by Sean Platt
He had looked at his mom, who he didn’t know was watching them.
She had smiled at them in a way that made him feel loved from the inside out.
Wait. No, I don’t want to forget.
I want to be me.
Then, the memory was gone, and he fell into his bed, trying to remember what it was he’d forgotten. And why he was wet, smelling of saltwater.
And why he was going to bed soaking.
Luca was too tired to try and make sense of messy thoughts that didn’t want to be cleaned. He curled into bed, pulled the covers up to just under his chin, then closed his eyes. For a moment, he thought he saw a light floating over his bed, but then figured his mind was playing tricks.
Maybe it was a dream.
Sleep swallowed Luca with a smile.
Sixty-Seven
Ed Keenan
Our Earth
Palm Coves, Florida
Ed’s safehouse
July 2012
NINE MONTHS AFTER THE EVENT …
Ed patted Becca’s back and glanced at the TV’s clock for the hundredth time, still waiting for the 15-minute mark to pass.
He wished he’d eaten before trying to put Becca down for her noontime nap, because this was the third time he’d tried, and they’d been sitting on the couch for nearly an hour.
Fifteen minutes seemed to be the minimum it took for Teagan’s baby to fall into a deep enough sleep for a trip to the crib without her waking. If Ed rose from the couch too soon, Becca would start crying. He’d have to start the whole process over, starting with the rocking. If he waited too long, same thing.
Ed had been held hostage at gunpoint a half dozen times in his career, but he was now held hostage by something that remained years away from being able to clean itself, and he was held hostage nearly every damn day.
Ed decided next time, he’d do the grocery shopping instead of surrendering to Jade and Teagan. It was if they were so excited to get out of the house, especially together, that they took FOREVER to do what he could have easily done in 20 minutes. He imagined the two of them sitting in the grocery store cafe, sipping on the chai lattes they both liked so much — though for the life of him he couldn’t see why — and eating overpriced scones, while his lunch schedule was dictated by the tiny tyrant in his arms.
He looked down at Becca, and most of his annoyance faded like daylight at dusk and he found a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.
It seemed like forever since Jade was this age. Ed could hardly remember her so small, nor being so hard to get down for a nap. Though, it wasn’t like he’d really been around much during those early years. These were probably the kinds of things he’d missed out on. This was normal life for normal fathers. Well, as normal as life could be at the moment, living in hiding under assumed identities, following the hell and fury of the past half year that started on Oct. 15.
As the clock finally ticked past the 15-minute mark, again, Ed stood, slowly, careful not to stir Becca, displaying a dexterity he’d not used since escaping from an underground cage in the Ukraine six years ago.
He navigated across the toy-littered floor with the same grace, making it to the other side of the house to Becca and Teagan’s bedroom.
As he reached for the knob, his doorbell rang.
Shit!
These damned solicitors always come at nap time!
Can’t they read the NO SOLICITORS sign on the door?
He looked down, terrified that Becca would open her eyes and start screaming.
But her eyes remained still, fluttering under her lids as he rushed her into the room, then carefully set her beneath the Pooh Bear mobile in her crib. As Ed eased away from the crib, the doorbell rang again. Ed cringed, certain Becca would wake up and he’d have to hurt — maybe kill — whoever was on the other side of the door, threatening his lunch.
Ed raced from one end of the house to the other, and froze when he looked at the security monitor in the kitchen, which should have displayed feed from above the front door, but instead, showed only static.
His heart raced as he reached into the top of the pantry, retrieved his shotgun, and started toward the front door.
He approached slowly, quietly.
The doorbell rang again, twice in a row.
You fucker! You just WANT to wake her up, don’t you?
Or, is the Agency finally here to take me out?
Ed peered through the peephole to see a face he never thought he’d see again — Sullivan, the man from Black Island — a man he’d not seen since they all vanished in a flash of white before somehow getting returned to their Earth.
What the hell? What’s he doing on this Earth? What’s he doing at MY door?
“What do you want?” Ed asked through the door, keeping his aim steady.
“You’re a hard man to find, Mr. Keenan,” Sullivan said. “We need to talk.”
Ed growled, “I’m hard to find because I don’t feel like talking.”
“May I please come in?”
“What’s this about?” Ed asked.
“Please,” Sullivan said, moving his face closer to the peephole. “I’m not here to cause trouble or interfere in your lives. But we need to talk.”
Ed closed his eyes, sighing. He didn’t have any reason to distrust Sullivan, but he found it odd that the man had been able to find him. Ed had gone through great pains to set this house up long before he was declared an enemy by the Agency. Nobody could trace the house to him. He was a ghost, so far as the world was concerned. If Sullivan, someone without any resources on this planet, was able to pinpoint Ed’s location, who else could?
Ed opened the door, keeping his gun on Sullivan, then ushered the youthful-looking, neatly dressed man inside. Sullivan looked like he was going door-to-door peddling religion.
“Keep it quiet, Becca’s sleeping.”
Sullivan smiled. “I’m glad to see that you’re taking care of Teagan and Becca. Keenan, the other Keenan, would be happy to know that. You know, if he’d made it.”
Ed wanted to say that he didn’t really give a shit what the other Keenan would’ve thought, but the look in Sullivan’s eyes, his sincerity and friendliness, kept Ed’s tongue from flapping. Besides, Ed had seen on one of the video feeds on Black Island how the other Keenan had died, bravely fighting a fight that Ed should’ve been there for. Hell, perhaps Ed would’ve died instead of his doppelgänger.
Ed looked Sullivan up and down, “Are you carrying?”
“Always.” Sullivan reached into his pocket and pulled out a pistol, an HK USP .45, and handed it to Ed, butt first.
Ed patted him down, searching for more weapons, but found none. He led Sullivan toward his study, where a bank of monitors showed every room of the six-bedroom house, as well as all the areas outside. Ed glanced at the screen showing Becca still sleeping, then offered Sullivan a seat opposite him, at his planning table.
“How did you find me?” Ed said, cutting to the chase.
“I’m a resourceful person.”
“Bullshit,” Ed countered. “Tell me now. Who else knows I’m here?”
“Don’t worry, you’re safe. I found you because Will and Luca weren’t the only ones granted abilities by the vials. I’m not nearly as gifted as either of them, but I’m gifted enough to find the four of you.” He shook his head. “But you don’t need to worry about whoever else is trying to find you.”
Ed wasn’t sure if he believed Sullivan, but Sullivan was always an honest broker, and Ed sensed nothing fishy, so he was inches from buying the guy’s story.
“So,” Ed said, “what do I have to worry about? I assume you’re not just here to say hello.”
Sullivan swallowed, adjusting himself in his seat.
“Luca brought most of us back home,” he said, then cleared his throat. “But we’re not alone. Something else came back with us.”
Sixty-Eight
Paola Olson
Our Earth
Harrison, North Caroli
na
July 2012
NINE MONTHS AFTER THE EVENT …
Paola dipped her fork into the quiche, her hand practically trembling. The bite was inches from her mouth when she suddenly stopped, inspecting the chunk of egg, ham, cheese, and the specks of green spinach bulging from the white as though taunting her, and ruining a perfectly good breakfast.
Spinach was the devil’s vegetable.
“Just try it,” Boricio said coming from the kitchen to the dining room and setting a basket of muffins in the center of the table. “Breakfast doesn’t always have to be pancakes.”
“But pancakes are yummy!”
“So is this. Have I ever bullshitted you, Kid? And besides, didn’t you have enough pancakes during the Apocalypse? Hell, a short stack would practically have to bulge with blueberries and the promise of a half billion dollars to get me to chew ’em again.”
Boricio laughed, and Paola’s mom laughed with him. She took a seat beside her daughter and said, “Come on, you’re gonna hurt Boricio’s feelings. Just try it.”
“Yeah, please don’t make me cry.” Boricio rubbed his fists into his eyes and loudly boo-hooed. “Besides, you know how much most people would pay for a breakfast like this? I worked at this joint called Au Poivre in Georgia where people who liked to have the best stuff in their mouths, and had wallets fat enough to pay for it, spent north of 25 greenbacks for a slice of my quiche!”
“I’d pay 25 dollars not to eat it,” Paola laughed.
“OK,” Boricio said, pretending to be upset, “Get out! Oh wait, this is your place. Well, you’re lucky I’m a guest, or you’d see me throw a real shit fit.”
Paola nudged the food into her mouth, then quickly swallowed, gagging as it went down. She grabbed her glass of milk and took a long swig, though it did little to disguise the gross aftertaste of spinach.
“There! Tried it. Don’t like it!” Paola said. “No offense.”
Her mom laughed.
“Damn, kids these days have no appreciation for good food!” Boricio said, playfully throwing his apron on the granite island countertop. He went back into the kitchen, then returned a moment later with a plate-sized pancake, covered in freshly sliced fruit and lightly dusted with powdered sugar.
“Luckily, I made pancakes, too,” he said with a wink.
“Yeah, I knew you did,” Paola smiled. “I smelled them when I woke up.”
“Man, I can’t pull anything over on you, Little Lamb.”
Paola poured syrup on the pancake as Boricio brought her mom a plate with a large slice of quiche, then set a platter of bagels in the center of the table.
“I should have you all over more often,” her mom said. “Breakfast around here is usually a smoothie, at best. And a bowl of Fruity Pebbles at worst.”
“Or maybe you all should move to the island,” Boricio said. “It’s beautiful.”
“I know,” her mom said. “But I don’t think I want to be anywhere near Black Island. Or any island.”
Paola’s mom trailed off, but Paola knew what she meant. It had been three months since her father died on Black Island, and while Boricio wasn’t living on Black Island, and it wasn’t even the same Black Island they were attacked on, being anywhere near any large rock in the middle of water was enough to bring back too many painful memories. It had been hard enough coming back, starting over after they’d been declared missing by state officials. Fortunately, Sullivan had somehow managed to pull enough strings to straighten things out and help them get another home, far enough from the other bad memories that would eternally surround Warson Woods.
“Did you all start without me?” The pleasant voice came from the top of the stairs.
“I thought I’d let you sleep in until breakfast was ready,” Boricio said, setting a plate on the table, then walking over to the girl with a pixie cut and kissing her on the cheek.
Paola couldn’t help but laugh, seeing Boricio, Mr. Tough Guy himself, as soft and cuddly as a bear when with his girlfriend, Rose, a super-nice woman he’d met a month after returning to Earth.
Boricio caught Paola laughing, and pointed a finger at her, “You watch it young lady, or I’ll stuff spinach in your pancakes.”
“Ew,” Paola said.
The woman took a seat beside Boricio and smiled, then picked up her fork as they all dug into their breakfast together.
It had been a long time since Paola had shared a meal with anything close to a family. This was nice, even if only temporary.
She looked up to see Boricio smile at Rose, then giggled again.
Sixty-Nine
Brent Foster
Our Earth
New York City
April 3, 2012
Predawn
One minute, Brent had been sitting in the Facility with the others. The next, he was back home, standing in the dark of his apartment.
“Oh God, they did it. I’m home,” he whispered, looking around, hardly able to believe his eyes. “Oh God.”
He swallowed hard, wondering where Emily was.
He started to panic, then remembered when he’d first met her and her mother, Jane, near the ferry. Jane said her husband had vanished. At the time, of course, Jane didn’t know the truth — that it was they who had vanished to the other Earth, which meant her husband was probably still home, wondering where his wife and daughter went. And if Brent was returned to his home, it stood to reason Emily was returned to hers — he hoped.
Brent looked around the apartment long enough to figure out that it was still his family living there, and that they hadn’t moved out in the six months since he left. Gina’s purse was sitting on the kitchen counter, keys and glasses next to it — always well prepared for the next day.
Brent raced down the hall.
The door on the right led to his bedroom, where Gina was probably sleeping.
He longed to see her, but that would mean explaining a lot, if not everything. At the moment, Brent wanted nothing more than to see his son, Ben, though.
He passed his bedroom and went into his son’s room, freezing at the sight of the drawing taped to the front of the door — a heart with two crudely drawn circle figures in it. Beneath the heart, Gina had written in crayon, “Ben and Daddy.”
He wasn’t sure how he would explain his absence to his wife. But even less so how he would explain to his son. He could only imagine the abandonment that Ben felt — that Daddy left because he didn’t love him.
The pain sliced through Brent’s heart and he began to cry as he reached to open the door.
The room was dark, except for the soft, blue hue of the nightlight.
Brent’s eyes adjusted as he stepped toward the bed, barely making out the shape of his son beneath the covers.
He couldn’t see his son’s face in the darkness, and as Brent stepped toward the bed, his heart swelled in anticipation of seeing it. It had been so long.
Oh God, Ben, I missed you so much.
As he inched closer, Brent’s shoe slipped on something, and he nearly stumbled. He caught his balance, then bent to see what he’d stepped on, hoping he hadn’t broken it.
Stanley Train smiled at him, unbroken.
Brent grinned, clutching the train whose duplicate was taken by the Guardsmen at the docks; the train which he’d cried over losing several times since then.
Stanley is here.
Ben is here.
I am here.
Tears flowed down Brent’s cheeks as he looked down at his son’s face, so angelic and peaceful in his cozy bed. The stuffed dog that Brent had given Ben last Christmas was tucked under the boy’s arm.
He crawled into bed beside his son, wrapping his arm around him, drawing from his warmth, and never wanting to let go.
Ben turned over and his eyes began to open. “Daddy?” he said, groggy.
“Yes, buddy,” Brent said. “I’m back.”
“Where were you?” Ben’s voice asked, still in the grips of sleep. Otherwise, he would have certainly le
apt up excited to see his daddy.
“Far away, but I’m home now, Buddy. And I’m never leaving again.”
“Promise?” Ben said, eyes closed and lips barely parting.
“I promise,” Brent said, hugging his son tighter.
“I love you, Daddy,” Ben said.
“I love you, too.”
Epilogue
Our Earth
Aug. 4, 2012
Ten Months After The Event …
The Darkness stared into the mirror, examining Its face.
It could heal the scar and the eye. But there was something about the patch that disarmed humans.
It liked that feeling.
It also liked that the echoes of the human, Boricio Bishop, hated the scar and the patch. Boricio was stronger than the other shells It had used. The more It could do to break what was left of his will, the better.
It lifted the patch, looking at the hole where an eye had once been, now nothing more than a core of mottled skin.
It smiled into the mirror.
It set Its hands in the sink and allowed the cool water to sooth Its burning body before splashing Its face.
Someone knocked on the door. Again.
It opened the door to a fat bearded man, stupidly glaring.
The man didn’t dare speak his displeasure. Its husk was too intimidating.
And that was good.
It made Its way back to Its seat in the third row of first class, then sat and stretched Its legs, thankful not to have another stinking human in the seat beside It. There were three others in first class — a tall black man in a gray suit, leaning back and sleeping in the front row; an older woman in the row behind the man, her head buried in a Kindle; and a tall, muscular man in the row in front of It. The man was watching a movie on his iPad.
