is gonna sound weird, but basically, I’m following hunches and these weird dreams I’m having. They were stronger a few months back, something calling me south. They stopped around the time I got here. So, I just stayed put, thinking maybe I was supposed to wait here. I know, it’s weird, but right now, weird’s all I’ve got to go on.”

  “Not weird at all,” Joe said. “God works in mysterious ways. Maybe He is showing you the way.”

  Ryan didn’t bother debating the man on theology. If religion was all the man had to hold, who was Ryan to take it away or question it? So, he nodded and said, “Maybe.”

  “Or maybe God meant for you to save me,” Carmine offered.

  “Well, I’m glad I was useful to someone,” Ryan said, as he stared out the window, wondering how long until Red Jacket came back seeking vengeance.

  Ryan stayed for dinner, which Carmine cooked with a portable gas stove. They had tomato soup and old crackers. They were on the stale side, but it was good to have hot food for a change. Ryan had been existing solely on a diet of chips, cold, canned meats, and warm cans of soda.

  After dinner, Ryan asked what the bathroom situation was. He wasn’t surprised to find it was more or less the same as his. They used buckets, dumped outside daily. Water had stopped flowing a week or so after the Vanishings, so they’d been using bottled water ever since.

  Ryan felt weird using someone else’s bucket to do his business, but this was the new reality, and there was no place for shyness over bodily functions in the world anymore. He made his way into the bathroom, lit by a small window that looked out onto the street behind them, squatted, and pissed and shit. He grabbed some squares of toilet paper and wiped, dropping it all in the bucket.

  Now, what? Do I bring the bucket out, or leave it and expect someone else to clean up my mess?

  Until now, he’d been on his own, so piss and shit bucket etiquette questions weren’t something he’d given much thought to. He washed his hands using water from a gallon, which sat on a shelf behind him, and a blue bar of soap on the sink. He dried his hands on a towel hanging on the door, then opened the door gingerly, carrying the bucket awkwardly and painfully aware of the smell of his own waste.

  “Where should I bring this?”

  Ryan got his answer, took care of the bucket, then came back in the apartment. “How bad you hurt?” Joe asked, giving him the eye.

  “Hurts when I walk, but I’ll live,” Ryan said. “Probably be better in the morning, or maybe the day after that.”

  “Why don’t you stay the night? I’d hate to send you out and have something happen and you can’t run.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Ryan said, “I don’t want to put you out.”

  “Nonsense, you wouldn’t even be hurt if you hadn’t helped my boy.”

  “Thank you,” Ryan said.

  “Besides, we might need your help if that thug comes back lookin’ for trouble.”

  Twenty-Three

  Charlie Wilkens

  Dunn, Georgia

  March 24

  6:20 a.m.

  It was only in the quiet moments when Charlie felt he could see the world as it truly was. He lay in bed watching the morning sun spill through the window and creep across Callie’s soft cheeks. Though he lay beside her, and both were in their underwear and T-shirts, he may as well have been sleeping outside. Charlie was still in the “friend zone.”

  He’d gotten used to being consigned to the role of friend, and most times was cool with it. Having Callie as a friend was better than not having her in his life. She was, in fact, one of the closest friends he’d ever had. But times like this, lying close enough to smell her, wanting so much to touch her, to hold her, to kiss her — times like this were tough as hell.

  She said it was “better this way.” Things were too complicated in the world now to get involved. Better for her, maybe. But not for him. He wondered if things were normal, if the world hadn’t vanished, if she’d feel any different? Would she even talk to someone like him? She was as geeky as he was, liking all the same TV shows, books, and comics. Hell, she even drew him a killer version of The Maxx. But she was still a hot girl. And social law said girls like her didn’t go for guys like him, even if it were the end of the world.

  But he’d be damned if someone like Vic would get her.

  Vic had been eying Callie like a dog looking at an abandoned burger left on the table. The worst part was the asshole didn’t even have the d
ecency to hide his ogling from Charlie. It was as if he was daring Charlie to say something. Even though Charlie wasn’t really with Callie, Vic didn’t know that. So, to ogle her was a clear “fuck you” to Charlie as far as he was concerned. Last week, the fucker even licked his lips when Callie was bending over outside. Charlie pretended not to see the bald steroid case, because if Vic knew he’d seen, and Charlie had done nothing, it would’ve made him look weak. Vic was as much a bully as Bob, with a nose fine-tuned to sniffing out pussies ripe for torment.

  Charlie hoped the little scene last night might finally give Vic pause before fucking with Charlie overtly. Putting a knife in the one-eyed biker who killed Jeremy must’ve earned him some respect. Judging from Adam’s stunned expression and Boricio’s smile, he knew he’d at least impressed them. Vic grinned, but Charlie couldn’t read what inspired the smile. Had Charlie finally done something to impress the man, or was he smiling in mockery, judging Charlie’s kill as that of a pussy?

  He wasn’t sure what Callie had thought either.

  He didn’t even look at her after he’d killed the man. He stormed from the room, and went outside to clear his head. She followed a few minutes later, finding him on the side of the house. She approached cautiously, as if suddenly afraid. He could barely look her in the eyes, though he wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was shame, or maybe he was afraid he’d puke once he really thought about what he’d done. He killed a man. Another man. Bob was one thing. Bob had earned Charlie’s rage and hate with years of abuse, treating his mom like shit, raping Callie, and then saying the shit he did about Charlie’s dad. Nobody said shit about his dad. But killing the biker had been different. He’d taken no joy from it. Worse, he instantly regretted the decision. He had to go outside to try and push the thoughts from his head, before they began a forever loop in his mind’s movie reel.