Yesterday's Gone: Seasons 1-6 Complete Saga

by Sean Platt

  “Don’t worry, kids, I’m not gonna shoot anyone. I’ve just come to pick up my Claire Bear. Claire, honey?”

  And then Peter saw her, huddled in the far corner, crying her eyes out, dark pigtails reminding him of her seventh birthday party.

  “Come on, honey, it’s time to come home.”

  She stayed in her spot, shaking her head, mouth trembling.

  “Come on, honey. We don’t have all day.”

  “Please, Mr. Williams, leave now,” the teacher said. “Please … ”

  He cut her off with three shots. Only one found her fat mouth. But that was enough.

  She fell to the ground. Children screamed.

  Their cries only added to his headache. Suddenly, there were thirty blades driving through his skull instead of the one.

  “Shut up!” He fired at the chalkboard. “Shut up, shut up, shut up!”

  Screams descended to sniffling.

  He looked at Claire and smiled. “Come on, honey. Time to go home.” He held out his hand.

  Claire stood, slowly, tears spilling down her cheeks. “I don’t want to go, Daddy.”

  Goddamn, Josie poisoned her against me. Has her terrified!

  “It’s time to go, Claire.”

  She walked forward, so damned slow Peter thought she was stuck in mud.

  “Come on,” he repeated, lending everything to his smile.

  Claire finally reached him and held her shaking hand to his. Then Peter saw the wet spot on her pants.

  Jesus Christ, she pissed herself!

  Peter tried to bury his surprise. He remembered something the shrinks had said about not making a big deal when a kid pisses themselves, else it could scar them for life.

  He closed his hand around her shaking fingers and pulled her along.

  “Come on, baby, we’re going to go say goodbye to Mommy.”

  Peter found Josie’s classroom, peeked inside, and saw his wife huddled on the floor with the other children. He slung the carbine over his shoulder with its strap and clutched Claire’s hand with his left as he held the M4 with his right.

  The moment she saw him peering through the window, Josie stood and approached the door. She couldn’t yet see Claire behind him … or his weapon.

  “What are you doing here?” she yelled through the window.

  “Open the door, Claire!”

  Peter wasn’t sure if it was his tone of voice or her doing the math, but judging from Josie’s hand on her open mouth, she just realized that he was the reason for the lockdown.

  “What did you do?”

  “Open the door; I just want to talk.”

  She shook her head no, lips pursed.

  He stepped aside so she could see that Claire was with him, then brought the pistol from behind his back.

  Josie’s eyes widened.

  She opened the door, stepped outside, and closed it behind her.

  “What are you—”

  “I just want to talk,” he said, aiming the gun at her.

  “What are you doing here? You need to give me Claire and go home before you do something you regret.”

  “Too late.”

  Josie seemed to notice the duffel, open to a small armory. Perhaps she also saw the rifle slung over his shoulder.

  “Oh my God, what did you do?”

  “I did what I had to. What you made me do, Josie.”

  “What are you talking about?” She tried to step past him, reaching out for Claire.

  “No!” He shoved the pistol in her face.

  Claire cried out, “Daddy, please. Stop!”

  “Don’t worry, honey. Mommy and Daddy just need to talk some things over, and then we’ll go.”

  “You’re not going anywhere with her. Not in this state. Why don’t you just give me the guns, Peter?”

  “No! I am leaving here with my daughter. There’s nothing you, or anyone else, can do to stop me.”

  Peter heard the sound of a door opening behind him. Josie’s eyes went even wider as she shook her head no.

  Peter turned to see her lover, Mr. Montgomery, stepping outside with his perfect skin, nice suit, and bright-white teeth.

  He turned, aimed his gun at Mr. Perfect.

  Montgomery put his hands out, fingers outstretched as if to suggest calm. “Whoa, Peter, what’s going on here?”

  “I’ve come to take my daughter back and say goodbye to Josie. Not that it’s any of your business.”

  “Please, Daddy,” Claire said, “I don’t want to go anywhere.”

  He ignored her.

  Mr. Perfect tilted his head and lowered his hands. “I know you’re having a rough time, Peter. Why don’t we talk this over, see if we can’t come to some kind of agreement?”

  “Who the fuck are you? What the hell does any of this have to do with you? Oh, yeah — YOU’RE FUCKING MY WIFE!”

  “Please,” Josie said, “go back in your classroom, Mr. Montgomery.”

  Mr. Perfect looked up. “But—”

  Something clicked in Peter, seeing the love in his eyes. The kind of look that Peter felt for Josie not too long ago. He wasn’t just fucking her.

  Mr. Perfect was in love.

  Peter aimed at his head and shot him twice in the face.

  There goes those white teeth.

  Josie screamed. Claire slipped from Peter’s grip and raced down the hall.

  “Claire!” Peter yelled.

  His daughter screamed as she ran.

  “Come back!” He aimed his pistol — just a shot in the foot to slow her.

  He lined up the shot.

  Before he could squeeze the trigger, Josie threw herself at Peter, knocking him to the ground, hands on his gun.

  “Let go!” He struggled to free himself from Josie’s grip before Claire vanished down the hall or into one of the rooms, disappearing before the police showed up and making it impossible to find her.

  “Let go, you bitch!” Peter met Josie’s eyes as they each struggled for control of the gun.

  “No,” she said through gritted teeth, using every ounce of her weight and strength to push the gun’s barrel back toward him. Her thumbnail dug into Peter’s trigger finger, pressing back trying to make him release it.

  He could feel her hot breath on his face, their struggle bringing the pistol closer to him.

  Their eyes locked, and for a moment he flashed back to when they were dating, how many times he’d been lost inside those blue eyes, wondering what she was thinking, and how he’d lived his life so long without her. With a profound sorrow he realized how few times their eyes had met in their last months together, hell their last two years.

  He wasn’t sure when the magic died. If it was after he lost the job or before. It just sorta happened. Now Peter realized for what felt like the first time ever she’d never look into his eyes again. Not with anything close to love.

  Now there was only fear and hate.

  They continued struggling for the gun as he found himself lost in Josie’s eyes, trying to find some shard of the love she’d once felt.

  The gun went off.

  Her eyes went from hate filled to confused. Her mind tried to make sense of the reality that she’d been shot.

  “I’m so sorry.” Peter swallowed, tears filling his eyes.

  He wished he could take back the bullet, and wondered how in the hell it had all come to this.

  Oh God, oh God.

  Peter tried to talk to her, to let her know he was sorry, but Josie’s eyes stayed open, staring into her death.

  Hot blood seeped onto his hands, arms, and chest as whatever hope he had of anything — living with Josie, or even with Claire — drained into the void.

  It’s over.

  He got up.

  Dropped the gun.

  Looked for Claire, but didn’t see her.

  He had to find her. He couldn’t let her live like this, without a mother, and once he killed himself, without a father.

  Better to send her to heaven first.
<
br />   He wouldn’t be going with her — if there was a hell, he’d punched his ticket. But no God would send his baby to hell.

  Peter grabbed the rifle and glanced down at the open bag full of weapons. He had enough no matter what the day would bring. He would get his daughter, no matter how many people he had to kill.

  “Claire! Come here!”

  No response.

  He could hear her crying and banging on a door down the hall, around the corner.

  “Please, let me in!” she cried.

  Peter ran toward her. He had to reach her before she got away. Didn’t she realize that he was the only one who could help her?

  He turned the corner as she ducked into the room.

  Peter fired his rifle into the slammed door, shots shattering the window and peppering the wood with holes as the bullets tore through and into the classroom.

  Kids screamed.

  He wasn’t sure if he’d hit them or if they were just unreasonably scared.

  He used his rifle’s butt to kick away jagged shards of glass still in the doorframe.

  Reached inside and opened the door.

  Peter pulled the door open, aimed the gun at a heavyset blonde teacher standing in front of Claire.

  “Give her to me.”

  “No!”

  He pulled the trigger, hitting her with several shots.

  She fell on top of Claire, knocking the girl down and pinning her under the corpse.

  Kids raced from the classroom.

  “Sorry, honey, but this is for the best,” Peter said as he stepped toward her.

  Claire screamed, face red, tears streaking her cheeks as she tried to shove the teacher from her body. “No, Daddyyyyy! No, please! Please, Daddyyyyy!”

  Peter hated the sound of her crying. It cut through him as if she were still an infant. A shrill pain like nothing else.

  The thought of killing his own child was sickening, but it was the right thing — to end her suffering. After this there would only be a horrible life of misery ahead. How could you come back from your father going on a killing spree and ending your mother?

  You couldn’t.

  He aimed down the rifle at her, closing his eyes. “I’m so sorry, baby.”

  A voice came from behind them.

  A girl’s voice: “Please, Mr. Williams, you don’t need to do this.”

  He spun around, stunned. He pulled the trigger without meaning to, but the bullets sailed straight through the girl.

  She looked down, and then up at Peter, seemingly as surprised as him.

  “Who … what are you?” he asked, backing away.

  The girl looked to be in her early teens. She had long, dark hair and was quite pretty. She was wearing a long, flowing white dress that seemed to radiate some kind of light, even though Peter had never seen anything like it.

  “My name is Paola, and I’ve come to save you.”

  “There’s no saving me, not after what I’ve done. Please, leave us be.”

  “Why? So you can kill your daughter?”

  “You don’t know anything!” Peter fired more shots at the girl. Still the bullets sailed through.

  “What the fuck are you?”

  She must’ve been a delusion, further proof of his mental decay.

  “You’re not here,” he said, turning away from the apparition and giving his attention to Claire. She was shaking, lips trembling, begging him not to kill her.

  “I’m so sorry, baby. But you’ll be with Mommy. I killed her. Don’t you want to be with Mommy?”

  She shook her head no, and her crying turned into a cracked wail of despair as she realized her mother was dead. Her mouth was open, saliva bubbling from her lips.

  Peter flashed back to when she was three-years old and had got bitten by the neighbor’s dog. She was rushed to the hospital for stitches on her face.

  He looked at the scar turning pink as it did whenever Claire was scared or angry. She wailed, “Please, Daddyyyyy.”

  He aimed the rifle, wanting to end her suffering before snuffing his own.

  He heard the girl’s voice louder in his mind.

  “You will not kill your daughter!”

  He turned to her, “Stay out of my head!”

  She stepped toward him, but her steps were more of a floating motion.

  “This isn’t you,” she said, just inches from his face. “You’ve been infected, and there’s a parasite that is breaking you from the inside. It’s not you, Peter. Please, put the gun down.”

  “P-parasite?”

  “Have you been getting bad headaches?”

  “Yes,” he said, stunned. “I have.”

  “It’s the parasite.”

  “What kind of parasite?”

  Peter once heard stories about a type of parasite that infected small animals and took over their motor control.

  Or was it insects?

  “You mean this isn’t my fault?”

  Peter couldn’t stop the tears pouring down his face. It felt so good for someone to tell him he wasn’t a monster, even coated in his wife’s sticky blood.

  “No, it’s not your fault. It’s the parasites. Please, stop now and turn yourself in. You can still do the right thing.”

  A stabbing pain splintered through his skull, bringing a roaring anger alongside it.

  “No, you’re lying. You’re a figment of my imagination.”

  He turned, aimed at Claire, and put his finger around the trigger.

  “Sorry.”

  His finger froze mid-squeeze.

  The stabbing grew more intense as if someone, or something, was slicing his brain into pieces with an icy blade drenched in acid.

  Peter clenched his teeth so tight he felt a few break. Blood poured from his mouth.

  His body tensed as he felt something sliding through his muscles, going from his chest to his arms and then into his fingers, forcing him to release the trigger and drop the rifle.

  He reached into the bag, or his body did, acting against his brain’s commands.

  He grabbed a pistol, not sure which, and brought it toward his mouth.

  No, no, no, no!

  “Kill yourself, Mr. Williams. It’s the right thing to do,” Paola’s voice spoke in his head, adding to the intense pain.

  No! Get out of my head!

  He stared down at Claire, still trying to get out from under the dead teacher, eyes on her father.

  He had to resist, had to free Claire from her misery.

  His arms refused to obey.

  His mouth opened.

  He screamed, trying to resist whatever, or whoever, was in control.

  The pain in his head was dialed up to a million, so bad he was certain his brain would explode without release.

  He put the gun in his mouth.

  Peter found freedom from the pain.

  He fell to the floor, dimly aware of the world around him, watching Claire scream.

  It was the last thing he saw, the final torment he would visit on his daughter.

  Twelve

  Mary Olson

  As Paola continued to scribble on the paper, Desmond finally arrived at the house, nearly ten minutes after Mary had called.

  He ran into the kitchen, fell to his knees beside Mary, and held one of Paola’s hands.

  “How long?”

  “Twelve minutes,” Mary said.

  He looked down at the pages spread on the floor beneath her. Paola had gone through six sheets so far, writing in giant, messy letters.

  He picked up the papers and started sorting through them. “Who is Peter Williams?”

  “No idea,” Mary said.

  Paola started writing faster, bigger letters.

  “No, no, no, no.”

  “Kill yourself Mr. Williams. It’s the right thing to do.”

  Mary swallowed, wondering what sort of horrible thing her daughter was seeing.

  The seizures, they had deduced from Paola’s vague recollections and the things she’d written m
atching news reports of recent atrocities, had somehow allowed her to connect with people infected by The Darkness, reporting the things these people were seeing and presumably feeling.

  “We need to wake her up.”

  “No,” Desmond said sharply. “We have no idea what harm that might cause her.”

  Mary looked down at her daughter’s shaking, furrowed, sweat-beaded brow, eyes closed tight, tears pouring from them as her hands scribbled something indecipherable, big giant letters, all on the same page.

  D

  I

  E

  And then it was over.

  The seizures quit in a flicker, just like they started.

  The girl’s brow relaxed, her hand went limp, dropping the pen. Her head rolled to the side, asleep. Likely exhausted.

  Mary exhaled deeply, glad it was over.

  Desmond picked up Paola and carried her to the couch. Mary ran ahead to move her tablet out of the way.

  Desmond laid her down, then turned to Mary.

  “You OK?” He came over and took her into his arms.

  It felt so good to have Desmond back. Things weren’t quite as cozy and normal as before, but their relationship had been forged in a dead world’s chaos. There really hadn’t ever been a normal.

  Mary wondered if there would ever be any sort of normal again.

  The Darkness had followed them back to this world, was wreaking havoc daily, and yet it seemed like nobody outside of their tiny circle knew what was happening. Nobody, save for the Black Island Guardsmen and presumably a few other government agencies, seemed to be aware of an alien presence.

  Mary was shocked that no one had let the information leak, that no civilian had managed to capture any cell phone footage of the black, stringy aliens. They had managed to hide well within humans this time. She wondered if that was a good sign or a bad one. Was the aliens’ seeming invisibility a sign of their strength and improved organization or one of vulnerability?

  Whatever the case, Mary would do her damnedest to keep Paola safe, and it felt good to have company. While Boricio was God knows where, she could never truly count on him anyway. He had his life to live; she had hers. But Desmond was back, and Mary finally had faith that even if they had to march through fire they’d make it out of hell alive.

  He’d always been a confident, if not somewhat mysterious man. He was now more so, and smarter, for his experiences on the dead world. It was as if The Light had prepared him for true leadership. If there was one thing the world needed now, it was someone to guide them, someone who knew how to fight The Darkness.