Yesterday's Gone: Seasons 1-6 Complete Saga

by Sean Platt

  Boricio scooted himself up on the bed, then wiggled his toes just to make sure they could still dance. Sure as a sack of sugar they did, so Boricio wasn’t paralyzed. Just temporarily frozen from the pain.

  He blinked again, then swallowed, wincing through the pain.

  Boricio ran his fingers across his bandaged head as he looked around the hospital room, his eyes starting at the far right and the partition with all the silence behind it, then slowly grazing to the left, stopping at Will, sitting in a chair beside him with his arms crossed, waiting for Boricio to see him.

  “Hey,” Will said with a smile. “Good to see you blinking.”

  Boricio tried, but couldn’t smile back. Finding two pieces of what happened so he could put them together was hard enough. His memory was a blur. The naked recall, along with the ache and the pain, made the idea of a smile almost absurd.

  Boricio forced a question from his raw throat. “What happened?”

  “You were in a crash this morning. Do you remember the accident?”

  Boricio narrowed his eyes, then rocked his head slowly back and forth, and ever so slightly left to right. He went completely still, looked down, then finally shook his head.

  “What’s the last thing you remember?”

  Boricio tried to think back, but the only memory he could come up with had him back at Black Island, saying goodbye to Will, then stopping by the house to give Luca a high-five and tell him he’d see him after the weekend.

  Boricio was trying to blink himself into the next memory when he realized he was only blinking from his right eye, and that his left was showing nothing but black. Boricio felt suddenly trapped in a vacuum of horror, gasping for breath as his fingers ran over the bandage covering much of the left side of his face, including his left eye.

  Will was at his bedside a second before Boricio started to scream. “It’s okay,” he said. “It’s okay.”

  “What happened to my face?”

  “You were in a car accident,” Will put his hand on Boricio’s shoulder.

  Boricio felt a flicker of rage toward Will, seeing his face twitch the way it did as he hesitated to deliver the news to Boricio as if he were a child. He wanted to snap at Will to just fucking tell him what was going on, because Boricio was imagining the worst-case scenario lurking beneath the bandages.

  Boricio breathed himself into calm, then said, “How bad is it?”

  “You lost your left eye in the accident.” Will paused, rubbing his hand on Boricio’s shoulder, then said, “And your face and back of your head were badly lacerated, requiring lots of stitches, including one from your forehead to your left cheek which is gonna be pretty scary looking for some time. It’s too soon to say, but I believe the scarring can be minimized with cosmetic surgery, but not right away. Fortunately, your other injuries were minor.”

  Boricio tried to swallow again, this time managing to push the lump all the way to the bottom of his chest. He wondered if he would ever be able to grow hair around the gash again. He couldn't care less. Boricio would be perfectly fine being bald as a baby. But Rose loved Boricio’s hair. “You realize most women would kill to have hair this thick,” she often said while running her fingers through it. He loved when she stroked his hair. It was second only to sex in the pleasure department.

  He gasped, suddenly remembering everything: the drive, the look, the accident. Boricio shivered through the icy chill that chased the memory.

  “Rose,” Boricio said. “How is she?”

  Boricio didn’t like the hesitation on Will’s face a bit, even gave him a good goddamned three seconds to wipe it from his nose holder before he started yelling. “I said where is she, Will?!”

  The word “Will” came out in a roar. He watched his dad swallow and take a step back, then Boricio breathed himself back into another calm. “Sorry,” he said. “You didn’t deserve that.”

  Will said, “It’s okay, son. I understand.” Then he swallowed again and said, “We’re not sure how Rose is doing yet.”

  “I want to see her.”

  Will shook his head. “You know that’s not possible, Boricio. Not yet. You were both injured, badly. Rose worse than you. Right now the doctors need time and space to do what’s best for her. To do what’s best for you both. And we have to give it to them. Do you understand?”

  “I want to see her,” Boricio said, nostrils flaring at the memory of their final seconds, exchanging one last look before he tore through the Schooner or Later patio and murdered his chance for the Happily Ever After, which seemed an almost certainty when the day started.

  “Soon,” Will said, returning his calming hand to Boricio’s shoulder.

  Boricio shrugged the hand from his shoulder then started yanking wires and tubes from his body. He’d see for himself what Will was hiding in his eyes.

  “Stop, son; it’s okay.” Will’s hand moved from his shoulder to press down on his chest, firm and urgent. “I’ll tell you everything I know, I promise. But you have to relax.”

  Boricio’s nostrils still flared, but he managed to calm himself long enough to lie back on his bed. He kept his mouth closed, afraid of what would come out if he left it open.

  “I don’t know of any other way to do this then to simply tear the Band-Aid.” Will pulled his chair closer to Boricio’s bed, then sat and leaned in, holding his son’s hands as he whispered, “Rose suffered significant damage to her spinal column. The surgeons were able to repair much of that damage, but there’s a good chance that Rose will never walk again.”

  Will held Boricio’s stare.

  Boricio asked, “Is that it?”

  Will shook his head.

  “What else, Dad?”

  “Rose suffered significant swelling in the brain. And they’re not sure how bad it is.”

  Almost too hoarse to hear, Boricio said, “What about my baby?”

  He didn’t have to wait for Will to respond. The answer was written all over his face.

  Boricio’s roar tore through the hospital.

  Seventeen

  Brent Foster

  They moved cautiously through the dark maze, listening intently as the towers of cars creaked and swayed with every intermittent gust of howling wind blowing over the highway. In the moments of silence, every step was echoed and every breath exaggerated, every inch forward a blend of exertion and relief.

  “What did this?” Billy whispered to Brent, who was walking beside him. Ed was to the right, while Rojas followed in the rear, ordered to make sure the “prisoners” didn’t escape — not that Brent had any desire to do so. Brent had his eye on Ed, waiting for a sign. But Ed kept his plans close to the vest, sewing his lips as his eyes scanned the towers.

  “I dunno,” Brent said, wondering if The Prophet would say God, or maybe the Devil. But The Prophet, who was walking behind Lisa in the front of their formation, was also keeping his lips sewn shut. His eyes were wide as he held his air horn like some sort of magical battle axe which would ward off any evil.

  They’d gone no more than a tenth of the way through the pile when a thick fog rolled in on a cool breeze, so fast it seemed almost sentient.

  “We should be careful,” Brent said. “The aliens use the fog to attack from above.”

  Lisa looked back, but said nothing.

  “Maybe you should take off our handcuffs and give us guns,” Ed suggested.

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Lisa said.

  “Do I need to remind you that I could’ve easily left you in the store if I wanted? But I didn’t, did I?”

  Lisa didn’t say anything, too stubborn, or too suspicious, to cede Ed’s valid point. Maybe she was right not to trust him, Brent figured, but Ed was the best prepared of all of them to handle the threats. The guy was like Rambo by way of Jason Bourne or something.

  The fog grew thicker, and obscured the top halves of the towering cars, which did nothing to lessen the sense that they might topple on them at any moment. If anything, it added to Brent’s c
laustrophobic fear. The car’s creaking seemed to grow louder in the fog, as if the mist were reaching around with its wispy tendrils to purposely rattle the towers.

  Everyone seemed to step up their pace, but no one said a word.

  Suddenly, a loud thump thundered above, like something had flown down and landed on one of the crooked steel piles.

  “What was that?” Billy shouted, his voice five octaves higher than normal.

  Rojas aimed his rifle up and rolled the barrel back and forth, scanning the fog for a sign of whatever made the noise. A sudden, second thump came from above, closer. Then another. And then something dark fell in front of Billy, who screamed as he fell back on his ass and hands.

  Brent stumbled backward as Ed thrust himself in between Billy and the fallen thing, twitching on the ground and gushing blood — a giant crow in the spasms of death.

  Another thump from above, and then another, until the horrible scream from thousands of wings flapping tore through the air. Swarms of cawing birds careened through the maze assaulting the group with bruising force that could easily kill them.

  “Get on the ground!” Ed screamed, pulling Billy — who had gotten up — back to the asphalt.

  Brent fell to the ground and curled to a fetal position, covering his face with his handcuffed arms as seemingly hundreds of birds pelted his back on their way by. Brent cringed through the battery. Some hit his body so hard they were injured and fell to twitching lumps all around him.

  Billy screamed, though his scream was barely audible over the swarming caws and flapping wings.

  Another sound grew suddenly louder above the chaos, though — something that sounded like a train barreling toward them.

  The assault on Brent’s body eased as the sound of birds began to fade. But the sound of the train grew louder. Brent raised his head and peered past his bruised and bloody arms in time to see a swirling vortex of dirt and debris that looked as wide as a city block churning toward them. The towers of cars started to buckle around them in the monstrous tornado’s wake. Lightning pulsed from its middle, and struck out from its center. And then the towers began to tumble — cars raining down upon them.

  Lisa screamed, “Run!”

  They scrambled and ran, slipping on and crushing the corpses of hundreds of birds as they raced their way back through the maze toward the opening of the car maze. Streaks of lightning arced out, crackling loudly in the air, above the sound of the swirling mass. Chunks of dirt and rocks swirled through the corridor, assaulting them with the same ferocity the birds had brought just a moment before — stinging Brent’s eyes and clogging his throat as he spit and then closed his mouth and tucked his chin against his chest. He kept running.

  Brent, Ed, and Billy were close to catching up with Rojas, who was in front of them by 20 feet. Brent didn’t dare slow long enough to look back and see if either The Prophet or Lisa was keeping up.

  Lightning flashed above, close enough for Brent to feel its heat. The flash that followed was so bright, Brent felt as if it tore something in his mind. In that flash, Brent saw Rojas disintegrate into debris, slightly larger than the dirt swirling en masse around them.

  Brent gasped, thinking he’d never see anything so terrifying again. He was right . . . for two seconds.

  A car soared overhead, faster than a jet, and slammed into the highway a hundred yards ahead, then bounced and rolled. Brent heard another vehicle slam into one of the towers. He glanced back to see the dark shape tumbling down into another tower. As Brent braced for the dominoes to fall, Lisa pushed past him. Brent screamed and followed, as Ed and Billy raced toward the railing, barely visible through the storm of debris.

  Something exploded behind them as Brent reached the railing and hurled himself from the overpass, hard onto the grassy incline, and rolled down to the street below. His body was stunned and his breath ragged as he spit dirt from his mouth. Rain and debris continued to pour down on them all.

  Brent, paralyzed by fear, could do nothing but stare into the dark, swirling heavens.

  Above him, arcs of bright white spilled like spider webs into the darkness, shooting out for what seemed to be miles of pulsating strobes of light like a dance club in hell.

  Brent sat, transfixed by the beauty of light fighting black and by the seething hues of the battle. Time slowed to nothing as Brent felt wrapped in serenity. Peace, awe, and a weird feeling of enlightenment spread through his body. Even though he had no idea why, Brent felt — for a moment — as though he were staring into the eyes of God. His awe was so deep, he almost felt like dying would be fine.

  Ben would be fine.

  So would Gina.

  They would move on.

  And he would simply cease to be.

  Just close your eyes.

  Before he could close his eyes, however, a dark, solid shape filled his vision — a truck being lifted high into the sky, dangling above him, as though taunting him with the inevitable.

  Oh God.

  Someone suddenly pulled Brent hard, then dragged him under the overpass seconds before the truck plummeted to the ground in an eruption of metal and glass, raining fresh pain all over his body.

  Brent closed his eyes and welcomed surrender.

  When he came to, the darkness had ceded to the light.

  It was morning. Or maybe afternoon, and Brent was lying in the back of a van, feeling as if he’d been beaten to hell. Ed lay beside him, eyes closed and face battered. Billy was sitting, leaning against the wall of the van, his face bruised and scratched, clothes covered in dirt and blood. Brent had no idea how much was his and how much was from the birds.

  Brent’s head was pounding, his throat was dry, and his tongue was coated in blood and dirt. He craned his neck to see up to the van’s front. Lisa was driving with The Prophet beside her, somehow wearing hardly a scratch, though Brent was certain the old man had been behind him.

  How did he survive all that?

  Brent noticed that Billy was looking at Brent oddly. Billy looked down at Ed’s hands, and then Brent’s, and then back again and managed a smile.

  What’s he trying to tell me?

  He looked down, then over at Ed. Both of their handcuffs had been removed. Brent went to return Billy’s smile, but Billy’s eyes were then on the front of the van. Brent followed his gaze just in time to see they were entering a wide, dark tunnel.

  “We’re here,” Billy whispered. “Black Mountain.”

  Eighteen

  Luca Bishop

  Other Earth

  Paddock Island, New York

  Sunday, July 10, 2011

  THREE MONTHS BEFORE THE EVENT …

  This wasn’t fair.

  Luca’s dad was visiting Boricio, making sure he was safe, while Luca was stuck at home with his sometimes babysitter, Sarah.

  Sarah was pretty, in her early 20s, and had always been nice to him. Even made him two bags of popcorn when she knew Will only wanted her to give him one.

  But it still wasn’t fair.

  His dad said he had to go see Boricio in the city alone. He also said Luca wasn’t allowed to “travel” while he wasn’t in the house. He even made Luca cross his heart.

  Luca crossed it like his dad told him to, but that didn’t make it fair.

  His dad said he would be back later tonight, maybe tomorrow. Luca wasn’t supposed to wait up. That wasn’t fair either. He wanted to know if Boricio was okay, and shouldn’t have to wait until morning to find out. His dad said he’d call with news, but sometimes his dad got busy and forgot to call, and Luca worried that this might be one of those times.

  “Thanks, Sarah,” Luca said, taking the bowl filled with his second bag of popcorn.

  “You’re welcome,” Sarah plopped beside him, hugging her own bowl.

  “Do you want to watch TV?” She looked at Luca. “You’re just staring at the screen. It’s okay to watch it, you know. Your dad wouldn’t mind.”

  “Okay,” Luca said. “But I don’t care what we watch. Whate
ver you want is fine with me.”

  Sarah picked up the remote and started flipping channels, pausing on some show with people yelling at each other on MTV for a minute before moving to the Cartoon Network.

  Luca leaned back on the couch and shoved a handful of popcorn into his mouth, then started to chew. That’s when he heard Sarah say something that wasn’t so nice inside her head.

  I dunno what happened, but this kid got weird enough to be the top of a totem pole. Fucking. Creepy. Like a kid from a King book.

  “I want to go to bed,” Luca suddenly said, setting his bowl on the end table and pushing it away. He stood from the couch, gathered crumbs from his pajamas, then swept them into a pile on his hand and poured them into the bowl.

  “Goodnight,” he said. “Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “It’s not even 8 o’clock!”

  Good, now I can call Brad, she thought.

  “Sometimes I like going to bed early,” he said just wanting to get out of the room before he heard her think something else.

  “Um … okay.” Sarah kept her eyes on Luca for another half minute or so, said, “Goodnight!” then picked up the remote and turned it from the Cartoon Network back to MTV.

  Luca went to his bedroom and paused at his door, half in and half out, knowing he was probably about to do something he’d crossed his heart not to do.

  Luca swallowed, then stepped through the door and shut it behind him. His dad would be mad, but he wouldn’t be too mad since Luca was doing the thing that was smart. Smart meant going to the place that would make him less lonely, while giving his dad more of the answers he was looking for.

  Luca still wasn’t sure how he crossed over to the world where everything was how it was supposed to be. He’d been able to do it a few times while awake, but that had been with Will standing by. To do it awake without Will around felt scary for some reason. Better to just go to sleep, where it would just happen on its own — that way Will couldn’t get mad.