Yesterday's Gone: Seasons 1-6 Complete Saga

by Sean Platt

  “No,” Ed shook his head.

  A salty breeze gusted through the shattered passenger window, and carried the sound of the surf with it. Other than the ocean, and the sound of the van’s low purr, they heard nothing but eerie silence.

  That silence lasted a moment, then was shattered by the blasting of a horn and flashing of headlights behind them.

  “What the fuck?! Is that asshole trying to get us killed?” Bishop shouted as he hopped from the van, pistol in hand.

  Ed followed, rifle ready.

  Brent stepped out of the van, holding his pistol, hoping he wouldn’t need it, and remembering how he’d frozen in the van when an infected Jung attacked.

  Bishop raced to the second van as Boricio Wolfe hopped from the passenger side and yelled, “Where the fuck’s our welcoming committee, Captain?”

  “Shut the hell up, you’ll draw the aliens!” Bishop yelled at his revolting twin.

  “Let ‘em come,” Wolfe said, full of machismo and idiot one-liners.

  Brent looked at Ed and rolled his eyes.

  Suddenly, another voice called out, coming from behind them, “Drop the weapons and down on your knees!”

  Brent turned to see two Guardsmen aiming assault rifles and lights at them.

  Ed turned to face them, placed his gun on the street, then stepped into their light, and said, “Stand down, I’m Guardsman! Commander Edward Keenan — returning from special assignment.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, the Guardsmen slowly approached the group, getting a closer look before lowering their guns.

  “Sorry, Commander,” said the one on the right.

  Ed nodded, then, “What’s happening? Why is the ferry out there?”

  “The island is on lockdown. Two infected subjects have broken free from the Facility.”

  “Hold on,” Ed said, waving for Bishop to join them. “This is Boricio Bishop, Will Bishop’s son, who I was tasked with bringing back here. Please start from the beginning.”

  “The island is on lockdown. Two infected subjects broke out of the Facility and have infected, and taken control of, several Guardsmen and civilians. We believe Dr. Williams may be involved in the breakout. We evacuated one group of people to the mainland; they’re harbored back in the restaurant, but when we went back for more, several of the infected were waiting, blocking access to the docks. It’s like they’re working together.”

  “What’s the status of Keenan and Will Bishop?” Ed asked.

  “They’re secure in the Facility, along with some others.”

  “What about my brother, Luca?” Bishop said.

  “Luca?” the Guardsman said, his face confused. “Oh, the kid. No, no word on him. We’ve got his picture and have been told to keep a lookout, but no one’s reported anything.”

  Brent started to ask about Jane and Emily, but Ed cut him off, asking the Guardsmen, “You have a radio? I need you to get Keenan on the line.”

  “Yes, sir,” the Guardsman nodded, then handed him the two-way radio.

  A gunshot split the moment of silence in the moment that Ed was taking the radio into his hand.

  Brent spun around to see the girl, Paola, now out of the other van, firing her pistol a second time. Fifty yards off, coming out of the very house Brent and Luis had stayed in a lifetime ago — the one with the car through the hole in the wall — an alien fell to the ground.

  Another five — aliens and mutants both, though they looked more or less the same the further they were into their mutations — charged toward them, shrieking and clicking.

  Wolfe fired next, dropping two aliens in two shots. Callie and Mary stepped forward, both firing. Charlie, looked down at his pistol, clearly confused, then lifted and fired at the aliens as well. Brent wasn’t sure whose shots hit and whose missed, but they’d killed the last of the aliens before Charlie even raised his gun. At least that’s what Brent thought in the following silence, as their eyes passed in a circle of congratulatory relief.

  A sudden shriek from Paola ended the quiet.

  More aliens poured into the street from the south and west. At least a hundred appeared, likely more, all moving slowly as though trying to untangle their next move — or waiting for instructions.

  “Run!” someone yelled.

  “This way!” Ed shouted, pointing toward the Boardwalk Diner & Cafe, where one of the Guardsmen who greeted them was already banging on a corrugated metal sheet covering the entrance. Brent saw that all the windows and doors were shuttered in metal sheets — a shelter they must’ve set up before they started their evacuation, since he didn’t recall seeing it the first time he’d been to the docks.

  Paola started shooting at the aliens as if her gun had infinite ammo. But her shots only angered the aliens. They started moving faster and with a bit more clarity, shrieking and clicking. Mary, sensing her daughter’s danger, spun around and joined the girl in shooting the aliens.

  Wolfe appeared between them, yelling, “Come on! We can’t shoot them all!”

  They turned, then sprinted toward the restaurant, as Brent and Ed helped assure Luca would make it.

  Once they were all inside the restaurant, a Guardsman slammed the door behind them, then locked it by sliding a bar into a metal brace, attached to the inside of the door, wedged against either side of the door frame. The dining hall was dimly lit by several portable lanterns, cloaking most of the 40 or so people in shadows.

  Brent expected the aliens to rush the building to try and break in. But only quiet followed, as if they’d decided not to pursue, or perhaps had already tried to breach the barrier before but had no luck. Maybe, Brent thought with a sick in his stomach, they’re just waiting us out.

  Brent turned and scoured the room, searching for Jane and Emily. Men, women, and a few kids sat at tables scattered around the restaurant, huddled together in separate groups of two, three, and up to five. Some were eating, but most were simply speaking in whispers, perhaps discussing what might happen next.

  Not able to tell who was who among the shadows, Brent broke from his group and began to move through the room to get a closer look, feeling as if every eye was either on him or his companions. He saw a few familiar faces from the island, but no one he really knew.

  Brent looked back at his group and saw both Boricios and Ed speaking with a pair of Guardsmen, with Mary and Paola beside them. Mary had her arms around her daughter, but her attention was fixed on the conversation between the Guardsmen, Ed, and the semi-matching set of Boricios.

  Brent looked around again, sighing when he didn’t see either Jane or Emily.

  He hoped they were okay, and wanted more than ever to get back to the island — not just to get home, but because he wanted to see them, and make sure they were safe. Brent was surprised to realize how much he cared.

  “Mr. Brent,” a young girl’s voice called from across the room.

  He turned, heart swelling as he saw Emily racing toward him, her pigtails bouncing on top of her head. She was maybe three feet away when she leapt into Brent’s arms. He caught her, then pulled her into a giant hug. As he hugged Emily, Brent scanned the room for Jane, but didn’t see her anywhere.

  “Where’s your mommy?” Brent asked.

  “Mommy wasn’t feeling well,” Emily said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “She was sick, and they wouldn’t let her come on the boat.”

  Brent set Emily on the floor, then met her eyes, “What happened?”

  “Some men came to the house and told us to get ready. They said we had to go, then they ran a blue light over us like they did that day we all came over. Mommy’s light beeped, and they said she had to go back inside the house, and then they took me.”

  Brent’s heart was at full gallop. He tried to catch his breath and not look like he was a half minute from a freakout.

  “Then what?”

  “Mommy said not to worry. She was crying, and one of the men stayed with her to help her get better. She said that everything
would be okay, I should go with the men, and that she’d see me later.”

  Oh God, she’s dead, and Emily doesn’t even know it.

  Brent felt sick, seconds from vomit, but he had to keep his composure.

  Emily’s eyes began to well with tears as she looked up at Brent. “What’s wrong?” she said. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. Can you point out the man who brought you here?”

  Emily looked around the room, then pointed to an impossibly tall, barrel-chested Guardsman with a red beard and curly, red hair standing next to the front door. Brent remembered seeing him a few times, a tough Irish man named Morris. Brent remembered the name easily since the guy was a redhead, like Morris the Cat from the 9Lives commercials.

  “Wait right here, okay, Honey?” Brent said, kissing Emily on the top of her head.

  “Okay, Mr. Brent.”

  Brent stood, swallowed his rising acid, then headed toward Morris.

  Morris was peering out a slit in the door, keeping watch.

  “Excuse me,” Brent said.

  Morris turned, and with seemingly no recognition, said, “Yeah?”

  “You see that little girl over there who you brought in?” Brent nodded toward Emily. She was staring at them.

  “Yeah, poor thing. You know her?”

  “Friend of the family. What happened to her mom?”

  Morris looked down, then at Emily before looking back at Brent. “She was infected.”

  “And? What does that mean? Emily said someone went into the house after they left, to ‘take care of her.’ Was she brought to the Facility?”

  Morris shook his head, and met Brent’s eyes. He didn’t need to say another word.

  Brent asked anyway. “Did you kill her?”

  “Not me, my partner. The island is on lockdown, and orders from above are to kill infected on sight.”

  Brent closed his eyes, to hide the tears and squelch his rising tide of anger.

  “Why?” Brent asked.

  “Excuse me?” Morris asked, clearly annoyed that someone would deign to question the “orders from above.”

  “Why are they killing people on sight? I thought they, I thought we, were bringing the sick to Level 7.”

  “Not when there’s a lockdown.” The Guardsmen shook his head. “Two of the infected escaped, and infection is spreading fast. It’s them or us, and no time or space to set anyone aside now for a maybe cure later.”

  “That little girl thinks her mom is still alive. That she’s gonna see her again!” Brent was unable to control the swell inside his voice. He could feel the eyes multiply on his back as his sudden volume made him the most popular person in the room.

  Morris met Brent’s eyes, but instead of the ice Brent expected, they glistened with sympathy.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know how to tell her. I was hoping we’d run into someone she knew, and . . . well, do you want to tell her?”

  Brent looked over at Emily, her face filled with anxiety, like she knew they were talking about her and her mother.

  “Fuck,” Brent said. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

  Brent turned from Morris and began walking back toward Emily, not sure what in the hell he should say.

  How do you tell a kid her mother is dead, and that she’ll never see her again?

  Brent approached Emily and met her eyes, preparing to deliver the worst.

  Fifty-Nine

  Boricio Wolfe

  East Hampton, New York

  East Hampton Docks

  April 2, 2012

  SIX MONTHS AFTER THE EVENT …

  Boricio stared as Limp Dick approached the Paul Bunyan-looking motherfucker at the front door, and thought for sure a fight was about to erupt.

  He wasn’t sure why, but Boricio wanted to see the little guy get knocked the fuck to the floor. It was the sort of irrational hate Boricio had never questioned before, but rather indulged, figuring most people — if you really got to know them — had at least one or 14 things that made hating them easy as fuck.

  Boricio kept one eye on Die Hard talking to the Guardsmen and Pirate Boricio about whatever shit was happening on the island and around the restaurant. From what Boricio could tell, the island seemed fuckered, overrun with about a billion of the ugly black monsters, which weren’t monsters, but aliens and infected fuckers too stupid or sorry to outrun the aliens — mutants, they were calling ‘em.

  Boricio didn’t care what the fuck they were called — people, aliens, mutants. They all bled, which meant all of them died.

  Boricio watched as Limp Dick walked away from Paul Bunyan with his tail between his legs. Boricio smiled.

  Fucking pussy. Should’ve at least taken a shot at the fucker. I might’ve had a squirt of piss worth of respect for ya then.

  Limp Dick was walking toward a little girl. He got down on his knees, met her eyes, then put a hand on her shoulder.

  What’s goin’ on here? I doubt that little girl has a single blade of grass on her patch. Ain’t no way she’s old enough to play ball.

  The girl burst into tears, sobbing, “Mommy!” on repeat.

  Limp Dick picked her up, then held her tight.

  Boricio looked over to Paul Bunyan, watching the scene with watery eyes.

  Boricio walked over to Paul Bunyan, nodded toward Limp Dick and the girl in his arms and said, “What the fuck is up with General Hospital over there?”

  Paul Bunyan wiped his eyes, then said, “We’ve got orders to kill infected on sight. The girl’s mom was infected and had to be put down. Girl didn’t know. That guy, Brent, I think, is a friend of the family. He volunteered to break the news to the girl.”

  “Put down?” Boricio asked. “Like a dog?”

  “We have to kill all infected.”

  Boricio whistled, then nodded on his way back to his spot near Ed and Pirate Boricio — both of them still speaking to the Guardsman, and now on the radio with home base or some such shit.

  Boricio looked back over at Limp Dick, the girl still in his arms.

  Boricio saw the pain in the girl’s eyes, then felt a sharp and sudden stab, no different from if he were a kid with his own mother shot. Boricio wondered, for the first time ever, how many kids he’d made cry by putting their mommies or daddies into the dirt. Boricio prided himself on never raping or killing a kid — he might’ve been a monster, but he wasn’t sick — but he must’ve handed pain like candy to at least a few kids over the years.

  Boricio surely broke some little girl’s heart, like the one still sobbing in Limp Dick’s arms.

  Limp Dick wiped the tears from the little girl’s eyes, and Boricio suddenly felt like a giant asshole for thinking of Brent as a pussy, when the truth was the fucker was brave enough to tell a tater tot that her mother wasn’t ever baking potatoes again.

  A girl’s voice pulled Boricio from the scene, asking, “Are you crying?”

  He looked down and saw Little Lamb, with Mary and Luca standing behind her.

  “No, I’m not fucking crying, Paola,” Boricio said, turning away and wiping his eyes. “It’s goddamned dusty in here, and I’ve got allergies conspiring to fuck my shit up.”

  Mary burst out laughing, but her laughter collapsed when she saw what had held Boricio’s attention — Brent and the little girl.

  “What happened?” she said.

  “The fucking Gestapo here killed the girl’s momma because she was infected. They’ve got orders, kill on sight, and POW! that’s just what they did. Apparently, the girl didn’t know because the Brawny Man over there didn’t have the balls to do it, so Brent, who knew the girl and her mom, said he’d break the news.”

  “Jesus,” Mary said.

  “But I wasn’t fucking crying,” Boricio said. “And even if I was getting a sniffle, it’s only ‘cuz Rip van Creepy here broke me!”

  Boricio looked over at Luca, who was staring at Brent and the girl, head titled like he was trying to read the tattoo on a stripper’s left tit from the che
ap seats at a strip joint.

  Luca started walking toward Brent and the child.

  “Where the fuck is he going?” Boricio asked Mary.

  Luca kept walking, even though he must’ve heard Boricio.

  Luca walked up to Brent and the girl, now sitting beside one another at a table. Brent’s arms were wrapped around the child, and her eyes were on the tabletop. Boricio followed, out of curiosity, hoping like hell he wouldn’t see any more sad shit that would agitate the dust situation in the room.

  Luca stood an inch from the girl and said, “Hi.”

  Brent looked up at them as if to ask, “Really, now?”

  Boricio shrugged, as if to say, “What am I gonna do; the old fucker’s senile.”

  The girl sniffled, then wiped at her eyes, looking curiously at Luca.

  “What’s your name?” he asked the girl like an ancient Mr. Rogers catering to newly grief-stricken children.

  “Emily,” she said through her tears.

  “My name is Luca,” he said. “I heard that your mom died.”

  Jesus Christ, Luca! Way to be sensitive! Fuck, dude! Good thing you hop, skipped, and jumped right through dating age, with an opening line like that!

  Boricio stared at Mary and Paola, both wide-eyed and loudly wearing their shock.

  “Would you like to see her again?” Luca asked. “Just to say good-bye?”

  “Yes,” Emily nodded, crying.

  Brent looked up at Luca, and seemed like he might be gearing up to punch the old man-kid square in the jaw.

  Boricio shook his head and looked at Mary, prompting her to intervene before Luca said something even more astonishingly stupid than he already had.

  Maybe he is getting senile.

  Mary said, “I’m sorry,” and put a hand on Luca’s shoulder. “Let’s give her some time. She just found out.”

  “No,” Luca said, shaking his head and shrugging Mary’s hand from his shoulder, then turning with a surprising awareness to look the little girl in the eyes. “She wants to see her mommy.”

  Everyone shifted uncomfortably as Luca sat across from Emily, stretching his hands out, open palmed. He said, “Can you put your hands on mine?”