Yesterday's Gone: Seasons 1-6 Complete Saga

by Sean Platt

  Callie stepped closer, meeting his eyes. She hugged him, burying her face into his chest. She didn’t say a word. She simply hugged him. And he hugged her. And then he broke down, crying.

  “It’s okay,” she said, over and over, whispering to him as she hugged him so hard, he wondered who needed the hug more.

  Callie had been acting weird lately. Sad, and almost needy at times. Usually, she was either tough talking, brash, and funny, or light-hearted and friendly, sharing stories of her childhood. But lately, she spent a lot of time staring at thoughts just out of focus. Sometimes, she looked like she wanted to cry. And when they slept together, she’d snuggle up closely to him, pulling his arm around her, though never once pushing it into more romantic areas. It was as close to a romantic bond as he’d ever had, yet he didn’t dare attempt to breach the line.

  Sometimes, he wondered if she was finally falling for him. But he was too damned afraid to make another move and have a repeat of the awkwardness that followed his first attempt to ask her out.

  They remained outside for a while, neither saying much and not really needing to. Sometimes, just being close to someone is enough. They went to bed a bit after that, lying together, her in his arms. They stayed that same way all through the night.

  Now, as the golden light of morning caressed her skin, he had to fight the urge, and his morning wood, to follow the sun’s touch on her skin.

  He closed his eyes, flashing back over the past few months, wondering where it all was leading. Not just he and Callie, but what he was doing with Boricio and crew, and whether or not his place had permanence. Would he be better off trying to go it alone, or just he and Callie, assuming she’d come with him? Boricio was no saint, and maybe the world’s biggest dick, but at the same time he seemed to have a respect for Charlie that no man since his dad had given him. He was like a cool uncle, in a way. But he sensed there was a side to Boricio that was pitch-black; a side he didn’t allow the others to see but Charlie was certain was there. A savage side hungry to break free from its chains.

  When Charlie thought back about all the time spent with Boricio, all the daring shit and all the big words, he still found himself confronted with a frightening question: What did they really know about Boricio?

  What had he done before he showed up as a prisoner of The Prophet with him and Adam? From the best Charlie could tell, Boricio had been a cook, a mechanic, and a debt collector of some sort at one point, though Charlie wasn’t sure if that meant the kind who cashed in on legitimate debts, or something more sinister. Charlie suspected the latter, and could see Boricio being a mobster henchman, but only for a while. Boricio liked to fly solo, that much was clear. Charlie figured Boricio had grown up on the streets, pretty much doing whatever he needed to do in order to survive. If that included grifting, strong-arm robbery, or seducing women with money, so be it. Boricio was all about getting his. And Team Boricio was only a team so far as it continued to serve the captain’s needs. The players, themselves, seemed expendable.

  Expendable.

  The past few months saw a flux of team members; a wanderer picked up there, a casualty from monster or bandit there. The deaths didn’t faze Boricio one bit; he hadn’t stopped to mourn their losses for a second. In fact, Charlie wasn’t even sure Boricio was capable of mourning, or feeling much, really. But there were times when Boricio would say something nice or inspirational to him and Adam; moments when Boricio actually seemed to care about them, perhaps felt some responsibility for taking care of them. Charlie wondered if this was the real Boricio he was seeing in those moments, or if it was simply another mask worn by the man to manipulate them to stick with him.

  If he or Adam were to die tomorrow, would Boricio even care?

  As Charlie pondered the thought, he felt foolish, and almost like a child, wondering if Boricio was really his friend. These were the sort of thoughts the Old Charlie used to obsess about, always wondering if people liked him, always wanting to avoid things that might offend or anger someone. The kinds of thoughts that had made him such a loser, and a target. The kinds of thoughts that attracted bullies and thugs like Vic. And Bob. The kinds of thoughts that kept him from living life.

  Times like now, as he lay in the morning stillness, more or less alone with his thoughts and the new day dawning outside, he felt hate.

  Hate for Old Charlie, who had let others control his life. Hate for the fears that ruled his existence. Hate for every cowardly choice he’d ever made. Hate for every bully who exploited his kindness. And hate for never striking back at those bullies.

  Life was too short to live in constant fear.

  He was tired of being Old Charlie.

  He was tired of pretending to be some different, manlier Charlie.

  Now, as the morning sun rose outside and his wood rose in his shorts, he decided, is the time to become New Charlie, for real.

  If there was one thing he had learned from Boricio, it was that he didn’t have to be a pussy. He didn’t have to take it. He could fight back.

  He could kill.

  He could do whatever it took to survive. Because now, more than ever, weakness and fear were qualities that would kill him, and possibly Callie.

  The world had been wiped clean, so had Charlie’s slate.

  It was time to reinvent himself.

  To the New Charlie.

  He imagined himself toasting an invisible glass of champagne.

  He took initiative last night, by killing the biker who killed Jeremy. He’d done something positive, which made him strong in the eyes of the others. He would build on that today. Do something decisive. Take charge. Step into his new self.

  He would kill the Old, Weak Charlie once and for all.

  Twenty-Four

  Mary Olson

  Kingsland, Alabama

  The Sanctuary

  March 23

  Morning

  Mary was sipping a tall glass of tepid water, letting her last swallow sit in her mouth as she leaned against the bar talking to Will. John and Desmond had left The Sanctuary an hour earlier to look for Rebecca and Carl.

  The mood was humid, everyone waiting for word, while trying to go about the day. The children were still in class; Mary and Will were taking a largely unnoticed break from their chores.

  “I don’t know,” Mary said, shaking her head. “It doesn’t feel right. And I know how much Desmond hates it. I can feel him biting his tongue, and practically hear the million and one things he isn’t saying. It’s exhausting, and we’re not even living together.”

  “Yeah,” Will shook his head, “dude isn’t half as subtle as he thinks he is.”

  “What do you think?” She tried pinning Will to an answer like the hundred times she’d failed before. “Are we safe?”

  Will nodded. “Sure, we’re safe. At least as safe as we would be out there,” he jerked his thumb toward the wall. “Truthfully, I think safe got swallowed by a tar pit.”

  Mary got it a second before Will said, “You know, like the dinosaurs, safe doesn’t exist anymore.”

  She felt stupid for giving him long enough to explain.

  “There are guards, high walls and weapons, and all the food we need. And besides,” Will said, “if they wanted us dead, we’d be in the dirt. So yeah, I expect we’re safe, to a degree anyway.”

  “But what about The Prophet, and all the weird, cultish stuff? Doesn’t it bother you at all?”

  Will gave Mary an old man’s tired chuckle, friendly enough to say he cared, but with an edge of exhaustion that also said he was sick of being asked the same question in 35 different versions 35 times a day.

  “Not sure what else to say,” he shook his head. “One man’s church is another man’s cult. Can’t say I care for it. And yeah, it bothers me, but not enough to do anything. It bothers me, all of it. But not as much as whatever’s on the other side of that wall, and not enough to leave. And even if it did, I probably wouldn’t. The dreams tell me to stay and I do what they tell me.”
>
  Will crossed his arms across his chest. Mary thought he may as well have said harrumph.

  “How can you let a dream tell you what to do?”

  Will stared for a while, maybe a full 10 seconds before he said, “Dreams are how I found Luca, and what led me to you, right? Or am I missing something?”

  “Alright,” she said. “I’ll buy the dreams, and whatever strings you let them pull. But why are you so damned vague about them?” Mary was surprised at her sudden welling anger, frothing forth from months’ worth of pent-up frustration for Will and his obvious secrets and cranky grandpa muttering. “Why can’t you just tell us whatever it is you won’t tell us? Don’t you think we should know? Don’t you think we deserve to know?”

  Will’s voice softened against the intensity of Mary’s. “I know you’re nervous, Desmond, too. I get it, and I want everyone safe. I promise, no hesitation when it’s time to move on. We’ll leave the second it’s a good idea. But until then, I can’t say anything, and it’s not because I want to stay hushed. It’s because my dreams keep telling me to shut the hell up and I’m too smart to stay stupid. Every time I’ve been stupid enough to ignore what I’m told not to do, I’ve suffered. People I dreamed about suffered. So, I have to sit tight and let things play out, and hope there’s a moment I can influence things in a positive way.”

  Will’s eyes grew big and held Mary’s. “Let’s presume for a moment that there is something out there. I’m not calling it God, just something that’s aware of us. And it’s watching me right now, has been for a while. Wants to make damned sure I don’t say anything I shouldn’t. It’ll punish us all if I speak. My next promise is that I won’t let that happen,” he smiled. “I’m not positive about the something that may or may not be God watching me thing, but the punishment part’s a guarantee. Trust me. I’ve tried to intervene before. It never ends well.”

  A door slammed behind them announcing the end of classes. Before Mary could respond, Scott and Luca started walking toward them. Luca was the first to speak, trying on a new version of a slower paced, deeper toned adult voice.

  “Hi,” he said. “What’s everyone talking about?”

  “Hey, Luca,” Will said, slapping him on the back. “Afternoon,” he nodded at Scott.

  “We were just talking about Rebecca and Carl,” Mary said.

  “What about them?” Scott said.

  “Is everything okay?” Luca raised.

  Will raised his eyebrows and Mary looked behind her. “They didn’t tell you?” he said. They both shook their heads.

  Mary said, “Rebecca and Carl disappeared. No one knows where they went. John and Desmond left The Sanctuary to see if they could find them, and we’ve been searching here.” Will gestured toward Mary. “At least we were until Mary wanted an early lunch and a break from the garden.”

  “That’s my mom, always the slacker,” Paola said, approaching them. Since she wasn’t in classes yet (if Mary was even going to allow her to enroll), she was working laundry duty today, folding clothes for the residents of The Sanctuary. “What did I miss?” she asked, coming to stand beside her mom.

  “I thought they’d asked everyone; nobody asked any of you?” Mary said bewildered. “Rebecca and Carl are gone, and no one knows where they went.” Paola’s face flashed with something Mary had seen a million times before, then her nose twitched. Paola knew something, and Mary needed to know. “Paola, dear, what do you know?”

  “Um ... well ... I didn’t really think she would do it,” Paola said, shaking her head. Her voice sped up and so did her hands. “She seemed so afraid to do something like that, I didn’t really think she would do it. But I guess she did if she’s missing.” Before Mary could press Paola into telling her what that meant, she continued, “Rebecca told me she was thinking about sneaking into the woods by her old house for a picnic with Carl.”

  Will and Mary exchanged a look. Will broke the instant silence, “You need to go find Sarah.”

  Mary nodded and launched from her seat like a geyser just as Luca asked if anyone needed any help. Mary shook her head and said maybe later, then darted toward the middle house.

  She walked fast, anxious to tell Sarah the good news, imagining how worried Rebecca’s mother must be, probably beyond hysterics. Mary could only imagine how she would be feeling or what she would want to do in the same situation. Mothers will do anything and everything to protect their child. Mothers with missing offspring must go through some unimaginable torment.

  Mary found Sarah sitting with another of the women, Rosemary, just inside the kitchen area.

  “We think we know where Rebecca is,” Mary said. Sarah looked up at Mary, her eyes red and watery.

  “Yes?”

  Mary cleared her throat, sure that the news would be a relief to Sarah but unsure if it would frighten her, too. Rebecca had gone off the reservation, literally. Who knows how this holier-than-though bunch will react to that. “Paola told me Rebecca said she was thinking of having a picnic with Carl, over in the woods by your old house. That’s close, right? It should be easy enough to find them. I’m sure they’re safe.”

  An awkward silence expanded between them for a few seconds.

  Sarah stood up, and her face went from that of a worried mother, to the stern face of an angry spinster.

  “Thank you for informing me. I am sorry to hear my daughter has shamed The Sanctuary. I’ll inform Brother Rei so he can pray for her soul and send someone to get her.”

  Holier-than-though indeed. Poor Rebecca, and Carl.

  Sarah turned back to Rosemary, who put a hand on her shoulder and whispered something, while Mary stood alone with her shock. She had an inkling Sarah’s reaction might involve some scorn. But complete and total disdain? No ounce of relief? No hint of a smile? Just anger? Rebecca had always seemed so nice and calm. Mary knew she was a bit high-strung, but she’d never seen the kind of righteous anger that flashed just now.

  Once she gathered herself, Mary returned to her huddle with Will and the others, who’d moved to the front porch. They watched as Sarah, Rei, and Rosemary stormed over to the garden where The Prophet was sitting by himself in prayer. Though they couldn’t hear the group, they could feel the anger coming from them.

  “Sorry,” Paola shook her head, “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  “Yes, you should have,” Mary pulled Paola close and wrapped her arms around her. “You were perfect.”

  Twenty-Five

  Desmond Armstrong

  “JOHN!”

  Still nothing.

  The clicking cut through the dark, bounced across the walls of the cave and boomeranged back. Desmond swallowed, then held his breath when he thought his swallow might have been too loud. The squish beneath his foot from earlier was now moving on its own, at least it felt that way in the freezing fear of the pitch-black cave.

  The clicking came closer.

  Can these fuckers see in the dark?

  Desmond swam in the darkness, waving his hands slowly and awkwardly through the air, one tentative step at a time, searching for wall or John, and hoping not to find a monster. Between the clicking and being rendered virtually blind, Desmond had nothing to hold onto and everything to fear. No matter where he turned, his hands met air. And no matter where he turned, the clicking moved closer, as if it were just out of reach, watching him — waiting to strike.

  Desmond stopped moving completely, but that didn’t help.

  Click ... click ... click ...

  It can see me. I know it. Fuck!

  Closer and closer, louder and louder, a single click and decibel at a time.

  When the clicking was close enough for Desmond to hear the squish of its wet skin, he turned himself into a statue, holding his breath as the world around him heaved and sighed. In and out, in and out, Desmond drew and released shallow breaths.

  His body tensed, Desmond felt a sudden boiling hatred for John.

  Desmond would survive this. He would kill the monsters and find
his way out. Then he would kill the traitor. Desmond took silent aim at the clicking, no longer worried about his itchy trigger finger, eager to use it in fact, and thankful for the darkness that made accidents easy.

  John had betrayed him, lured him into a cave to get swallowed by death. He had probably been mocking him with all that insincere hokum about The Prophet and The Word. Desmond didn’t know what kind of mind fuck or game John was playing, but he would pay for it all, and with interest, for this and for leaving them stranded last October.

  Desmond inched forward, but his foot found a wrong step, followed by a second that made the first look graceful. He fell forward, hard, trying to catch himself with the balls of his palms. He missed, landing with the point of his chin instead. His gun didn’t go off but landed and bounced with a clatter into the darkness and out of sight.

  SHIT!

  Desmond felt around for the gun but found nothing, the ground cold, wet, and sticky to the touch.

  That’s when he stood and the panic got mean.

  Something brushed his arm and the clicking screamed in his ear, like an army of aluminum cockroaches. Piss flooded the front of his pants, rolling down Desmond’s leg. Desmond fell to the ground, searching frantically for the gun. The weird lights beneath the creatures’ skin pulsed and faded, never “on” long enough for Desmond to get a bead on exactly where they were. Desmond wondered if they’d evolved a way to turn their lights off when hunting.

  The clicking intensified, and he felt the thing next to him, surely ready to strike.

  Desmond’s hands were everywhere, but the gun wasn’t. And the clicking was now loud enough to be the last thing he ever heard. Without his gun, Desmond was dead. The clicking promised just seconds of breath. Desmond inhaled and prepared to die, just as invisible hands found him in the darkness.

  The hand over his mouth made him choke on his panic. He fought hard to keep the whimper inside, and wasn’t sure if John’s sudden whisper in his ear made things worse. “Shh, they’ll hear you,” he said.