Yesterday's Gone: Seasons 1-6 Complete Saga

by Sean Platt

  “I love you,” she cried as the alien snaked toward his open mouth.

  A gunshot erupted downstairs.

  Tendrils zipped back into Rose’s mouth as if evading a sprung trap, and she leaped up, looking at the door.

  “Downstairs!” She opened the door and rushed out of the room as Boricio lay stunned.

  He stared at the open door, watching as Rose vanished from sight.

  Seconds later, another gunshot.

  Rose screamed.

  Boricio’s heart pounded in his throat as hell and chaos held hands. He bolted up and into the hall, stopping when he saw an old man ascending the stairs, aiming a shotgun at Rose and opening fire.

  Buckshot hit her in the chest and sent Rose flying backward.

  She fell back before Boricio could leap and break her fall. Her head slammed against the floor.

  Boricio dropped to the ground, ignoring the old man at the end of the hall even as he approached Boricio with his shotgun aimed.

  Boricio stared into Rose’s wide-open eyes staring up. Her eyes found his, though they seemed to be having trouble locking on.

  Her mouth opened to say something, then stayed wide as if frozen. Her eyes stared straight up, past him.

  Her chest was rising and falling quickly, rapid breaths as she gasped for air.

  Boricio wondered if the blast had punctured her lungs.

  He glanced down, and couldn’t bear to look at the pellet wounds pocking the left side of her chest, bleeding out into her shirt’s fabric.

  “You’re going to be OK, baby, you’re going to be OK.”

  Rose stared straight up, not at Boricio, but past him as her chest stopped moving.

  No!

  No!

  Boricio stared helplessly at Rose, wishing he could pull the pellets from her chest, and breathe life back into her body, but he didn’t know what to do.

  He cradled her head in his hands, his fingers streaking blood across her porcelain skin.

  “No, no, don’t go.”

  He heard the old man’s breathing as he stepped closer, leveling his gun at Boricio.

  He looked up, both wanting to kill the fucker and wanting to die.

  A series of rapid-fire shots — not the shotgun — rang through the house.

  Boricio watched as the old man fell forward, the back of his head a busted melon.

  Footsteps bounded up the stairs.

  Boricio looked up to see Ed Keenan, standing with an AR-15.

  “You’ve gotta help Rose,” Boricio begged, looking down at her empty husk.

  He spun around, looking for Luca, desperate to turn truth into lie. “Luca! You’ve gotta heal her!”

  Keenan turned and looked down the stairs, then back at Boricio.

  “What?” Boricio asked.

  He stood, went to the stairs and saw Luca lying at the bottom, face down, blood pooling out under his body.

  “Noooo!!” Boricio screamed.

  Seventy-Three

  Edward Keenan

  As Boricio bounded down the steps toward Luca, Ed leaned over and checked Rose’s pulse. Her mouth was dangling open, something inside it.

  Ed gasped as he realized what it was — the infected, trying to slither out from its host.

  He grabbed one of his belt’s incendiary grenades, pulled the pin, dropped it on the ground, then rolled her over on top of it.

  Ed turned back toward the stairs and raced down them, three at a time until he was at the bottom with Boricio and Luca.

  “Get down!” he said ducking down, covering the back of his head with his palms.

  The grenade exploded with a loud shriek upstairs. Ed turned to see Rose’s charred body in pieces, splattered on the walls. The alien should have been incinerated in the explosion. He saw no sign of It attempting to leave what was left of Rose’s body.

  Ears ringing, Keenan heard something behind him. He turned to see Boricio screaming. Seconds later, he swung at Ed and hit him hard in the jaw.

  Ed fell back, using his momentum to roll out of Boricio’s way as the man swung again, this time missing.

  Ed raised the AR-15 at Boricio and barked, “Back down!”

  “You killed her!” Boricio screamed, his words sounding underwater despite his scream thanks to Ed’s still-ringing ears.

  “She was already dead. I killed the alien!”

  “She was in there!” Boricio cried out, face twisted in anguish.

  Ed kept the rifle on him until the man seemed like he wouldn’t chance another swing. Boricio’s face fell from rage to utter devastation. He fell against the wall and slid down beside Luca’s corpse.

  Ed stared straight ahead at the living room.

  Upstairs, fire began to spread along the walls.

  “Where are the vials?” Ed asked.

  Boricio shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  Ed thought about trying to convince Boricio to help him, but the man was too far gone, staring at the wall.

  Suddenly, a gasping below drew their attention.

  Luca!

  Boricio was alert again, bounding downstairs. He dropped to the boy’s side and turned him over.

  Luca coughed up blood, though his eyes were still closed. Ed noticed the shotgun wound had hit Luca’s shoulder, potentially high enough to miss his vital organs, though the boy had lost a bucket of blood.

  Ed got on his phone and called Agent Harrison. “I need those paramedics STAT!”

  Ed grabbed a towel from the upstairs bathroom and showed Boricio how to keep it pressed on Luca’s wound.

  “You got it?” he asked Boricio. “I need to get upstairs and find the vials.”

  “Yeah,” Boricio grunted, putting pressure on Luca’s wound and saying, “You’re gonna be OK, little man. You’re gonna be OK.”

  Seventy-Four

  Mary Olson

  Mary was sprawled on the couch, pretending to numb herself with TV when Desmond came home just after dawn.

  He crossed the room to Mary, leaned in, and planted a kiss on her cheek. She could barely stifle her revulsion.

  Desmond pulled away, looked at Mary as though she had one missing tooth, then looked around the living room. “Where’d everyone go?”

  “I told them to go home and get some rest. I don’t think they slept too well last night.”

  “Damn,” Desmond said. “I specifically asked Brent to stay with you.”

  “It’s OK, honey, I’m fine.”

  “Fine? No, you shouldn’t be alone at a time like this.”

  “Well, maybe you should’ve stayed instead of working last night,” Mary said, putting him on the defensive to get his mind off of Brent, and into the argument he might expect her to have.

  “I’m sorry.” Desmond sat on the couch beside her, put his hands on her shoulders, and began to massage them. “Wow, you’re tense.”

  Mary wondered how much Desmond could pick up by proximity. Could he read her thoughts? If not, he could probably read her anxiety. Mary couldn’t pretend she wasn’t terrified. She simply — or not so simply — had to redirect her fear toward something that Desmond would logically buy. Or play the grief angle hard … but not too hard.

  She shook her head, eyes still on the TV. “I can’t believe she’s gone. No matter how hard I try not to blame myself, I keep thinking we should’ve left the island when Paola said The Darkness was coming. But noooo, I didn’t listen. Paola knew we were in danger, and I ignored her.”

  “No,” Desmond soothed, “you can’t blame yourself. Paola chose to stay here, to help us find the vials. You actually told her we should leave, and she insisted that we stay.”

  Mary pulled away from Desmond, not hiding her anger. “Are you saying it’s her fault because she chose to stay here? She’s a child, Dez! She looks to me to make the ultimate decision, and I failed. I should’ve put my foot down and insist that we go.”

  Mary buried her face in her palms, mining genuine tears for Paola’s predicament.

  Desmond ran a hand
through her hair. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “No,” Mary said, glaring at Desmond. “Stop it. Stop trying to tell me I’m not to blame. I’m responsible for my child. No one else.”

  She put her face back in her hands, fingers squeezing her scalp tight, milking her frustration for Desmond.

  She wanted to make him uncomfortable enough to leave the room. Mary wasn’t sure she could stay in the living room with him for hours if he chose to sit by her side trying to console her. She could put on a front and lie through her teeth, pretending that she wasn’t disgusted by the alien posing as her lover, but it would only be so long before cracks would start showing. Before Mary would surrender to her rising tide of rage.

  She continued to sit with her head in her hands, feeling Desmond beside her on the couch, staring.

  Mary wondered if he was probing her mind.

  She tried to focus all of her thoughts and rage at herself. Anger was a strong emotion, and she hoped it masked the fear beneath it, the fear of the alien posing as Desmond.

  He leaned back on the couch, releasing a sigh.

  Shit, he’s never going to leave.

  “So,” she asked, head still in her hands, “what’s next? Did you find all of the infected?”

  “I think so, but we’re working on some leads going back to the mainland. There’s some missing staff at the facility. I have Homeland Security going to their houses, looking to bring them in for questioning.”

  “What about the vials? How’s that going? Now that you don’t have Paola.”

  Mary said it with a hint of accusation, a dash of intended guilt to make Desmond more uncomfortable. Her attempts were based on a human’s expected response, not an alien’s. She had no idea if any of this was working to make it want to leave. A man would be exhausted, but the aliens might not need sleep. Though, Mary had seen Desmond sleep plenty.

  Unless he’s faking it.

  She hoped not. In order for her plan to work, as convoluted as it was, she needed Desmond to sleep and give her a chance at grabbing the upper hand.

  She’d gone through her scheme a hundred times in her head but actively tried not to consider things now, lest he pick up on her thoughts.

  Part of Mary wished she had simply executed the monster when It entered the house. She still would’ve had the element of surprise. But there was also a strong chance that his guard would be up, too. He had no idea what she knew, and coming home, he might be suspicious of her and prepared for her actions.

  Best to lure him into a false sense of security.

  Mary waited for him to respond to her comment about his using Paola. Either intentionally, or because he wasn’t that adept at reading between the lines, he didn’t.

  She decided to drive the point home directly. “You know who else I blame for all this?”

  “Who?”

  “You.” Mary looked up and met Desmond’s eyes. “You made Paola want to help you. You fed into her desire to be helpful, and her need to feel special. You knew she looked up to you like a father ever since Ryan died. You made her want to stay here, not me.”

  Mary glared at Desmond, using her hate as a hammer. It was all she could do to keep from pounding the nail into her plan, knowing that would only build a disaster. He was full of adrenaline, ready to fight because she’d pushed him hard.

  Perhaps too hard, Mary thought as he silently stared.

  Her heart began to race as fear fueled it.

  Don’t let him sense the fear. Just the anger. Just the anger.

  She glared harder.

  Desmond continued to stare at Mary, void of expression. Now that she thought about it, he’d given her that same blank look several times in the past few weeks. She felt stupid for not seeing his deception sooner.

  As Desmond kept staring, Mary tried to push back the fears racing through her mind: The Darkness creeping from his mouth and enveloping her; him drawing his gun and blowing her head from her shoulders; or perhaps he’d tear off his face to reveal some sort of hideous black, gelatinous creature beneath.

  Stop thinking about it! He’s going to see my fear!

  Mary was certain she was busted. Desmond’s eyes seemed to read her every thought.

  She had to do something, and fast.

  Mary closed her eyes, then launched herself at Desmond, swinging her fists, hitting him, but not too hard, in the chest and face, crying dramatically like someone’s baby mama on reality TV.

  “I hate you!” she cried, “it’s all your fault!”

  Mary kept her eyes closed because she was terrified that if she met his again, he’d see right through her, or she’d lose enough nerve to falter her facade. She cried louder, maybe loud enough for their closest neighbors to hear.

  His hands grabbed hers, firm, but not too hard. He pushed them back toward her chest, “Mary!” he yelled, trying to end her emotional outburst before it threatened to draw unwanted attention.

  “Mary!” he yelled again, shaking her.

  She finally stopped crying out, though tears streamed down her face. Mary met his eyes, waiting to see what he’d say.

  Either he was buying her act, or this was the end.

  She looked down, as if embarrassed by her reaction, still letting tears flow, her fists in tight balls.

  “You’re right,” he said. “I’m sorry. I just wanted to protect you both, protect the island, and hell, the world, from these damned things. I just don’t want to see what happened over there happen here. And maybe I let that cloud my judgment.”

  “Maybe?” Mary repeated, her tone dripping with accusation, keeping him backpedaling.

  “OK, not maybe. Definitely. I definitely let it cloud my judgment. But I thought I could protect you, both of you.”

  Desmond moved closer, his eyes wearing the sweetness she remembered so well. Hell, his expression was so genuine, she almost bought it. For the first time, Mary wondered if maybe Brent’s dream was wrong.

  No. He told me about the Hammy the Hamster. I have to stay strong.

  Desmond continued, his voice low and saccharine as he wrapped an arm around Mary, then found her chin with his hand.

  “You and Paola are my family, Mary. I would never intentionally do anything to harm either of you. I thought I could protect you both, and I was wrong. I am so sorry, Mary. I wish I could bring Paola back. I wish I could take her place, please know that.”

  Mary closed her eyes, his words seeming so genuine they cut through to her heart. She wished she could believe him, and that somehow that would bring him — the real Desmond — back. But at the same time believing him meant that Paola was dead, and that was a trade that Mary wasn’t willing to make.

  Desmond pulled her close and kissed her softly on the lips.

  Fear, sadness, and rage coursed through her system, threatening to sever Mary’s tether to sanity. She wanted to scream. Wanted to tear into his flesh. Wanted to collapse.

  I have to hold on. Have to be strong.

  Mary closed her eyes, pretending that the man at her mouth was the same man who died. Pretending that the bastard wasn’t holding her daughter prisoner underground. Pretending that she didn’t plan to murder him the moment she could.

  Mary wrapped her arms around him, pulling him closer and deeper into the kiss.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I know you love us. And that you’re trying to do your best. I know that, baby.”

  She looked in his eyes, surprised to find that he was crying, too.

  If this was an act, Mary hated him all the more for his lack of heart and sickening guile.

  How dare he use my daughter’s memory so manipulatively?

  She reached up, wiping tears from his eyes. “I think we’re both just exhausted.”

  “Maybe,” he said.

  “Can you nap with me?” she asked, “or do you need to get back to work?”

  “Yeah, I can take a nap.”

  Good.

  Desmond was snoring.

  They’d been l
ying down for half an hour when he seemed to finally sleep.

  If they can.

  It was now or never.

  Mary got out of bed as she normally did on her way to the bathroom. Her feet hit the cold tile, then she softly closed the door behind her.

  She waited a second at the door, her ear to the wood, heart pounding loud enough to hear it.

  When Mary heard no sign of Desmond, she crouched low and opened the cabinet beneath the sink.

  It was full of toilet paper, feminine products, and stuff that Desmond didn’t normally bother with so long as the dispenser held a roll.

  She pulled away a box of feminine pads, then pulled out the second box beneath it where Mary kept the gun.

  She grabbed the pistol, the very Glock she’d trained with for months. Mary had been a decent shot from the start, but training wasn’t about making your shots. It was about teaching your body to act reflexively and instinctively in tense situations. It was about removing all thoughts from the equation when you were most likely to tense into a mistake.

  Mary still hated how she’d gotten scared when she and Boricio were attacked in the parking lot, how she’d stayed back while he battled the infected. She’d told herself countless times that she stayed back because Boricio had ordered her to, and that when push came to shove, you tended to listen to Boricio, especially when he was doing what he did best.

  But ever since that moment, Mary had felt like she’d let him, and herself, down by not rising to the challenge.

  She vowed to never let that happen again. While she hadn’t had time to train much since arriving at Black Island, Mary had rehearsed all that she’d been taught mentally on repeat, visualizing like an athlete before a big game.

  Mary couldn’t doubt her instincts again.

  She had to rely on her gut.

  She’d ignored it when it told her they should leave the island, deferring to Desmond and her daughter.

  No more. Never again.

  She had to listen to her gut. Trust her training. Now it was time to act.

  Mary looked down at the Glock. When she’d first started shooting, it had felt heavy in her hand.