Yesterday's Gone: Seasons 1-6 Complete Saga

by Sean Platt

  And if they got to Brent, there was no way they’d let him, or his family live.

  Screw it. Brent made his bed when he started talking.

  Ed kept driving, dialing Jade’s cell repeatedly, hoping she’d answer, and that she, Teagan, and Becca were safe. If Sullivan was compromised, and it seemed he was if he’d given the order to kill them, Ed had to assume his family was in danger. Sullivan said that he had been affected by the vials, that his abilities allowed him to track Ed to his Florida safe house. Ed wasn’t sure how Sullivan had managed, if it was some sort of psychic connection they all shared that he could track, or if Sullivan was lent some supernatural ability to home in on them. Ed would assume the worst unless Jade picked up the phone.

  But she didn’t answer.

  He hung up, cursing again.

  As Ed drove faster, away from the city, he couldn’t push Brent from his mind.

  He had no way to know if Jade was in danger. He guessed she was, based on shit and the fans it was likely to hit, but he didn’t know. Maybe Jade’s phone was dead, or they were out of the house. Maybe she left the phone’s ringer off while sleeping. Plenty of scenarios saw Jade, Teagan, and Becca all still safe.

  However, there was only one possibility for Brent Foster and his family if Ed didn’t go back. While Brent might have been stupid, talking to too many people, his wife and child had done nothing wrong. And though Brent was being selfish in his pursuit of a family reunion, Ed understood. The man had lost everything; it was difficult to expect someone like him to embrace sacrifice when it was shoved down his throat.

  Ed had made a choice to work for the government. He knew what he was signing up for, even if he could never have known the depths of what he was getting into or what he’d be forced to surrender.

  Brent was thrust into hell without any choice.

  He lost his job, wife, and son. Sure, Brent could have — should have — handled things better, but Ed didn’t know many people who would’ve played their cards differently.

  If Ed didn’t intervene, Brent would pay the ultimate price.

  Fuck!

  Ed pulled into the left lane and spun the car, heading back into the city.

  Ed arrived at Brent’s apartment as the sound of gunshots echoed through the broken door and into the hallway.

  Too late!

  Ed rushed through the door, scanning the room. Two Black Island Guardsmen stood over Brent, cowered on the floor and begging for life, arms around his son.

  Brent’s wife was sprawled on the floor, motionless, blood spilling from a gunshot wound to the head.

  The Guardsmen whirled, guns raised. The taller of the two had an M-16, the second a Glock-17, like Ed. Neither was Ed’s match for speed or the element of surprise. He already had the larger man in his sights. Ed fired two shots to his helmet and one to his groin, dropping the man in an instant. He rolled to the ground, avoiding the second guardsman’s shots, then sprang to his feet and fired into the man’s crotch, gut, and face in three successive shots.

  Ed stood steel bar straight, tensed as he made sure the men were dead. Once certain, he kicked their weapons away, and reloaded his Glock.

  He turned to Brent and his son, both huddled over Gina’s dead body.

  “Mommy! Get up, Mommy. Please,” Ben cried, hugging her.

  Ed couldn’t stand to look. If he allowed their grief to overwhelm him, he wouldn’t be ready. He’d seen two vans, not one. There were more Guardsmen nearby — maybe across the street at Stan’s. If so, it was only a matter of minutes before they came to Brent’s, called in reinforcements, or both.

  “We have to go,” Ed said, leaning down. “There’s more on the way.”

  Brent was crying, holding his son, rocking him in his arms, ignoring, or not hearing, Ed.

  “Come on; it’s not safe here!” Ed yelled, his eyes back on the doorway.

  “She’s dead,” Brent said, staring at his wife, still in shock, unable to see the situation’s urgency.

  Ed didn’t have time to earn Brent’s attention. He leaned over, grabbed Ben, and started to pull him from his father.

  Brent jerked his son back, looked up, eyes angry, “Hey!”

  Ed had his attention. He let Ben go, and met Brent’s eyes. “Grab some ammo for your gun, we need to get out of here! Now! Or they’ll come back, and they will kill us — all of us.”

  Brent swallowed, looked down at Ben, who was back on the floor beside his mother, begging her to “wake up,” then looked down and picked up the M-16.

  Brent pulled Ben from his mom. The boy screamed, “No, Daddy!”

  “We’ve gotta go,” Brent said, his voice more soothing than he could have possibly felt.

  “No!!” Ben screamed, his face red and swollen as he tried to push free from his father. Pushing turned to hitting and scratching, desperate to stay with his mom. “We can’t leave Mommy!”

  “Mommy’s dead,” Brent said, hugging his son closer. “She’s gone to heaven, buddy. We need to get out of here before more bad men come.”

  Ben collapsed against his father, crying into surrender.

  “Come on,” Ed said, fighting back the tears in his welling eyes. He couldn’t allow the boy’s pain to dull his senses. If he didn’t stay sharp, the boy, and his father, would die.

  Forty-Four

  Steven Warner

  IT tightened ITS grip around Marina’s neck, digging long digits deeper into her flesh, allowing ITSELF to enjoy the fear pouring from her shell’s sweating skin.

  IT enjoyed her confusion, and her desperation to try and make sense of the situation. Wondering why IT was killing her.

  Just as IT was about to crush her throat, IT felt a scream somewhere out there.

  Something was wrong with Rose — the human woman IT somehow couldn’t see with the same indifference IT felt for the rest of the planet. Her love once belonged to Bishop, and love made ridiculous trade: He owned a piece of her, and she of him. Owning a piece of Bishop, therefore meant she owned a piece of IT.

  Rose was in trouble, maybe near death.

  IT homed in on the vision: Rose being held by a stranger at gunpoint. IT could feel her fear and confusion, her racing heart as she worked to absorb her surroundings, flitting terrified eyes from the stranger to her man, the other Boricio, the hunter, incapacitated and tied to the bed.

  The stranger had come for the hunter: Bishop’s love was in the way, and therefore in danger. If IT did nothing, her death was imminent.

  Suddenly, IT realized that IT had let go of Marina’s throat.

  She squirmed, wiggling away as she whimpered. IT grabbed her by the hair and jerked her head back harder, dragging Marina toward him as she cried out.

  IT had to go. IT could take Rose and rid ITSELF of the hunter, whom IT somehow knew was more than a threat: maybe the threat, growing stronger through every unattended minute.

  IT looked down at Marina, who stared up at her lover, defiantly, unwilling to surrender because she was stupid. Marina saw IT as a monster, rather than humanity’s hope: a promise a species as putrescent as man was lucky to get.

  IT looked into her mind, seeing Marina remembering her father’s warning that, “The Darkness was coming.”

  IT wanted to laugh.

  IT wasn’t used to — or comfortable with — indecision.

  IT should kill her.

  IT should leave her to nothing.

  IT should punish her for wasting ITS time, for never revealing the vials’ location, or the machine’s truth, despite months in her presence.

  But IT suddenly couldn’t. It felt … wrong.

  Marina had not yet finished serving her purpose. IT had been drawn to her bed for a reason. She had been touched by the vials, and would lead IT to them if IT waited long enough. But even if she never found the vials, Marina gave IT unprecedented access to a potential army of millions of hosts.

  She might be ITS best tool, after the next phase.

  Her heart beat faster, as Marina grew more desp
erate to escape.

  “What are you?” she asked, her voice full of disgust.

  “I am the true All Seeing,” IT said, mocking her faith. “You and I have so much work to do. But first, I have a matter to tend to, I hope you don’t mind.”

  IT tightened ITS grip on Marina’s hair, pulling harder as it reached down, slipped ITS hand under her skirt. She screamed as IT yanked her panties down over her knees and past her ankles, then balled them up, and shoved them into her open mouth to muffle the screaming.

  IT threw Marina over ITS shoulders and marched from the room and to the elevator, not caring who saw IT. If anyone got in ITS way, IT would kill them.

  Marina screamed, punched, kicked, and tried breaking free, but she was no match for ITS strength. IT brought her to the basement, then pressed two buttons together, the first and third floor buttons, which brought the elevator one more floor down, to the secret room that Marina didn’t know IT knew about — the crypt where her father’s body was. Where she came to pray for advice from a dead man.

  A panel slide open on the elevator showing a digital screen with blue digits. IT punched in the code, 5115, and the elevator doors opened.

  Marina, realizing where they were going — a room nobody would hear them in — kicked and screamed louder until she coughed and gagged on her panties.

  IT walked into the room, which lit at their entrance, and dropped her hard to the ground.

  She jumped up and took a swing.

  IT swung ITS fist hard into where her neck met her head, dropping her to the ground in an instant, cold.

  IT left the room and sealed the crypt, leaving the acting head of The Church of Original Design locked inside a room where only two knew the combination: one bound inside it.

  Now IT had to go save Rose, and finally finish the other Boricio.

  Forty-Five

  Mary Olson

  Mary stared at Paola, thinking about the storms inside her comatose daughter, lying in the hospital bed. Paola was hooked up to more machines, as if the one she’d been in hadn’t done enough damage. Tubes going into her, electronics monitoring her vitals, and God-only-knew what sorts of medications (and how many) pumping through her system.

  The doctors and nurses had asked Mary a battery of questions, both about Paola’s medical history and what happened prior to her arrival. Mary felt like her head was about to explode. She couldn’t keep lying, especially if her lie might mean the difference between Paola living and dying.

  She finally told them about Marina, about the machine, and what happened. She told them everything except why Paola had gone into the machine. Mary lied, saying the girl had been having headaches lately. Nothing horrible, but their friend had claimed the machine cured her migraines, so Mary didn’t see the harm.

  She was surprised that Dr. Thomasson didn’t look at her like an idiot for turning to a cult for medical help. Perhaps The Church was well known in these parts and actually seen as semi-legitimate.

  The doc said he’d need to call Marina and ask her some questions, find out what he could about the machine. Mary had freaked, wanting to call Rose to tell her to call Marina and lie, but she couldn’t make a call without being discovered by one of the several staff members coming in and out of Paola’s room.

  The doc came back and announced that he’d left a message but had yet to hear anything.

  Following tests, X-Rays, and an MRI, none of which showed anything to explain Paola’s state, everyone was playing it by ear.

  Mary sat at her daughter’s bedside feeling more alone than ever.

  She kept flashing back to when Paola had nearly died at the Drury. How she was lying there, dead to the world, until Luca came to save her.

  Mary always felt her daughter, like a spirit she could sense no matter where the girl was. The only times she had ever felt disconnected was at the Drury, and now. Both times she felt nothing: Paola might as well have been dead.

  She couldn’t lose another child.

  No, don’t think about it.

  Mary had tried not to think about her miscarriage after returning to Earth. Tried not to think about losing Desmond’s child. No good could come from it. Just as no good could come from thinking about Desmond, or even Ryan for that matter. Thinking about things that could not be, that would not be, was holding court with ghosts and only attracting more death.

  She stared at Paola, afraid that even thinking such things was somehow draining her child even as she thought them.

  No, no, stop. Think of something happy. Something—

  If the worst happened to Paola, Mary would join her.

  She already decided. The only question left was how she’d do it. Pills, gunshot, or maybe something else?

  She was too tired if fighting the inevitable. Too tired of trying to dim the pain.

  A child’s death mocked logical order. A mother was supposed to precede her child’s passing, not be forced to adapt illogical reality. She was protector and provider, not a survivor … not over her child.

  She brushed a thumb across her daughter’s too-cool skin. Mary felt lost and sad; fatigued, her thoughts cloudy. She had no idea what to do to pass the time, so did as she had been every few minutes since reaching the hospital.

  Mary pulled the cell from her pocket, dialed Boricio, and again got his voice mail. Like every other time, she listened because it made her feel ever so slightly less awful:

  “Howdy there, you’ve reached Boricio’s Center For Mental Fitness. Please listen to the following options: If you’re obsessive compulsive, press #1 over and over, 47 times or your mother will die. If you’re co-dependent, turn to the nearest asshole and ask them to press #2 for you. Multiple personalities, I will direct you to buttons #3, 4, 5, and 6. Press them all, one at a time. If you’re paranoid, we know who you are, and we will motherfucking find you. Delusionals press #7, then patiently wait for your transfer to Planet Zebot. Schizophrenics, listen for your inner assholes. Sufferers of short-term memory loss, try again later. And those afflicted with low self-esteem: Fuck you, no one wants to talk to you.”

  She laughed, even after hearing it so many times. Only Boricio could leave such a long message which not only tested your patience but taunted you, daring you to hang up.

  Mary ended the call and phoned Rose — still no answer — then grabbed the TV remote from a tray, aimed it at the room’s corner screen, knowing it was a mistake before the TV bled with color and filled the room with tragedy.

  The nation’s news had been growing worse by the week.

  The worst school shooting was followed by the worst mall shooting in U.S. History, as if the monsters committing the crimes were trying to outdo one another in gruesomeness. “Experts” were on TV blaming everyone from the president to the decline in morality and family values, to the lack of religion in schools, to bad parenting.

  Mary wasn’t one to personalize the news. But it was impossible not to. Part of her could feel the truth, even before standing in the garage with Boricio, before their drive from Colorado, and — if Mary was being honest with her whisper — before the blade bit into her finger.

  Something big was happening; a darkness gathering like pregnant clouds. Earth’s horizon was collapsing, reality turning into something terrible. Whatever had happened over there, was on its way here. Mary could feel it like she could often feel it was about to rain. This storm would be endless.

  The world wasn’t prepared for such a flood.

  Mary and the others had survived once, on the other Earth, again saved by Luca. But Luca wasn’t around to save them this time. And there was no safety net of an uninfected Earth waiting for their return. If Boricio was right, and the aliens had come here, this was it.

  Mary didn’t know if she could make it this time — especially without Paola by her side. But so long as Paola was alive, Mary would have to be strong, would fight with everything she had left, tired or not.

  That was her job.

  While Sullivan hadn’t warned her of a
ny specific dangers, Mary hadn’t felt safe since losing Ryan and then coming home. She could never allow herself to be in a position of weakness again, waiting for others to help her.

  She had to be prepared for when shit hit the fan.

  It was one of two reasons they had moved to Colorado. Paola’s art school was fantastic, and made selling the move easy for Mary, but the real reason she wanted to move to Colorado was because of the Boulder Outdoor Survival School: the world’s oldest and largest. One week into their new address, Mary was enrolled in her first course with many to follow, testing her skills — and sometimes Paola’s — everywhere from southern Colorado up into Utah. It was why Mary continued Desmond’s training without him, joining the Boulder Rifle Club and refining her excellent aim by the week.

  She never would’ve imagined herself a survivalist type, but there was something comforting in being able to take care of yourself when things went to hell. Living through the nightmare that had happened on the other world opened Mary’s eyes to realities she could never close them to again. Even if the aliens weren’t a threat, they were living in an increasingly unstable global economy: Countries went bankrupt, terrorism was at an all time high, political tension hung like a fog over the planet. Races, religions, and classes were clashing, making the news nearly every night, well before and unrelated to — Mary was certain — the recent horrors.

  It was easy to see that something was brewing.

  The world was a pressure cooker, and it was only so long before something exploded. When it did, the unprepared would be punished as everything man-made started to fail. Mary had seen it happen on the other side already, how destruction was swept into horrifically tidy piles. Planes would crash, dams would burst, pipelines would blow, and grids would fail. Society was a luxury, and learned skills essential: Know-how requires no wires or batteries.

  Despite her training, Mary didn’t feel ready yet.

  She let Boricio take on three freaks while she hid behind a car. Mary tried to tell herself she was playing it smart. She was unarmed — a stupid error, by the way — but also, Boricio was so damned good at what he did. And he had told her to get back.