Yesterday's Gone: Seasons 1-6 Complete Saga

by Sean Platt

  Where the fuck is she?

  Where am I?

  Nothing seemed right.

  His head was spinning, his stomach an acid marsh. He felt like he’d drunk a gallon of that green shit he’d found on the other world, the rich fuck’s shaman shakes. The only thing missing was the hallucinations.

  No sooner had Boricio thought of the nightmarish things he’d seen than he heard footsteps outside the door.

  A sliver of light bled into the darkness, a shadow creeping across the center as someone — or something — came closer to the door.

  “Little pig, little pig, let me in,” the voice said from the other side.

  The voice made no sense. It was Boricio’s, taunting him in a singsong and sending a chill through his soul.

  His heart raced as footsteps retreated from the door, and then returned, seeming to drag something — something metal from the sounds of it.

  “Little pig, little pig, let me in,” his doppelgänger repeated, then responded to himself in a twisted falsetto. “Not by the hair of our chinny chin chins.”

  A bang on the door.

  Boricio’s body tensed, his nerves frayed.

  “Open up, little piggy!”

  Boricio tried to move but couldn’t. Tried to speak, to tell his alter ego that he was stuck in a fucking straitjacket, but his mouth had gone numb.

  The doorknob began to violently jiggle, obviously locked.

  “I said open up!!” Boricio’s twin screamed from the other side.

  Boricio’s heart galloped faster.

  He had to get up, and out of the jacket, as the something on the other side of the door wouldn’t just walk away.

  No, it was coming back.

  Footsteps faded from the door again. Boricio counted maybe twenty paces.

  The footsteps stopped.

  And then his twin ran toward the door, footfalls echoing through the cell, and Boricio’s head, like thousands of buffalo tromping across the plains.

  The ground shook.

  Footsteps grew louder.

  The walls wiggled and floundered, threatening to jostle loose from the floor.

  Something hit the door with the force of thunder. Splinters of wood flew from the door and lacerated Boricio’s face.

  He closed his eyes to protect them.

  Footsteps again backed away from the door as his twin grabbed another running start.

  More light seeped through a zigzagging crack in the door’s center and reminded Boricio of lightning.

  As the footsteps rolled forward again, the door, the light shook in a constant blur. His eyes couldn’t turn from the blurred jag.

  Boricio braced for impact.

  The blade of an ax slammed into the door.

  A large wedge of wood broke away along the crevice. Blinding light poured inside.

  Boricio closed his eyes again, the light like a migraine.

  “Go away!” he cried out, feeling he had to be in some kind of fucked-up nightmare and maybe it would bend to his will if he demanded it.

  Boricio heard the doorknob being fumbled with, this time from the inside, and opened his eyes to see a man’s hand reaching through.

  The door swung open, and a shadow draped him.

  Boricio looked up to see himself, naked, covered in blood. Then it wasn’t him, but rather a retarded fat fuck wearing a prison guard’s uniform.

  The guard drawled, “Hey, boy, you ready for some real fun?” then lifted the axe and brought it down.

  Boricio woke with a scream, back in his bed, unable to move, sweat slicking every inch of his body.

  The door flew open.

  Rose appeared, wearing the same blue dress he’d seen her in last time.

  “Are you OK?” She rushed to his side and ran a hand through his sweaty mop.

  “Yeah, yeah, I had this crazy fucking nightmare.”

  “What was it?” Her eyes met his.

  Something about her gaze instantly soothed him — sent the nightmare to the recesses of Boricio’s memory, gone and almost forgotten already.

  “It’s OK,” she said, kissing him on the cheek.

  As she started to pull away, their eyes met. Rose leaned back in, kissing Boricio softly on the lips. For a moment, the kiss felt like a warm, familiar jacket, yet fresh and unfamiliar.

  Normally, all Rose had to do was kiss Boricio to get his missile on countdown, but fuck if his nethers registered shit.

  He let out a deep sigh.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I still can’t feel anything.”

  “How’s your headache?”

  “Better. I’ve had worse.”

  “So, that’s something.”

  “Thanks,” he said with half a laugh.

  Rose pulled a chair beside the bed, then reached out and held Boricio’s left hand.

  He thought for a moment that he could feel it. But when he closed his eyes, to see if he still felt her touch, he didn’t. It was a phantom feeling.

  “I can’t feel your hand.”

  “Can I tell you a story?”

  “Well, it’s not like I’ve got anywhere to go. And you do know how to spin one helluva yarn.”

  “Thanks,” she said, smiling. “When I was nine, my grandma was dying of cancer, and we spent a lot of time visiting her in the hospital. But nobody in the family wanted to tell me she was actually dying. They kept saying she was sick, but that she’d get better. They didn’t think I could take it. I could tell they were lying, though, because of the way people always got quiet around me, and all the red eyes and runny noses. Things were bad.”

  Boricio wished he could squeeze her hand.

  “Anyway, all the times I had to go to the hospital the nurses wouldn’t let me in to see Grams. I’m not sure if they said I was too young or what, but I had to sit downstairs in the main lobby where I passed my time with Judy Blume.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Boricio said, “she was one of my favorites. I loved Tales of a Fourth Grade Fuck-Up.”

  “She was one of my favorites, too,” Rose said, missing the joke.

  “So, one day, my Mom came down to the lobby and whispered to me to hurry and come with her. I grabbed my book and followed. She told me to stand behind her and stay out of sight. She said to act like I belonged, and that if anyone were to look at me I should barely acknowledge them, just nod, and move on. So I did.”

  “Hell, yeah,” Boricio nodded. “That’s how I always do.”

  “So, she brought me into see my grandma. Grams asked that my mom leave us alone for a minute. So my mom went to get a soda or something, and Grams looked me in the eye and admitted she was dying.”

  “Shit,” Boricio muttered.

  “Yeah, it was heavy. She said she thought I was old enough to know, and that she’d be dead soon anyway, so she’d rather we had our chances to say goodbye now rather than her dying and my wishing I’d known. So I kissed her, cried on her chest for a while before my mom came back. Mom knew immediately that Grams had told me, but neither of us said a word. Grams took my hand and said that even though she wouldn’t be here any longer she’d always be here. She pointed at my heart. And then, just like that, she died.”

  Rose’s eyes welled up as if she were remembering this memory for the first time in years. Maybe she was.

  “Wow, thanks for the snuff film, I liked the play by play,” Boricio joked, trying to lighten the mood. “Shit, here I am paralyzed, but I guess it could be worse.”

  “That wasn’t the point,” Rose said, seeming distant.

  “I’m sorry,” Boricio said, “what was the point?”

  “Well, even though you can’t feel my hand touching yours, I hope you can feel me in your heart.”

  Boricio smiled, “Well, sheesh, I didn’t know you were gonna get all Hallmark, Morning Rose.”

  “I just want you to know I’m here for you, and that I promise you’ll get better.”

  Boricio wanted to ask Rose how she could possibly know something like that, but he w
asn’t about to give her best intentions a golden shower. Besides, as shitty as he felt, he did feel that things would be OK. Because when the chips were down, Team Boricio never surrendered or left a play on the table. You kept playing dropping cards until you left the house with your sphincter bleeding.

  “I love you, Rose.”

  She whispered, “I love you, too,” then kissed Boricio again on the mouth.

  Sixty-Three

  Luca Harding

  Luca wasn’t supposed to be listening, but he couldn’t help it.

  He lay in bed in the room below Boricio’s, concentrating on the space between them, focusing on sounds until they formed in his head and he heard Rose telling Boricio about her grandmother.

  Why is she doing this to him?

  She’s trying to get inside his head more. Makes it easier to control him, The Darkness responded in Luca’s mind. She may be searching for ways to shape his memories, to make him forget more. If she can erase some of the worst of his past, she may be able to turn him into something she can use.

  Is she going to give him a vial or infect him?

  She still wants to give him the vial.

  And what do you think?

  I think what you want me to think.

  That’s not what I asked. What do you think?

  I think it won’t matter. Art has something else planned.

  What do you mean?

  I’ve been looking in his head. The Darkness in him is making alternate plans — to infect Boricio. To remove the vial from the equation.

  He can do that? I thought she could see into our thoughts. Or at least his.

  She’s getting weaker. Rose is starting to surface more. Especially now as she was telling the story about her grandmother. Art senses it, along with a chance to take control, and steer the course back to where it was.

  Which is what?

  Toward your species' evolution.

  And what do you think about that?

  This was the first time Luca dared to ask The Darkness anything that might alert It, or Rose, to his misgivings about her plans.

  I think what you want me to think.

  Really?

  Luca wondered if It was trying to trick him into admitting something he’d been trying not to think about. If he revealed his thoughts, would he be marked a traitor? Would Rose, or now Art, infect him and consume his body and soul?

  The Darkness answered, reading his thoughts, and fears. I’m not sure their plan is the right way forward.

  Luca felt a tingling through his body at the prospect that The Darkness might agree, and wondered if he had somehow won It over.

  I am not The Darkness in your interpretation of the word, Luca. I am neither Light nor Darkness. I am something in between. I am not even an I, but a we.

  Gray?

  If you must assign a color, that is fine.

  What do you think we should do with the vials?

  I don’t know. But I no longer think you should attempt to evolve your species.

  Why?

  Because The Darkness on Black Island is growing stronger. It has found our agents there and killed them. It wants something different from Rose, something far less friendly to your species. This will end badly for all — humans and us alike.

  Does Rose know this?

  Yes, but she doesn’t see the threat as clearly as we do. Art does. And he’s making other plans.

  Plans to what?

  Join them. He outed our spies there in exchange for freedom to join them when the time comes.

  He’s betraying us?

  He sees a weakness in Rose, in that she still feels for Boricio. She’s tainted too much by her humanity.

  I thought Art was like us.

  He’s nothing like us. He’s seen too much, done too much, and the vial has twisted that inside him. He is playing kind, but you cannot trust him.

  What do I do? Should I tell her?

  No. First, you must heal Boricio.

  Heal him? How? With a vial?

  No. With your Light.

  Sixty-Four

  Boricio Wolfe

  Boricio woke to the sound of nervous footsteps.

  He opened his eyes, relieved to see Luca standing in the dimly lit bedroom, rather than someone looking to murder him.

  “Hey, Boy Wonder, what’s up?” Boricio asked, still groggy and feeling the effects of whatever drugs they were piping through his IV bag.

  “Shh,” Luca said, a finger to his lips. His eyes were wide, nervous.

  “What’s wrong?” The hairs on the back of Boricio’s neck stood at attention.

  “We can’t let them hear us.”

  “Who’s them?”

  “Art and Rose.”

  “Why not?”

  “They’re not who they say they are.”

  “Whatchyou talkin’ bout, Willis?”

  “I don’t know how to say this, Boricio. Not without making you mad.”

  “Out with it,” Boricio said, getting annoyed. He hated when people couldn’t spit out whatever the fuck they were tryin’ to say, pip-squeaks included. Fuck, life is only so long, and most people spent way too many hours stammering ways to couch their words rather than lettin’ shit fly where it may.

  Luca met his eyes and swallowed.

  “They’re aliens.”

  Boricio said nothing, waiting to see if Luca would crack into a “Nah, I’m just fuckin’ with ya” smile.

  The boy wasn’t smiling.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You really don’t remember, do you?”

  “No, kid, and you’re about to piss me off if you don’t just fucking fill the spittoon.”

  “I can do better,” Luca said.

  “Yeah? Whatcha gonna do, show me a video? Put on a play? Just out with it.”

  “I can heal you. And with it, the memories will return.”

  “You can heal me? You mean make me walk again?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “You don’t remember how the other Luca healed you, do you?”

  “I know he ‘fixed me,’ but … ”

  A memory flashed back — how Luca had healed him, and other people, aging each time until he was old.

  “Oh shit, I do remember, but it’s all foggy. Did you age?”

  “He did, yes.”

  “Well, you gonna get a bunch of hair on your balls if you heal me now?”

  “We don’t have a choice. Not unless you wanna be infected, too.”

  “No, I don’t wanna be fucking infected, boy. But I don’t want you hurting yourself. Why don’t you go get Rose, and we can talk this out.”

  “You don’t believe me, do you? Rose isn’t Rose.”

  “Of course she is,” Boricio said. His head was pounding, and he felt more confused than ever. He tried to remember the old man’s name, but couldn’t. “That old fucker, yeah, I can believe he might be infected. But not Rose. I’d know it if she was.”

  “No,” Luca shook his head, “you wouldn’t. It’s good at hiding Itself.”

  “Bullshit.” Boricio wondered why this little shit was fucking with him. “You’re not even the same Luca I know. Maybe you’re the one who’s infected?”

  Luca was shaking, looking back at the door as if he heard someone coming down the hall.

  “I have to do this now,” he said. “Can I heal you?”

  “I want to talk to Rose,” Boricio said.

  “I’m sorry,” Luca said and reached out for Boricio.

  Sixty-Five

  Paola Olson

  Paola couldn’t tell if it was day or night from deep beneath the island’s surface.

  She’d never felt so far from her mom.

  She wondered where her mother thought she was. Desmond must’ve told her some lie to cover her absence. But what had he said? That she was missing? That she was sick and locked in the facility?

  Horror found her.

  What if he’d killed her?

  Paola shook h
er head, refusing to give that thought more space to grow. Her mother couldn’t be dead. Paola would know it. Of that much she was certain.

  Paola wished she could reach out to her mom and tell her the truth — where she was and that she was OK, for now.

  But as Paola closed her eyes and tried to reach out to her mom, like The Light told her to do, she found nothing but interference.

  Maybe she is dead?

  No! No, she’s not.

  Frustrated, she kicked at the glass wall, and screamed.

  Paola wondered if the ceiling’s tiny holes held cameras, speakers, or some sort of hole to vent poisonous gas.

  If there were cameras, was Desmond watching now?

  Paola couldn’t believe that she’d been so stupid. That she’d not noticed Desmond’s infection. She wondered if he’d been infected all along, when he came and saved them. Or was it more recent? If it had been all along, why come and save them in the first place? Why not just let her and Mom die in the hospital? It was the perfect time to do so.

  In Luca’s voice The Light said, Because he wanted to use you to find the vials.

  Sometimes The Light spoke to Paola in her voice. Other times, it sounded like Luca. She liked it better when The Light sounded like him. She liked to think that a bit of Luca was with her. It made her feel less alone.

  What do I do now? I can’t reach out to my mother. He’s got me in here, and nobody knows.

  Reach out to another of them. We’re all connected. Everyone I pulled back to this world has a bit of me, a bit of us in all of them. Try someone else, someone who can transmit your message and let your mother know where you are.

  Paola found a slight smile as she thought of the perfect person.

  Sixty-Six

  Brent Foster

  Brent was in Times Square with Luis, standing off against a horde of aliens. They were on top of the cars, firing weapons blindly into the encroaching mass of infected and black, shape-shifting aliens.

  “Come on, you fuckers!” Luis screamed like Rambo, holding a massive machine gun that looked like it could bring down a tank.