Yesterday's Gone: Seasons 1-6 Complete Saga

by Sean Platt

  Now Mary was standing, her stomach turning again, a cold sweat on her brow. “I’m sure you two could argue forever, but we need to make up our minds, do we stay here or do we ... ”

  That was when John appeared from nowhere. “You’re not thinking of leaving now, are you?” he said, quickly approaching the bench until he was standing a few feet from the group. “The Prophet has let you into his home. I can’t imagine he would take kindly to your sudden departure.” John smiled, and after a few seconds, he nodded, then walked off in the other direction.

  Mary wasn’t sure if it had been John’s sudden appearance or something else that had sent her scurrying up the stairs and into the bathroom, but that’s where she’d been sitting since, sick as a dog.

  Thirty-Five

  Edward Keenan

  Ed glanced over at Brent Foster sitting shotgun next to him as they sped toward Georgia in a world without speed limits, hunting a man named Boricio.

  Did I choose the right ally in Brent? Does he have what it takes to see this through ‘til the end?

  Brent’s lack of combat training didn’t exactly make him the kind of guy you’d want beside you in the field. But he was passionate, almost impossibly so. And there was something about him that made Ed trust him immediately, even if Brent were contemplating some sort of attack against him or someone else high ranking at Black Island.

  Who could blame him? He was willing to do whatever he needed to protect his family, even if they’d been reduced to zombies. And protecting them was tantamount to suicide. Ed could understand, if not respect, that sort of foolish dedication.

  As one desolate town piled on top of another, Brent grew uncharacteristically quiet. He was probably lost in thoughts, perhaps dealing with feelings of guilt over giving up on the creatures that were parallels of his wife and son. Though they were alternate versions of his family, he clearly felt for them. But they weren’t his true family, and they couldn’t be saved. The scientists at Black Island Research Facility were conducting their secret experiments, something the Ed Keenan of this world — his parallel — told him was for the greater good. When the government said something was for “the greater good,” it usually meant someone was going to die. That was the way of the world, a reality Ed was no stranger to. He’d participated in many dubious acts, ostensibly for the greater good. He’d believed in his missions and government, until they turned on him.

  Had that also been for the greater good?

  Ed tried not to dwell on a past that would only serve to pull him from his present mission, a mission for the greater good, of course.

  Finally, Brent broke a few hours of silence. “So, Captain, what is it about this Boricio guy that has you so charged up?”

  “I don’t know, and call me Ed. None of this captain shit when we’re not on base.”

  “Okay, Ed. So, there’s got to be something special about him, right? Do they think he knows what happened? Or that he’s behind it? Or even that he has some kind of cure for the infected?”

  “They didn’t tell me much. They gave me a picture; how the hell they got that, I don’t know, unless he’s a parallel of someone here. But I know they want to get to him before Black Mountain finds him.”

  “Black Mountain?” Brent asked. “Like Black Island?”

  “Yes and no. They started out the same. But it seems the group in Georgia went rogue. We’re not even sure they’re still here or that there are any survivors. But if they’re alive, there’s an excellent chance they’re looking for Boricio, too.”

  “And they couldn’t tell you why?” Brent asked as if he didn’t believe Ed.

  “Is it so hard to believe they only tell me what I need to know?”

  “You seem like the type who would insist on needing to know everything.”

  Ed smiled, “Fair enough. And you’re right. But in this case, the details are sensitive. Even if I did know, I wouldn’t tell you. Suffice it to say, they want this guy, so we need to find him first and convince him to come back with us. What happens after that, I don’t know.”

  Brent was quiet a while longer, then asked, “Have you seen your daughter?”

  A grenade of emotion detonated within Ed’s every ounce of being.

  “No. They showed me pictures, but I don’t know where they have her or the other girl, Teagan.”

  “The one with the baby?”

  “If the baby lived, yes.”

  “I haven’t seen any babies on the island,” Brent said. “And I don’t remember Jane telling me about having to watch any.”

  “Like I said, I don’t know. They’re keeping mum.”

  “Why tell you about your daughter’s status, but not the other girl?”

  “My guess is something bad happened and they don’t want to upset me.”

  “You think she’s dead?”

  Ed looked at Brent, “You sure are chatty.”

  “Sorry,” Brent said, “I just like to know what’s going on, what’s at stake.”

  After a few moments, Brent spoke again, “I gotta ask you something that’s been gnawing at me since the other night, when you went all parallel universe on me: Why did you pick me?”

  “I told you. Michael is dead. I need someone I can trust. Though, Michael was a hell of a lot less chatty.”

  “Yeah, but you hardly know me. And this is a Black Island-sanctioned mission, right? If that’s the case, why not just take any of the other men who are surely more equipped to get your back? What are we really doing here?”

  Ed looked at Brent and grinned, “Anyone ever tell you that you ask too many questions?”

  “Every day at my old job,” Brent said, smiling back. “So, is that an evasion or the opening to an answer?”

  Maybe this guy has better field sense than I thought; he can sure smell out answers.

  “Here’s the deal,” Ed drummed his thumbs on the steering wheel. “I can’t trust everyone on Black Island. I knew Michael was clean, but I have my suspicions about others. They have a mole, someone working in the interests of Black Mountain. Maybe even a few people; I’m not sure. I can’t go into the how’s and why’s, but I’m fairly certain the place has been compromised. And the mole may even be among the original six.”

  “Original six?” Brent asked.

  “There is a room in Black Island that seems to have been spared whatever happened on October 15. I’m thinking there’s a reason for that, and it might not be a good reason. Six people from this world survived, including my parallel, Sullivan, and four scientists. I have reason to believe that one or more of them are complicit in the events of October 15, and I’m not sure they want us to succeed in finding Boricio. This mission is critical; I need at least one other person with no connections to anyone. And I have a good feeling about you.”

  “Good feeling?” Brent asked suspiciously.

  “OK, I’ve been watching you, and so far, you seem clean. Well, clean for a journalist, anyway.”

  Brent laughed.

  They drove a while longer, the weather growing uglier with every mile. They drove through a few patches of rain and were now getting some snow, which slicked the empty roads. This was the first snow Ed had seen all season, and so late in winter, too. There were a few people at Black Island researching weather patterns; he’d even seen video of a bizarre tornado, bigger by far than anything ever captured on camera. It grabbed an entire city, then threw it down in a stack of debris as though it were cleaning a house and sweeping dust into a corner. Weird shit. Ed found himself wondering if the weird storms were an extension of the aliens in some way. He hoped not. If the storms were an alien creation, God help the humans who tried to survive them.

  Brent had been quiet a while. Ed looked over to see that he’d fallen asleep, his head on the passenger window.

  Would he have gone through with his crazy plan if I hadn’t intervened? Would he have been able to infect someone as he intended? And, God, what would the consequences have been?

  Ed supposed it didn’t
matter. The people in charge wouldn’t have let Brent leave with two infected people, no matter whom he had as a hostage. Ed had played out extraction scenarios in his head a hundred times, imagining how he’d rescue his daughter. It wasn’t feasible; a facility like Black Island had too many fail-safes to allow someone to slip in and out without harm. And while Ed might be able to defeat the security, and even reach to his daughter, he doubted he could escape in a manner that wouldn’t put her at mortal risk.

  And risking Jade wasn’t an option. She’d already suffered enough from the curse of being his daughter.

  The way he figured it, they had no reason to harm her; there was nothing to gain in pissing him off by hurting her, especially when they allowed so many civilians to live on the island unmolested. Plus, their stated goal of trying to rebuild society seemed genuine enough, at least on the face of it. But that meant they would have to do everything that needed to be done to protect that goal, no matter who was in their way. So, Ed would play ball. He’d worked for worse people, after all.

  His parallel, the other Keenan, said his daughter would remain safe. Ed trusted him with that much. Keenan 2 had lived a slightly different life, a daughterless one, and Ed figured that though she was not his flesh and blood, that there may be some sort of connection which would keep her safe for a little while, anyway. Ed knew that Keenan 2 wasn’t the puppet master. Second in command, maybe. But not in charge. Someone else was pulling the strings behind the scenes, isolated from everyone and everything, using Keenan 2 as an intermediary. As Ed continued driving through a world growing whiter, he wondered if he’d ever find out who was really the man behind the curtain at Black Island.

  Is there a seventh person?

  They reached the east coast of Georgia by nightfall. They arrived by way of Interstate 95, though there were several times when they had to find a detour around some obstruction, one of the many new travel norms of their brave new world.

  Ed decided to locate a hotel to stay at for the night. They’d need a solid night’s rest before searching for Boricio in the morning. He had a feeling they’d need every watt of energy their bodies could produce, especially if they came across anyone from Black Mountain. He found a newer-looking Holiday Inn off the highway, which looked nice and alien-free. The hotel was a free-standing building at the end of a shopping plaza that included a few restaurants, a Home Depot, a department store, a small grocery store chain he’d never heard of, and four different banks. He chuckled at the plethora of banks in this world as well as his own.

  He cut the lights as he pulled into the hotel’s parking lot, which was 60 percent full from the guests who involuntarily checked out on Oct. 15, then waited 10 minutes to scout the scene for any aliens. None showed.

  They grabbed their gear and headed inside. On instinct, he began securing the perimeter, once inside. He locked the lobby’s glass double doors. He checked the side doors and confirmed they couldn’t be opened from the outside without a key card (which wouldn’t work anyway without electricity), then headed up seven flights of stairs, banging their rifles and shouting the entire time, to attract anything that might be inside the hotel to come out now, rather than later when they weren’t prepared.

  All the noise was for naught; the hotel was a ghost town.

  They found a room with two queen beds and a small kitchen suite. Ed drew the drapes and lit a few of the small, battery-operated lanterns he’d brought, placing them along the floor in the bathroom to cast just enough light into the main room so that they could see without broadcasting their location beyond the thick hotel curtains.

  “Hope you like canned pasta,” Ed mused, opening a duffel bag and tossing Brent a can of spaghetti and meatballs.

  “You didn’t bring a hotplate or anything?” Brent asked.

  “We don’t want to cook anything; that would attract attention.”

  “Ah,” Brent said, pulling the tab on his can. Ed handed him a plastic fork, and they dug into their dinners.

  “Not exactly Jane’s cooking, but surprisingly not horrible.” Brent said.

  Ed sat on the floor, scooping food from his can, ignoring Brent’s many attempts to start a conversation. He never understood why people wanted to talk while they were eating. He put up with it from his family, since he figured that’s what he was expected to do. But that didn’t mean he’d put up with other people doing it. People talking during dinner may as well have been fingernails on a chalkboard.

  “What’s the worst thing you ever had to eat?” Brent continued, deaf and blind to Ed’s uncommunicative posture.

  “I ate a spider once, does that count?” Ed said, hoping to end the conversation.

  “What the hell?” Brent said, nearly spitting out his food. “Really?”

  Ed couldn’t help but laugh.

  “You’ve gotta do what you’ve gotta do. It wasn’t terrible. They’re not as bad as people say. Well, until I realized it was pregnant. Oh, what a mess that was. Little baby spiders spilling out all over the place. Kinda looked like wet, dark pieces of pasta, actually.”

  “Stop!” Brent said, looking like he might vomit.

  Ed smiled. Good, now I can eat in peace.

  He shoved a meatball into his mouth as Brent dipped his uneaten forkful of pasta back into the can.

  Sleep took them by 10 p.m. Ed didn’t bother structuring night shifts as he didn’t anticipate any problems, none at least that he couldn’t handle with an open bag of ammunition at his bedside.

  Once asleep, he dreamed he was in a field of tall grass that stretched to forever. The voice he’d been dreaming of was back. Brent was also there, walking beside him, looking down at a map.

  “You’re close,” the voice said.

  “Who’s that?” Brent asked.

  “You can hear it?” Ed said, surprised.

  “Yeah, who is that?”

  “If you can hear it, you don’t need to ask,” Ed said, not intending to be cryptic, though it wasn’t like he was the one choosing his words. The voice was speaking through him.

  Brent looked back down at his map. “I see it here.”

  Ed stared at the map, too, which looked like one of those old treasure maps you used to see in movies and comic books, with a big, red X.

  “Uh-oh,” Brent said. “It knows we’re here.”

  Ed looked at him, confused. Was the voice now speaking through Brent? Who, or what, was “it?”

  Overhead, the sky grew instantly black, darkness spreading like spilled ink in clear water, canvassing the world. Wind and rain were on sudden assault everywhere around them, whipping the long blades of grass against their faces in stinging lashes. The wind howled like a scattered pack of wounded animals, crying at once from every direction.

  Ed closed his eyes, lifting an arm to cover his face, pushing through the grass.

  “Keep going!” he shouted to Brent, as they pushed blindly into the thrashing sea.

  The assault ended as suddenly as it began, though the darkness still churned overhead. When Ed gazed around, Brent was gone. He turned, searching, and called out, “Brent!”

  And then he heard the sound of a child singing. He couldn’t tell if the voice was that of a boy or girl. The melody sounded like a religious hymn, though he couldn’t make out the words.

  He continued forward until he spotted a church steeple peeking over the grass.

  “Brent?!”

  Nothing but the child’s singing, coming from the church. He was close enough to determine the tune – Jesus Loves Me – but was still too far to decipher the words.

  He raced forward and came out into a clearing in front of a church, standing before a barracks-neat row of three houses in the background. In front of the church were six giant wooden crosses. The child, in a white robe, was knelt down singing in front of one of the crosses.

  Oh my god, someone’s nailed to it.

  Ed moved closer as the child’s singing continued.

  “The Darkness loves me! This I know,

&nbs
p; for The Prophet tells me so.”

  His slowed his gate as he locked onto the bulging dead eyes of the man on the cross.

  Brent.

  Brent had been crucified, nailed in place through his hands and shins. His limp mouth hung agape, tongue savagely removed. Dried blood had pooled in the stubble upon his chin. He smelled of death. A crude mark had been etched into the flesh of his chest. Ed stepped closer to make it out. It was a number, 9.

  “Little ones to Him belong;

  They are weak but He is strong.”

  And then the singing stopped.

  Thirty-Six

  Luca Harding

  Kingsland, Alabama

  The Sanctuary

  March 24

  11:07 a.m.

  Everything had been weird since yesterday.

  Mary, Will, and Desmond weren’t talking with the others too much. They seemed angry at Rebecca’s mom and The Prophet.

  Luca wanted to be angry at the people for punishing Rebecca, cutting all her hair off and making her cry. And he was angry, at first. But then he began to pick up on all the feelings of the people like radio signals and realized that things weren’t as simple as he’d first thought.

  When he focused in these frequencies, he learned that some of the people were mad at Rebecca and Carl, but most were afraid for them. That meant they were acting out of fear, not anger. And while Rebecca’s mom, Sarah, seemed angriest of all, she wasn’t really. She was actually the most afraid, convinced her daughter was going to hell and thus doing what she believed was right. Luca’s radar was intercepting more than just sensory feelings, though. He was sometimes catching snippets of actual dialogue. At first, he thought he was overhearing bits of conversations. But no one was ever talking. That could only mean one of two things:

  I’m hearing their inner thoughts, or maybe the voices that normally speak to me are now communicating via other people’s voices in some attempt to trick me.