Yesterday's Gone: Seasons 1-6 Complete Saga

by Sean Platt

  “It won’t. She has Luca and The Light with her now. They’ll protect her.”

  “You’re only guessing.” Mary stood, unable to stay seated. “You can’t know that!”

  Crying, Paola said, “Please, stop fighting.”

  “We’re not fighting, dear.” Mary turned from Desmond to Paola. “But we need to discuss this. We need to consider what’s really at stake and what other options we have.”

  “What do you mean other options?” Desmond asked. “This is it. The Light is inside Paola, and that’s the only thing we have going for us right now. Your daughter is the only thing standing between The Darkness and the end of our world. What would you have us do, Mary?”

  “Maybe stop using Paola as some sort of psychic alien tuning rod to help you find these damned vials.”

  “But she’s having these seizures anyway. She’s seeing these things, connecting with these people, and The Darkness. Do you really want us to ignore her gift?”

  “A gift? Is that what you think this is?”

  “I’m sorry.” Desmond threw up his hands. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “No,” said Mary, pointing at Desmond, “it’s exactly what you meant. You’re obsessed with these damned vials, and you don’t care what happens to Paola so long as you find them.”

  “That’s bullshit!” Desmond yelled. He stood, eyes enraged.

  It was rare to see Desmond so fired up. Mary must have touched a nerve. But she didn’t care. She was right, and his head was too far up his ass to see it.

  “I love you,” he said, “and I love Paola. I would do anything to keep her out of this. Hell, if I could have Luca’s soul jump into my body right now, I would.”

  “Would you?”

  “Yes!” Desmond seemed offended by her question.

  Mary kneeled next to Paola and held her hands. “Baby, can you talk to Luca?”

  Paola, head still in her hands, said, “No.”

  “Can you try?” Mary asked, feeling that Paola’s answer came too fast for an honest attempt.

  “I tried!” Paola said, glaring at Mary. “Why can’t you listen to me?”

  “I am listening to you!”

  “No, you’re both talking about me as if I’m not even here, like I’m not a part of this conversation! Nobody’s asked me what I want!”

  Mary felt smacked by the obvious, not that it changed how she felt. “Well, no, we didn’t ask you, you’re right. So, what do you want?”

  “I want to do this.”

  “What?” Mary asked.

  “Desmond is right, Mom. This is a gift. Luca brought it to me because he thought I was the only person The Light could go into out of everyone he knew. Luca said it had to be someone pure.”

  “Could he jump into me?” Desmond asked. “Can you ask him? I would gladly take your place, sweetie.”

  “I can’t reach him. He only comes when I’m sleeping, or during the seizures. But he said I was the only one. I think if he could’ve gone into you, he would’ve done so when he brought you back.”

  “That’s true,” Desmond agreed.

  Paola looked up at her mom, eyes welled up, “I know you think of me like I’m your little girl, but it’s time to let go. Luca chose me for a reason. For me not to help, when I can, would be selfish. The world is counting on us, and it’s not right for you to expect me to follow your fear and do nothing.”

  Mary sat beside Paola, hugging her, tears rolling down her own cheeks.

  “I know, baby, but you will always be my little girl. And I can’t stand the thought of something happening to you again. It would kill me.”

  “Yeah, Mom, but if I don’t do anything, we’ll all die anyway.”

  “Did Luca say that?” Mary asked.

  “He didn’t need to. I can see into The Darkness. I know what It wants.”

  “What's that?” Mary asked, terrified of the answer.

  “All of us,” she said.

  Mary cried as she held Paola tight.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered through her cry, both to Paola and looking up at Desmond. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s OK, Mommy,” Paola said. “We’ll be OK. I promise.”

  “Me too.” Desmond sat beside Mary and pulled both girls into his arms. “We’re not going to fall to The Darkness again, I swear.”

  Twenty

  Boricio Wolfe

  Boricio was in the sorry-ass excuse for a jail cafeteria, standing in line for his slop when a chill started to shake, rattle, and roll right through him.

  It started small, just a stick on a snare drum. Then it started to rat-a-tat-tat in the way shit always did when someone was watching him.

  Boricio looked around to see who, if anyone’s, eyeballs were begging for a gouging.

  Nobody in line — three guys in front and several behind — seemed to be paying Boricio a dick tip of attention.

  Boricio stepped up to the front and held out his tray as another prisoner, a thin black dude dressed in all white, ladled a wet slop of potatoes beside a slab of gray meat. The dude met Boricio’s eyes, then looked away quickly, toward the back of the line, toward a bald Aryan-looking fuckface fresh out high school, with an ugly tattoo on his neck, an idiot’s sneer, and the downright stupidity to pretend he wasn’t eyeing Boricio.

  Boricio wasn’t certain, but thought the kitchen dude was giving a warning. Shit and fan were about to bump uglies.

  Boricio gave a subtle nod back and looked around for something to use as a weapon. Nothing in sight, Boricio decided he’d wing it. If the Nazi fuck came charging solo, he’d be fine. If he was one of many, an unfortunate number of fuckers might die. He hoped not. A high body count would likely delay his exodus.

  Boricio made his way through the line, grabbed a roll from another guy, then crossed to the cafeteria’s rear, close to where a pair of prison pigs were standing watch. Boricio sat alone at a long aluminum table bolted to the floor with a connected bench, and kept the room in front of him.

  He watched as Hitler Youth made his way to a table with a trinity of lookalike crackers. The fucker was still trying hard to look like he wasn’t watching Boricio, but he was as obvious as his ignorance.

  Boricio looked past him, also pretending.

  Best to lie low, play dumb. Boricio ate, acting like he wouldn’t mush the fucker’s eyes to goo with his thumbs if the asshole was stupid enough to come at him. Or maybe he’d use his spoon.

  Boricio looked down at his metal spoon, seeing it now as a weapon. The guards would run a metal detector wand over them before they were allowed back into their cells. So there was no sneaking the spoon back and filing it down to a shiv.

  That didn’t mean Hitler Youth didn’t have one, or wasn’t given one by Guard Tard or some other fucker who saw Boricio as a threat to the delicate ecosystem of BumFuck Oz.

  Boricio hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Guard Tard since their little altercation. He figured the guy was shuffling papers at a desk or on administrative leave. But Boricio knew better than to think that shit was finished. Beef wasn’t settled. If Hitler Youth was gonna take a shot, there was little doubt it was at Guard Tard’s behest.

  Boricio hoped the pair of pigs didn’t have skin in the game. Otherwise, shit would get difficult, at least until he could get one of their sticks.

  Boricio finished his meal then waited for the lineup. Waiting to get cleared for a return to his cell, Boricio felt half of the hundred or so prisoners in the cafeteria watching him.

  Shit was definitely about to go down.

  Boricio wondered if Guard Tard had put a general bounty on his head, reward any motherfucker in the joint who took out the Wolfe. Maybe he offered a few packs of smokes and a tossed salad to the man with the balls to face ye olde Boricio.

  He kept his eyes on his plate, tuning his ears, so he could know where the pigs were at all times.

  They were about ten feet behind him, standing quietly like soldiers instead of bottom-barrel cops who couldn’t be on a real fo
rce. And considering the hillbilly hucklefuck town, that said dick about their skills.

  Boricio glanced up at the table of Nazis as they started laughing and looking at Boricio more obviously … the threat looming larger in their eyes.

  OK, when you gonna make your move, Hitler Youth?

  Suddenly, the lights went out, and the place went pitch black as everyone started shouting nonsense.

  Here we go. It’s showtime!

  Boricio hopped out of his seat and was about to find cover when four arms grabbed his two and yanked them behind his back. The pair of pigs were the only fuckers close enough to nab him.

  “It’ll all be over real quick,” one of the pigs said in his ear as they dragged him to the corner and set up the kill.

  Boricio stomped backwards, hard into the top of one of the pig’s feet. That little piggy let go.

  Boricio’s left hand went free as Piggy cried out.

  Boricio managed to grab his nightstick, and swiftly brought it straight up hard into the other piggy’s face.

  That little piggy let go, too, screaming.

  Chaos erupted all around, movement, screams full of bass, prisoners shoving.

  Boricio dropped to the ground and crawled forward as fast as he could, making his way toward one of the tables to hide under, even though the darkness displayed exactly jack shit.

  Boricio was as blind as his enemies.

  Someone raced by Boricio and smashed his left hand with their heel. He stifled a scream and prepared for attack, but the person kept running.

  Boricio hoisted himself over the bench and scooted his way under the table, heart hammering as he clutched the nightstick, waiting for attack from any and all sides.

  The lights returned as quickly as they’d gone out. Another pig’s voice boomed through a megaphone.

  “On the ground now!”

  Boricio held the nightstick as another two piggies came at him, guns drawn.

  One yelled, “Let go of the stick!”

  Boricio considered his odds of killing both pigs, but once he saw the Head Pig from the other night, the one who prevented Guard Tard from anally raping Boricio with a nightstick, he figured his best move was to fall in line. Head Pig was the closest thing Boricio had to an ally.

  Boricio dropped the stick.

  The pig whose foot Boricio smashed raced over, retrieved the nightstick, and grabbed Boricio by the back of his collar.

  “You’re going in the hole.”

  TO BE CONTINUED …

  ::Episode 27::

  (THIRD EPISODE OF SEASON FIVE)

  “Where’s the Beef”

  Twenty-One

  Arthur Morgan

  Art had good days and bad days according to the Autumn Manor staff, the quaintly named nursing home where Art found himself following the misfortune of outliving both his children. Art’s trouble was that he couldn’t remember much of either as he approached his ninety-fourth birthday.

  Most days were a confusing palette of grays. Days filled with “activities” to tide him over until the rest of Art’s body failed as his mind had long ago.

  He sat in the sunroom not feeling particularly social, waiting for the reporter who wanted to get a quote about whatever war the country was currently working its way into.

  Art wondered why anyone was coming to him for a quote at all. People had to know his health was failing. But he didn’t get visitors often, and wasn’t going to turn away someone who genuinely wanted to talk.

  Art cleaned his thick eyeglasses as a woman on TV was standing at the scene of a mass school shooting.

  People talked about how the world was going to hell, and how the proliferation of guns had suddenly made the world awful. But those people failed to realize that the world had been awful since the beginning.

  This country, like most others, was paved in the blood of innocents. This was something that the underclasses in every country throughout time always knew, because they had experienced it firsthand.

  Now that violence was encroaching on the white middle and upper classes, people were starting to see the truth — that humans were animals. Worse than animals, really. Animals weren’t mindlessly violent.

  Humans, however …

  Art had borne witness to the worst of humanity, first as a soldier in World War II, then again in Korea. Once exposed to man’s evil, whether through war or some random act of violence, it was hard to ever see the world through rose-colored glasses again — a doubly heartbreaking end to innocence because the mourned world never existed.

  Art had written thousands of pages about the history of war throughout his twenty-one book career. And not just common, regurgitated history. Art studied the real reasons for war. Global conflicts were rarely started for honorable or just reasons. Most were about privileged men in pursuit of power or seeking to maintain what they had. Art had known, prior to his senility, more about war than probably anyone else in the States.

  Oddly, he had fans — and detractors — on both sides of the aisle. People on the left and the right used Art’s writings to bolster their arguments for and against war. It was a strange sort of fame, one that he’d never felt particularly comfortable with. He simply saw himself doing his duty to report things as he saw them to those willing to listen and learn.

  Art wondered about the reporter’s agenda. Was it someone seeking to condemn the current war, or hoping to defend it?

  Either way, Art was certain to disappoint the reporter. He rarely gave basic black-and-white answers because everything was gray. Subtleties and nuances were deeply nested in every conflict. Right and wrong were only words. Without all of the facts — and no one ever had all of the facts — war was difficult to judge as just or unwarranted.

  But a lonely Art had agreed to the interview anyway.

  “Do I look OK?” he asked Estelle, the on-duty nurse, and one of his favorites — an attractive Cuban woman who vaguely reminded him of a long-gone girlfriend.

  “You look fine, Art. How are you feeling? You up to this?” Her smile made him feel safe.

  “Good. Yes, I’m up to this.”

  An awkward silence hung between them until Art finally found the courage to apologize.

  “Sorry about yesterday.”

  Estelle looked down, just long enough to let him know that he’d hurt her feelings. She looked up and smiled. “It’s OK.”

  Art didn’t remember the details. Paul, the nurse on duty earlier, said, “I heard you were naughty yesterday,” then proceeded to tell Art that he’d thrown a fit about his lunch, yelled at half the staff, and escalated his curses until he became borderline violent.

  Art felt horrible. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt Estelle. She was a sweetheart, never short with him, and always gentle. Estelle listened to his stories and asked questions, unlike most of the others, who would be checking their idiot phones through the entire conversation.

  “No,” he said to Estelle, “it’s not OK. Nobody should have to put up with my shit when I’m having my bad days. Nobody. You’re a saint, dear, and don’t think for a moment that I don’t know and appreciate it. I’m sorry for whatever I said.”

  Estelle’s eyes watered, and Art could tell he was about to make her cry. But he didn’t want pity. He just wanted to improve things between them.

  Art hated that he couldn’t control the anger when it came. Hated more that he couldn’t even remember the incidents. It was hard to sincerely apologize for something you couldn’t even remember doing, and sincerity was the mother of a decent apology.

  Art had never been one to believe in heaven or hell, not with all he’d seen. But that was before his mind had packed its bags. Now he realized that hell was as real as it was eternal and unforgiving.

  “Oh, they’re here,” Estelle said as the receptionist escorted a woman with light-brown hair into the social room.

  “Hello, Mr. Morgan, my name is Rose McCallister. I’m a reporter at The Grunion Sun. I’d love to pick your brain on a few things for
an article I’m writing.”

  “Sure,” Art said. Rose was quite a looker. Young with porcelain skin and a smile that could get anyone talking. He’d learned two things in his life when it came to public relations: never trust a reporter, and never trust a pretty woman who wants to discuss what you know.

  Yet there was something about her eyes that held Art instantly captive. He wanted to talk to her, and know what she knew. He wanted to tell her anything she was willing to hear.

  It was the oddest sensation, but Art felt like he’d known the woman forever and could trust her with anything.

  Rose turned toward Estelle. “Can we talk alone?”

  “Certainly,” Estelle said. She left the room, seeming equally stricken by Rose.

  Art was confused.

  Estelle normally would’ve asked Art if he wanted her there, especially given his mood swings and declining memory. She was a good buffer and could prevent him from making a fool of himself or saying something he’d regret. And if he did slip into words that shouldn’t be said, Estelle could tell the reporter about his condition and beg them not to quote him. Fortunately, there had been only one incident, and Estelle hadn’t begged the reporter so much as threatened to eviscerate him.

  Rose looked around, as if trying to find someone within earshot, then leaned closer with a conspiratorial whisper.

  “I’m here to help you, Mr. Morgan.”

  I should’ve known she wasn’t a reporter.

  His lips tightened, and Art’s heartbeat accelerated as he looked around for someone to call over to get this woman away.

  She reached out, put an icy hand on his, which seemed to instantly calm his nerves and shaking hand.

  “I’m not going to hurt you, Mr. Morgan. Quite the opposite.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’ve read your books, sir. You have a brilliant mind when it comes to war.”

  “Had,” he said, “had a brilliant mind. Not quite what it was.”