Yesterday's Gone: Seasons 1-6 Complete Saga

by Sean Platt

  “Actually,” Paola laughed, “he said I have to beat them until they look like bruised bananas.”

  Rose laughed. “That sounds like Boricio.”

  Boricio laughed because it sure as shit did.

  They talked for another few minutes, until Paola yawned three in a row and proved her body wasn’t as infallible as she had believed. Midway through her fifth, the adjoining door parted, and Mary stepped through it. “I left my pillow in the car. And I can’t sleep without it. I’m gonna go downstairs and get it.”

  Boricio said, “This is Lost Angeles, where fuckers don’t know shit about cock.”

  “What does that even mean?” Mary asked. “If you’re going to corrupt my daughter with your vulgarity, you should at least make sense.”

  “It means,” Boricio said, “that the locals here are less forgiving than the hayseeds where you live.”

  “Hayseeds?” Mary sighed. “We’re in a nice hotel with security everywhere. I’ll be fine: I’ve dealt with aliens.”

  The absurd drew laughter. Rose said, “Oh, just let him go with you. He likes to feel like a guard dog. Makes him special.”

  Mary sighed again, said OK, then told Paola she’d be right back and left the room with Boricio.

  “She’s a helluva junior, Mary, Mary,” Boricio said as they walked down the hall. “And everything’ll be fine. Don’t waste sleep on worry.”

  “You really think so?” she turned, setting her eyes into Boricio’s as if his opinion weighed pounds. They stepped into the elevator and rode it down.

  Truth was, Boricio didn’t know, had no fucking idea. He wasn’t worried; same stuff inside him that guided his purging helped him see, hear, and smell what he needed, it kept insisting everything was peaches and titties.

  “I think everything will be fine if we find Luca. And I promise to find him.”

  The elevator doors dinged into the garage. “How can you promise that?”

  He shrugged, smiling. “Because I’m Boricio.”

  Mary laughed, but before the sound left her mouth three people — two men and one woman — started walking toward them from the far side of the parking lot. One wore a mechanic’s uniform, a young man with droopy eyes and messy hair. The other guy was a giant skinhead in a tight black tee — almost painted on —hugging his fat. The third was an older woman wearing a waitress’s uniform: three opposites in equal approach.

  Boricio felt the beer-battered bullshit immediately, but couldn’t stop it fast enough, and was too late to connect the dots.

  One of the people, the woman, reached into her dress and pulled out a knife, then charged toward them, screaming.

  The skinny guy drew a crowbar from nowhere and swung it at Boricio.

  The big man ran at Mary, hacking a machete.

  Boricio stepped in front of Mary.

  Twenty-Three

  Brent Foster

  Brent arrived at Lara’s apartment at five before 7, anxious, uncertain how she’d accept what he had to say. Lara was about as no nonsense as you got. While they’d gotten along great, she wasn’t exactly a creative type. While most reporters, ones Brent knew, anyway, were just biding time until they finished that novel they’d been chipping away at for a decade or so, Lara didn’t care to write a book. She didn’t even read books, unless it was nonfiction, and usually only then if it was somehow work-related.

  Brent kept imagining how she’d respond when hearing his crazy tale of other worlds, aliens, and secret government forces on Black Island.

  There was a good chance she’d think he’d lost his mind, in which case he’d be heartbroken. Not just because it was yet another person who didn’t believe him and he was running out of people to call friends, but also because Lara was someone special to him, even if they’d never been romantic. They had a bond, and he didn’t want to break it by coming off like a weirdo who needed a room beside Roman’s.

  He knocked on her door, despite not having a clear narrative to tell her yet. He’d wing it and hope for the best.

  There was no answer, so he knocked again.

  A moment later, he heard locks sliding open, chain being moved, and the door opened inward. Rather than greet him at the door, Lara was behind it, just out of sight. Brent thought it odd, but stepped into the apartment anyway.

  He saw blood on the floor in the living room.

  He turned to leave, but instead found a gun in his face. Behind the gun, Ed Keenan.

  “Stay put or I will shoot you,” Ed said, pushing the door closed and locking it with his free hand.

  “What did you do to Lara?” Brent asked, looking around the living room. While he saw a lot of blood, he didn’t see a body. “Where is she?”

  “I had to take care of her,” Ed said — ice cold.

  “Take care of? You killed her?”

  “I didn’t kill her, Brent. You did. You were told to keep your mouth shut! What part of keeping your mouth shut means calling the newspaper? Or to tell perfect strangers about Black Island, huh?”

  Brent swallowed, metallic fear on his tongue. He couldn’t believe Ed had killed her — had killed Lara. He was stunned, short of breath, and feeling as if he’d been kicked in the gut and nuts at once. He was about to vomit.

  Knees wobbly, Brent moved toward the wall and leaned against it, sure he was about to pass out.

  “Who else did you tell?” Ed asked, clearly agitated.

  Brent didn’t answer. Instead, he said, “When did you start working for Black Island?”

  “I’m asking the questions,” Ed said, “Who else did you tell?”

  “I tried to get a hold of you,” Brent said, trying, in a not-so-subtle way to remind Ed that they’d been friends at one point, “to find out how you and the girls were, but Sullivan said they couldn’t find you.”

  Ed shook his head, “Who else did you tell, Brent? I need to know.”

  “Why are you doing this, Ed? Why are you doing their dirty work? You’re better than this.”

  Ed charged at him, bringing the butt of his gun against Brent’s head before he had time to register what was happening, or defend it. The pain was thunder in his skull, sharp, devastating. He spilled to the floor.

  Brent looked up, feeling woozy, seeing double of Ed and everything else, not sure if he was going to pass out or die.

  Brent asked, “Are you going to kill me?” but never heard the answer.

  Twenty-Four

  Sullivan

  Sullivan took the ferry from Black to Paddock Island just before sunset, eager to get a few drinks in him, and turn the Black Island Research Facility to memory for at least a few hours.

  He ignored the nicer restaurants suggested by some of the Island scientists, deciding to eat at Joe’s Fish & Chips instead.

  He took a table in the back near a large window that looked out over much of the island. He ordered fried shrimp and French fries. He wasn’t too hungry and figured if the servings were big he’d make appetizers his meal. He waited for his food, nursing a frosty mug.

  Beer tasted more or less the same as on his world, which was good. Some foods were different. Apples here ranged from sweet to bitter. On his world they were all sour, especially the red ones. Sullivan wondered how so many things could be the same, from people with “twins” to buildings to corporations, all following the exact same paths on both worlds. It made Sullivan ponder the infinite possibilities, but when he came across a difference, like the apples, or a person the opposite of their counterpart, or simply different, like Ed Keenan, he realized the impossible number of variables. Sullivan’s head would swim and then hurt; he’d start wishing he’d never crossed over.

  One similarity on both worlds: an annoying virologist named Alex Wan, who had shadowed Sullivan whenever possible. Wan was one of those people with the need to engage in small talk, and never shut up. Worse: Wan was one of Black Island’s best scientists, so it wasn’t like Sullivan could have him fired for annoyance.

  Sullivan did his best to avoid Wan, parti
cularly in his off hours, hard to do when both men lived on the island’s base. As he looked outside at the homes, he wondered how hard it would be to find a rental. A place of his own where he could go to at night and not have to worry about running into Wan.

  The waitress came by with two overflowing baskets of food that smelled deserving of their grease spots. She was cute, reminded Sullivan a little of Amy.

  He wondered what Amy’s counterpart on this world was like. Was she married? Did she have a child? Sullivan had looked into his own counter. He died in a car accident at 19 — another interesting difference in the worlds. Long before he would have met Amy, gotten married, then separated, or lost her forever on Oct. 15.

  Sullivan couldn’t look her up now. Not when they had the alien threat to deal with. Bishop had already come over, infected a few people they knew of. God only knew how many more there were, ticking bombs waiting to detonate, or … get triggered.

  Sullivan had to think, help keep this world from being destroyed like his. If they could locate the vials, or find and kill Bishop, then, and only then, would he look for this world’s Amy.

  He wondered if she was happy, and had to fight the urge to stray down the path of what-ifs and could-have-beens.

  He took a fry from the basket. Too good for ketchup. Not so, salt and pepper.

  Sullivan looked around the bar, watching the island locals, laid back, mostly well-to-do, genuinely nice to one another. Sullivan hadn’t felt so comfortable in forever.

  Yeah, I’m definitely living here.

  Sullivan was about to call the night perfect when he saw the last person in the world he expected, or wanted: Alex Wan.

  What the hell?

  Sullivan buried his face in the menu, hoping to avoid eye contact, and that Alex would be led to the other side of the restaurant where they wouldn’t run into one another. No such luck.

  Wan bypassed the hostess and headed straight to Sullivan as if he was looking for him.

  “Hello, Mr. Sullivan,” Wan said, “Mind if I sit with you?”

  Jesus. What am I going to say? No?

  “Sure,” Sullivan said, “go ahead.”

  The waitress came by, suffered through Wan’s painful small talk, as Sullivan started chewing through his food as fast as he could, eager for an excuse to leave. Wan kept him talking, ordered two rounds of drinks, and nailed Sullivan to his chair.

  After Sullivan finished his final beer, Wan stared through the window in a rare and sudden silence.

  Good, maybe he’s as bored as I am.

  Sullivan was waiting for the waitress to look over so he could get the check and leave, but she was busy hustling drinks and food to a table of 20.

  “Be right back. If she comes back, can you ask for the check?” Sullivan said, excusing himself to the restroom as he pushed his chair out.

  He stood, surprised to find himself tipsy. It had been a long time since he’d had anything to drink, but was still surprised to be feeling drunk on just three beers.

  As Sullivan stood, he slipped. Wan reached out to grab him and hold him up.

  “Whoa,” Wan said. “You OK?”

  “Yeah, I’m … ”

  And then Sullivan wasn’t fine.

  Sullivan woke up lying on the ground. It was dark out. Waves sloshed nearby.

  What the hell?

  He sat up, head aching and dizzy. He sat on the shore — Black Island in the distance — still on Paddock Island.

  The last thing Sullivan remembered was feeling tipsy after dinner, then slipping. Wan caught him.

  Wan! Did he leave me here? Why?

  “Hello, Mr. Sullivan,” Wan said from behind.

  Sullivan turned. Wan stood behind him, as if he’d been waiting.

  “Why are we out here in the middle of nowhere?”

  “We were waiting for you to wake up, Mr. Sullivan,” Wan said. His voice was absent its normal giddiness, its normal matter-of-fact tone.

  “What’s going on?” Sullivan asked, standing, still dizzy. “Did something happen?”

  “Oh yes, something’s happened,” Wan said, stepping toward Sullivan as if in conspiracy.

  Sullivan was confused, uncomfortable, wondering if the man was about to make a pass at him, or worse.

  “You’ve been looking for me, Mr. Sullivan. I figured I’d come to see you.”

  “What do you mean looking for you?” Sullivan realized that he wasn’t dealing with Wan, just as he said it.

  Wan backed him toward the ocean, “You think you can hide from us, Sullivan? We have people everywhere.” It’s smiled. “You will be so much more useful to us in finding the vials.”

  Sullivan’s foot hit the surf. He had two options: run around Wan, or turn and dive into the ocean. Swim away. He wasn’t sure if Wan, or Wan’s alien-infected body would overpower him in the water, where he’d be even more helpless.

  Before Sullivan could move, Wan’s hand shot out and grabbed him hard by the neck. Sullivan brought his arms up, trying to break free from Wan’s grip. Wan’s hold was too tight — he lifted Sullivan to his dangling toes with superhuman strength.

  Sullivan kicked, hard, into Wan’s chest, face, and arms — none of it affecting the infected man. Finally, Sullivan’s boot knocked Wan’s jaw loose. Wan screamed and dropped him.

  Sullivan hit the dirt, then scrambled to stand. Before he got even three steps, Wan leaped on him, flipped him over, and shoved him into the ground, lowering his bloodied, broken face to Sullivan’s.

  What was left of Wan’s mouth opened further, and the black alien fog poured from one maw, trying to enter another.

  Sullivan gritted his teeth and twisted his neck, not allowing the thing to enter his mouth. He’d seen the aliens infect too many others.

  It didn’t enter his mouth.

  The alien poured into his nose and choked him with Darkness.

  Epilogue

  October 19, 2011

  The J.L. Harmon estate

  Marina stared in disbelief as her father sat up in bed, rubbed his eyes, and looked at her, slowly blinking.

  “Daddy?” she whispered, choking on both words and breath as she ran to his bedside, stopping short of throwing her arms fiercely around him, afraid she might hurt him.

  He opened his arms and pulled her closer into a giant hug with surprising strength, especially for a man who had been dead for days.

  “How?” she asked, “I thought you … ”

  “Weren’t coming back?” he asked. “You didn’t believe me, did you?”

  Marina pulled away to meet her father’s eyes, expecting him to appear wounded by her doubt. Instead, he smiled, “It’s OK, Honey, I might not have believed me either. How long have I been … gone?”

  “Four days,” she said, sitting beside him on the bed, holding his hands and feeling the warmth flooding his flesh.

  “Ah, so I was full of shit,” he said. “I said two days, didn’t I?”

  Marina laughed, staring into his eyes, wondering how it was possible, how he’d come back. Again, she asked, “How?”

  The doorknob rattled, followed by a knock. Dr. Phillips: “Mr. Harmon?”

  Marina remembered the camera feed, watched not just by people on the Internet, but also by the people downstairs. They wanted to get into the room, probably run tests, find out what prophecy he’d been told to deliver. But first, Marina wanted — needed — to say what she’d almost lost the chance to say forever.

  “Tell them to wait, please,” she begged.

  “Hold on, Doc, give me a few minutes with my daughter.”

  The doctor said nothing, probably slinking off with his tail between his legs.

  Marina stood, went to the camera, and hit a button to stop the recording.

  She then returned to her father, tears in her eyes, “I thought I lost you, Dad.”

  “It’s OK, Honey, I’m back. I had to come back to bring the message from the Great All Seeing. Can you turn the camera back on?”

  “Yes, but first I
want to say some things I thought I’d never get a chance to say again.”

  “OK.” he took Marina’s hands in his as she sat back on the bed. “Go ahead.”

  “First, I want to say thank you for raising me after Mom died. I know you were scared, and it couldn’t have been easy to do alone. You did a helluva job.”

  “Thank you,” he said, wiping tears from his eyes.

  “And I’m sorry for any grief I gave you during my ‘wild years.’ And for all the horrible boyfriends I dated.”

  “Even that Vinnie kid?”

  “Especially Vinnie,” she said, smiling through an eye roll. “Ugh, he was such a jerk. Anyway, I also wanted to … ”

  Suddenly her father’s eyes went spooked. Marina turned, expecting the door to have burst open behind them or something, but there was nothing.

  Her father started shaking, his face burning red.

  “Dad?” she said, sudden fear in an icy current through her veins. “Dad?”

  He pointed up and behind her.

  Marina turned, desperate to see what he was pointing at, but all she saw was the camera.

  “Turn it on,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “Turn it on!” he shouted, his words collapsing into coughs.

  She ran to the door instead, opened it, and screamed, “Doc! Something’s wrong with my dad!”

  The doctor ran into the room, saw her father pointing, and saying, “Turn the camera on,” over and over between coughs.

  The doctor, turned on the camera rather than running to her father.

  “Help him!” Marina screamed.

  Once the camera was on again, the doctor rushed to her father’s bedside, feeling his head.

  “You’re burning up, Josh.”

  Marina’s father ignored the doctor, pushed him aside, and stared at the camera with a gaze so severe it sent chills like snakes through her body.

  “I’ve come back with a message,” he said, coughing into his hand. Blood sprinkled the sheets. Marina ran forward to try and help him, though she didn’t know what she could possibly do.