Yesterday's Gone: Seasons 1-6 Complete Saga

by Sean Platt

  The alien thing, whatever it was, was inside Charlie. He was infected. And his life was a ticking time bomb, now more than ever. The after-procedure snack was a nice bonus, though he felt guilty not being able to share it with Callie. He wondered if they’d let him bring her a drink and a cookie.

  The door to his room slid open, and Bald Boricio stepped inside, now wearing an all-black outfit similar to the Guardsmen, with a holstered pistol and the same glass mask worn by the other guards. He took a seat across from Charlie and spoke, his voice sounding like a radio, crackly through the mask’s speaker, “How are you feeling?”

  “Okay,” Charlie said. “Any word?”

  “No,” Boricio said. “Still waiting. I wanted to discuss something else with you, though.”

  “What is it?” Charlie said, suddenly concerned he was about to hear something bad, maybe terrible.

  “What’s he like?”

  “Who?” Charlie asked.

  “The other Boricio. The one from your world. What is he like?”

  Charlie laughed as Imaginary Boricio suddenly appeared on his left, sitting beside him at the table, propping his elbows on the table and cradling his face in his hands as he turned to Charlie batting his eyelashes dramatically. “Yes, Chuck E. CheeseDick, what am I like, please tell?”

  “He’s a stone-cold killer,” Charlie said without the slightest pause. “Imagine Dirty Harry, but younger. And faster. Now imagine someone who made Dirty Harry look like a Cub Scout. That someone would still need a Kill Bill’s worth of bad ass to come close to the Boricio I know.”

  Imaginary Boricio blinked, pretending to wipe tears from his eyes, “Aw, Chuck, you shouldn’t have. You’re the biggest pecan in my super-sized sweetie pie.”

  But the real Boricio just stared for a minute before saying, “You say he’s a killer. What sort of killer? You mean he kills bad people and aliens?”

  “I don’t know what he was like before Oct. 15, but I’m gonna guess he didn’t give a fuck then, either. He kills anyone who gets in his way — good, bad, and indifferent. But, weird as it might be, he saved me and my friends, even took us in. He never did anything to us, so I guess he’s not all bad.”

  “I’m a regular Mr. Rogers,” Imaginary Boricio said. “So, won’t you be my fucking neighbor?”

  “Why do you ask?” Charlie asked the real Boricio.

  “Because I’ve been having these dreams about him. Almost every time I fall asleep.”

  Imaginary Boricio laughed, then said in an effeminate lisp, “Oh, do go on.”

  “What sort of dreams?”

  “That he’s with my brother, and they’re together at some big house out in the middle of nowhere. There’s a woman and a little girl with them as well.”

  “You have a brother?” Charlie asked, then, “What’s the house look like?”

  Boricio explained that he had an 8-year-old adopted brother, though in the dream, he’s not a kid. The descriptions of the 100-year-old boy were weird, and definitely like the stuff out of dreams, but then he described the compound exactly like Charlie remembered it, down to the crooked pile of bricks by the back door.

  “That’s it,” Charlie said. “You definitely have the right place. How in the hell did you dream about it?” Charlie asked.

  “I dunno, but . . . it all feels threaded together,” Boricio said. “And the thing is — I thought my brother, Luca, was gone. If he’s really still here, then maybe I can still somehow fix all of this.”

  “What do you mean fix it all?”

  “I dunno,” Boricio said, looking off in the distance as if excavating memory. “Cure the infected. Maybe send you back to your world. I’m not sure what’s possible, but I can think of more reasons to find him than not.”

  “What does Luca have to do with what happened in October? With us being here?”

  Boricio looked at Charlie for a long moment and then, ignoring his question, asked, “Can your girlfriend lead us to the other Boricio?”

  “I don’t know if she knows the way there, but she might have a general idea. I could for sure.”

  “I can’t bring you. You’re infected, and I can’t risk the infection spreading before we get you cured, not when we’re so close.”

  “So, Callie’s not infected?”

  “No. She’s cleared to leave her cell.”

  Charlie felt an immediate flush of relief knowing she was safe, but a deep and sudden ache knowing she would be leaving the cell beside his.

  “Can I go back to my cell tonight?” Charlie said. “I’d like to spend time next to her before you let her go.”

  “Yeah,” Boricio said. “But tomorrow morning, I’m heading out. But you have nothing to worry about, Charlie. I promise to keep an eye on her.”

  Imaginary Boricio piped in, “Yeah, I bet you will, you sly fuck.” He turned to Charlie. “I bet the only eye he’ll have on Callie is the one spitting cock juice all over her face!”

  The real Boricio stood. “Thank you, Charlie. I’m gonna check on Ryan. If nothing’s changed, then I’ll have someone return you to your cell. You’re not gonna do anything stupid while I’m gone, are you? Please tell me I can trust you. I’d rather not threaten Callie’s safety. I don’t care for drama.”

  “Nothing stupid,” Charlie said. “You guys are the good guys, right?”

  “Yeah, something like that,” Boricio said, turning toward the exit.

  “One more thing?” Charlie said.

  “Yes?” Boricio said, turning back to him.

  “Can you give Callie and me some pens and paper, so we can talk?”

  Boricio chewed on the request, then said, “Nothing stupid?”

  “No,” Charlie shook his head. “But I can’t promise nothing sappy.”

  Boricio surprised Charlie with a wide smile, something he had never seen his Boricio do, at least not without something crude coming before or after it.

  “Yeah,” Boricio said.

  As Boricio left and the door slid closed behind him, Charlie took another sip of his Coca-Cola then closed his eyes, savoring the sweetness in his mouth. It reminded him of being young, back when his dad was still alive. Charlie hadn’t been allowed to drink soda like most of the other kids he knew — except on special occasions. One such occasion happened every Friday night when they all went out to dinner at The Burger Palace, and Charlie got to pig out on turkey burgers, fries, and a tall glass of Coca-Cola with chipped ice. Sometimes, the waiter or waitress, dressed in ‘50s diner style, would pour some cherry syrup into the Coke, amplifying the awesome. Long after he was done with the Coke, Charlie would suck the puddles of sweetness from the chipped ice.

  Charlie closed his eyes, trying not to let thoughts of his father lower the rising summit of his mood.

  Tonight would be sad enough, and possibly the last time he’d see Callie for a while.

  He finished his Coke and stared at the can, wondering if they’d really be able to go home. And more than that, Charlie wondered if Callie would still be friends with him if they were suddenly able to return to the world they once knew.

  If that world was still there, maybe his mother was, too. And that fucker, Bob. A version of Bob whom Charlie didn’t murder.

  If he could go back, Charlie wouldn’t kill that Bob. That Bob hadn’t raped Callie. That Bob wasn’t the same monster. Or at least hadn’t been given enough opportunity to become one yet. So no, Charlie didn’t think he’d kill that Bob.

  But he would kick the living shit out of him.

  That night …

  Charlie and Callie sat on their mattresses on opposite sides of a glass wall.

  Though all the other cells were dark, theirs were dimly lit, which would have given the cells an almost romantic glow, if calling glass prison cells with video cameras and flame-spouting holes romantic didn’t seem like so much of a stretch.

  Charlie also felt like their cells being lit, while everyone else’s were swallowed in darkness, set them on display and in an unflattering light
. That made him feel weird. He didn’t want everyone staring, especially after all of the special treatment, from fresh clothes to the pens and paper delivered an hour before, right after dinner. Charlie imagined the other six residents of the cell block were pissed.

  However, this was Charlie’s first chance to communicate with Callie in what seemed like forever, so he didn’t care who was watching or what they thought.

  They’d been talking (via pens and paper) ever since — catch-up stuff mostly, like updates on what had happened to each of them, how there were two Boricios, and two worlds, both facts blowing Callie’s mind, and then, of course, that they might be able to find a way home.

  Charlie told Callie that the new Boricio was going to ask her to show him the way to the old Boricio’s compound. She said okay, and then worked out the directions together as best they could.

  Connecting with Callie again felt great. It reminded him of how much he loved her, even if she didn’t feel the same. Hell, maybe she did, now. Who knew?

  “What’s the first thing you’ll do if we go home?” Callie wrote.

  “Drink a Coke. You?”

  “One word: Starbucks.”

  Charlie laughed. “Then what?”

  “I dunno. What do YOU want to do?”

  “Whatever you want to do,” he wrote.

  “Whatever?” she wrote, smiling.

  Is she flirting with me? No way.

  “Anything,” he wrote, smiling, though unsure if his smile matched hers, which still seemed flirty.

  She set her pad of paper on the mattress, scribbled something, then held it up for him to see.

  “Will you fuck me?” she wrote.

  Charlie’s eyes widened, and his cock went instantly stiff in his sweats.

  Callie laughed hysterically, probably at the look on his face.

  Charlie frowned.

  “You’re messing with me, aren’t you?” he wrote.

  “Maybe,” she wrote. “Maybe not.”

  Callie put the pad down, then licked her lips.

  Charlie’s cock went from stiff to a near-bursting pipe.

  Callie circled a finger over her nipples. Charlie watched them harden beneath the thin fabric of her shirt.

  Oh God.

  He picked up his pen and wrote, “What are you doing?”

  Callie shook her head, then slowly lifted her shirt. Even though Charlie knew some asshole was likely watching them from the other side of a security camera, he didn’t care about anything outside of the moment.

  Though Callie had been naked up until about two hours earlier, and he’d not found her nudity arousing in their situation, something had changed. Callie had been given clothes, and was now choosing to reveal herself to Charlie. Slowly. Teasing him.

  Callie exposed the bottoms of her breasts, then lifted the shirt to expose just one nipple, which she pinched.

  Oh fuck.

  Charlie reached down and squeezed the thick of his flesh through the thin of his pants.

  Her eyes, big and beautiful, lowered to stare.

  Charlie felt odd. He’d touched himself thousands of times, but never in front of someone else. He kept stroking his cock through his sweats, then watched as Callie reached down the front of hers and began to rub herself.

  She arched her head back, and though Charlie couldn’t hear it, he was sure she moaned.

  Callie looked down and mouthed the words, “Show me.”

  Charlie did as instructed, lowering his sweats just enough to pull out his cock. He started stroking it as he watched her. While Charlie had always felt like his penis was average at best, it felt like a beast between his legs in the nest of his loose fist.

  Callie pulled her pants down a bit, then slipped her fingers past the waistband.

  Charlie started stroking himself faster, harder, as Callie’s fingers plunged into the depths of her sweats. She rubbed herself between her legs, then lowered her sweats to just above her knees.

  Oh fuck, yeah.

  He stared at her pussy. And she at his cock. And then, their eyes met. In that moment, Callie opened her mouth and bit her bottom lip. Charlie stroked faster and faster as the intensity of their stare seemed to coalesce into something with a force of its own.

  He looked down again to see that she was now sliding her fingers in and out of herself as fast as he was stroking, if not faster. He looked up again, and their eyes locked.

  She mouthed the word, “Charlie,” just as he exploded and splattered the glass. As he emptied the rest of himself onto his hand, Callie’s eyes rolled into the back of her head and then she closed them, as her lower body shuddered.

  When her eyes met his again, she giggled, almost embarrassed. Charlie looked around for something to wipe up his mess, from both his body and the glass, then stripped his T-shirt off and used it to wipe up the evidence of his embarrassment.

  After a long, awkward moment where they were unable to meet one another’s eyes, Callie grabbed her pen and paper and wrote, “That was nice. Thank you.”

  Charlie wrote, “Thank ME?! No, thank YOU! That was SO HOT!!”

  Callie smiled.

  Charlie wanted to write something else — that he loved her. But that seemed so stupid, immature, and probably weird, that he couldn’t bring himself to write it.

  So, instead, he wrote, “I’m going to miss you so much tomorrow.”

  She wrote, for what seemed a long time, and then held it up to the window, “Do you remember when you told me you liked me? I’m not gonna say I’m sorry that I rejected you then. I’m not. Well, I am, and I’m not. I’m not because I’d never lie to you. But I am, because it made you leave. If you hadn’t left, none of this would’ve happened. Maybe we’d have found a way to get along without Bob. And eventually, I would’ve discovered that you are so much more than I thought.”

  As Charlie read the page Callie was holding up, she one-handedly scribbled on another, then held it to the glass for Charlie.

  It read, “I’ve never really let people get too close to me. And I didn’t want to let you in, either. Yet, you found a way inside my heart. I guess, what I’m trying to say is that I love you, too.”

  He finished the page and met her eyes. They were tearing.

  He cried, too, as he set his hand against the glass, wishing like hell he could touch her and hold her. He was almost willing to break glass again, and get shot to death by Guardsmen, if only to hold her for one more minute.

  “I love you,” he said, mouthing the words, feeling as if the weight of the world had slipped from his shoulders and his soul. A giddiness took its place.

  They lay down, side by side, separated only by glass. Charlie felt himself drifting into a post-orgasm slumber, a stupid grin still lighting his face.

  Suddenly, Callie tapped on the window three times in sharp succession. Charlie jumped, startled.

  Her eyes were large and frightened. Charlie looked around, but couldn’t see what she was afraid of. Callie grabbed her pen and paper and started scribbling, then held up the paper.

  “Boricio knows the old man next to you! They were yelling at each other earlier.”

  “So, what does that mean?” Charlie wrote, shrugging.

  “I dunno,” she wrote. “But be careful.”

  “You, too.”

  They each returned to their mattresses, but Charlie couldn’t sleep with his mind circling any of the many reasons Callie might have been spooked by the old, fat man in the cell next to him.

  Though he was facing Callie, both their hands touching the glass, Charlie couldn’t help but feel like the old man was lying in the dark, awake and watching them both.

  The next morning, Charlie woke to the sound of knocking.

  Callie was standing at the doorway with a Guardsman in black, waving goodbye.

  Charlie jumped from his mattress and went to the door, then set his hand against the glass to meet hers. He mouthed, “I love you. Be careful.”

  “I love you, too,” she said. Their eyes lock
ed in a final lingering moment before the Guardsman gently pulled her away.

  Charlie watched them walk down the hall and then to the doors. As Callie slipped from view, Charlie returned to his mattress and lay down. He turned his head to the glass and stared over at Callie’s mattress, and the piles of their correspondence from the night before lying scattered across her sheets. Sitting on her pillow was a paper he hadn’t seen before — a drawing of a heart, and inside the heart, an almost perfectly rendered drawing of Charlie.

  He stared at it, thinking back to the drawing he’d made of her. She’d never said she was as good an artist as he was.

  Yet, Charlie was staring at proof.

  He looked at the drawing for what felt like forever, feeling like his heart was breaking into pieces too small to stitch, hoping like hell that Black Mountain would cure him so that he could be with Callie again.

  As he dared to hope, the lights went black as though they were mocking his ambition.

  Charlie woke to a row of bright lights flickering on in the cells, and a lone Guardsman making his way down the line with a cart full of breakfast trays.

  Breakfast was a bowl of cereal without milk, two bottles of water, and a peach, which he figured must have been grown in a garden somewhere on the mountain. His stomach grumbled as Charlie stared down the line, waiting for the Guard to arrive. Suddenly, Charlie realized that the old man in the cell beside him was looking at him.

  Not just looking — staring, with all his fat, old, pasty nakedness pressed against Charlie’s glass wall.

  Charlie nearly jumped back in shock.

  What the fuck?!

  The man turned away when he noticed Charlie looking back, but it was too late. He’d already spooked Charlie.

  The old man went to his door as the Guardsman approached, moving his pasty flesh flat against the entrance.

  “What the fuck is his deal?” Imaginary Boricio asked, appearing out of the blue, wearing a black T-shirt and sweats just like Charlie had been given, and jerking his thumb toward the old man’s cell.