by Sean Platt
Contents
DEDICATION
Copyright
::EPISODE 31::
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1 — Boricio Wolfe
CHAPTER 2 — Brent Foster
CHAPTER 3 — Mary Olson
CHAPTER 4 — Boricio Wolfe
CHAPTER 5 — Paul Roberts
CHAPTER 6 — Brent Foster
CHAPTER 7 — Teagan McLachlan
CHAPTER 8 — Brent Foster
CHAPTER 9 — Paul Roberts
CHAPTER 10 — Emily Roberts
CHAPTER 11 — Paul Roberts
CHAPTER 12 — Mary Olson
CHAPTER 13 — Boricio Wolfe
::EPISODE 32::
PROLOGUE — It
CHAPTER 1 — Boricio Wolfe
CHAPTER 2 — Luca Harding
CHAPTER 3 — Tegan McLachlan
CHAPTER 4 — Ed Keenan
CHAPTER 5 — Paul Roberts
CHAPTER 6 — Teagan McLachlan
CHAPTER 7 — It
CHAPTER 8 — Mary Olson
CHAPTER 9 — Brent Foster
CHAPTER 10 — Emily Roberts
CHAPTER 11 — Mary Olson
::EPISODE 33::
CHAPTER 1 — Emily Roberts
CHAPTER 2 — Brent Foster
CHAPTER 3 — Ed Keenan
CHAPTER 4 — Brent Foster
CHAPTER 5 — Paul Roberts
CHAPTER 6 — Mary Olson
CHAPTER 7 — Brent Foster
CHAPTER 8 — Paul Roberts
CHAPTER 9 — Mary Olson
::EPISODE 34::
CHAPTER 1 — Boricio Wolfe
CHAPTER 2 — Emily Roberts
CHAPTER 3 — Mary Olson
CHAPTER 4 — Boricio Wolfe
CHAPTER 5 — Brent Foster
CHAPTER 6 — Emily Roberts
CHAPTER 7 — Brent Foster
CHAPTER 8 — Teagan McLachlan
CHAPTER 9 — Brent Foster
CHAPTER 10 — Boricio Wolfe
CHAPTER 11 — Mary Olson
CHAPTER 12 — Boricio Wolfe
::EPISODE 35::
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1 — Edward Keenan
CHAPTER 2 — Boricio Wolfe
CHAPTER 3 — Mary Olson
CHAPTER 4 — Boricio Wolfe
CHAPTER 5 — Emily Roberts
CHAPTER 6 — Jake Barrow
CHAPTER 7 — Marina Harmon
CHAPTER 8 — Brent Foster
CHAPTER 9 — Brent Foster
CHAPTER 10 — Boricio Wolfe
EPILOGUE
::EPISODE 36::
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1 — Paul Roberts
CHAPTER 2 — Mary Olson
CHAPTER 3 — Paul Roberts
CHAPTER 4 — Boricio Wolfe
CHAPTER 5 — Brent Foster
CHAPTER 6 — Boricio Wolfe
CHAPTER 7 — Will Bishop
CHAPTER 8 — Boricio Wolfe
CHAPTER 9 — Paul Roberts
CHAPTER 10 — It
CHAPTER 11 — Boricio Wolfe
CHAPTER 12 — Emily Roberts
CHAPTER 13 — Luca Harding
CHAPTER 14 — Will Bishop
CHAPTER 15 — Luca Harding
CHAPTER 16 — Paul Roberts
CHAPTER 17 — Will Bishop
CHAPTER 18 — Boricio Wolfe
CHAPTER 19 — Emily Roberts
CHAPTER 20 — Boricio Wolfe
CHAPTER 21 — Emily Roberts
CHAPTER 22 — Mary Olson
CHAPTER 23 — Boricio Wolfe
CHAPTER 24 — Mary Olson
CHAPTER 25 — Emily Roberts
CHAPTER 26 — Boricio Wolfe
CHAPTER 27 — Mary Olson
CHAPTER 28 — Boricio Wolfe
CHAPTER 29 — Mary Olson
EPILOGUE
EPILOGUE TWO
AUTHORS’ NOTE
About the Authors
::OUR OTHER BOOKS::
To YOU, the reader.
Thank you for taking a chance on us.
Thank you for your support.
Thank you for the emails.
Thank you for the reviews.
Thank you for reading and joining us on this road.
* * * *
YESTERDAY’S GONE: SEASON SIX
THE WAIT IS OVER.
The stunning series finale to the bestselling Yesterday’s Gone series is here.
On October 15, 2011 a handful of people wake in a post-apocalyptic landscape to find that most of the world’s population has vanished in a mysterious event.
NOW THEY ARE HOME
And they are not alone.
The Darkness has killed nearly everyone on our planet. But it is no longer the biggest threat to humanity.
THERE IS SOMETHING ELSE
Can the survivors of October 15 overcome the new threat before all is lost?
ONE LAST BATTLE
ONE LAST SHOT TO SAVE THE WORLD
ONE LAST WTF ENDING
Yesterday’s Gone: Season Six
YESTERDAY’S GONE: SEASON SIX
(Episodes 31-36)
Copyright © 2015 by Sean Platt & David Wright. All rights reserved
Edited by: Jason Whited jason-whited.com
Email at: [email protected]
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, events, or locales is purely coincidental. The authors have taken great liberties with locales including the creation of fictional towns.
Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited.
The authors greatly appreciate you taking the time to read our work. Please consider leaving a review wherever you bought the book, or telling your friends or blog readers about Yesterday’s Gone, to help us spread the word.
Thank you for supporting our work. You rock!
Published by Collective Inkwell
Visit: CollectiveInkwell.Com
eBook Edition - June 27, 2015
Layout and design by Collective Inkwell
CollectiveInkwell.Com
* * * *
WARNING: This book is intended for mature audiences. It is a dark book with many disturbing scenes and mature language.
* * * *
YESTERDAY’S GONE
::EPISODE 31::
(FIRST EPISODE OF SEASON SIX)
“Wounds”
* * * *
PROLOGUE
PAUL ROBERTS
Three and a half years ago
Paul knew he wasn’t alone in the dark alley.
He could feel the presence of something lurking in the shadows. The only question was whether it was human or alien. He picked up his pace, stolen antibiotics tucked into the pockets of his jacket, pistol in his right hand. If he didn’t make it home, his daughter, Emily, was as good as dead.
The cold sweats, puking, and 104 fever weren’t a normal illness. No, it was the plague that had killed so many — including his wife — since the aliens landed six months ago. Paul had hoped they were immune, seeing as they’d survived the first outbreak. But maybe the illness had mutated. If they’d had a natural resistance, that no longer mattered. It was back to finish the job.
If Paul lost Emily, he’d have no reason to go on. No reason to hide from the roaming aliens, or worse, the savage humans left behind. A bullet in his head would be better than another day alone. He was only alive and fighting to keep Emily safe.
She can’t die now.
Paul chided his own lack of preparation.
He’d built a secret shelter in his apartment building’s basement then stockpiled food
, weapons, and emergency medical equipment. But he’d failed to replenish the stash of antibiotics after Jane died, and now his daughter might follow her to the grave. And just like that — the power and money he’d acquired as a TV producer of hit reality shows like The Box, Sing for It, and American Adventure was all for naught.
Paul was two blocks from home when the men appeared, spilling from a building’s rear door, holding guns and bags of loot. All four saw him immediately.
Their guns were aimed before he could raise his.
He was outmanned and outgunned. At their mercy.
He put his pistol down on the asphalt and raised his hands, trying to appear as nonthreatening as possible. He had a second gun in a back holster beneath his jacket, and a knife strapped to his wrist — both last resorts.
Three of the men might’ve been brothers. They were all within a few years of each other. Lean but muscular, broad shoulders, dark hair, brown eyes, scruffy beards. Paul pegged them for partly Italian. The fourth man was older, heavyset, graying hair and a ruddy face. Maybe German. Paul wondered if the eldest man was their father. It seemed odd that an entire family could survive the sickness, but a shared genetic trait, or whatever the hell it was, could’ve spared them like it had for Paul and his daughter.
Ruddy Face spoke first. Stern and calm, aiming a shotgun at Paul. “On your knees.” This was all business, at least to the older man, but he could feel the others’ anxiety, visible in their bright-red auras. If he weren’t careful, this robbery would turn to a murder.
Judging from their duffels, they’d already loaded up from whatever shop they’d just left — a bakery, an electronics boutique, or a clothing store, Paul figured, assuming he remembered the shops’ locations correctly.
Paul went down on his knees, keeping his arms high, eyes on Ruddy Face.
“I don’t have anything worth taking.”
One of the young men came over, bent down, and grabbed Paul’s pistol. “I wouldn’t say nothin’.”
“Empty your pockets,” Ruddy Face said.
Paul had nothing in his pockets, save for a small lock picking set and, of course, the medicine.
He placed the lock picking set on the dark wet asphalt, followed by the medicine. Four large bottles of antibiotics, one hundred pills in each one.
“Whoa, those pain pills?” the guy said, holding Paul’s gun with his eyes on the bottle.
“No, they’re antibiotics.” Paul thought about explaining that they were for his sick daughter. But he didn’t yet know these men, and letting them know he had a young girl at home, unprotected, might lead to an uglier death for Emily. In the invasion’s aftermath, people hadn’t come together as they had after September 11. They’d turned on each other instead, committing the worst of atrocities.
Paul had tried plugging his ears but heard it all the same: a paralyzing aria of murder, rape, and God knew what else might have been happening beyond his protective shelter, where predators surely ripped prey to pieces. Mankind’s history repeated. If anything, the recent era of relative peace was an anomaly. Before then, before civilization, mankind had been cruel, barbaric, worse than animals. Now society’s shackles were gone; mankind at his worst was free to do what he did best — kill. Survival of the fittest. Or cruelest.
While Paul didn’t consider himself a cruel man, he would do whatever it took to protect his daughter.
The young man bent, retrieved the pills, then studied the labels.
Paul waited, hoping the man would see they weren’t Oxy or some other recreational drug, and would toss them back.
Ruddy Face intervened. “Give those here. We can use ‘em.”
“Please,” Paul said, meeting the man’s eyes, “please leave me at least one bottle. I’ve got a sick one at home.”
“A sick what?” one of the young men asked. Unlike the older man, his voice was cruel, as was the scar running down his right cheek. He stared down at Paul, his trigger finger itchy.
He heard the scarred man’s thoughts as clear as day.
Maybe he’s got a bitch we can take.
Judging from their new clothes in a mishmash of styles, these men weren’t used to money. Their shoes had no scuffs: shiny black boots, expensive loafers, and dress shoes, none suited for the apocalypse. Ruddy Face was dressed in older clothing — jeans, dark shirt, a well-worn leather jacket, and comfortable-looking sneakers.
“A daughter. She’s ten and has a terrible fever.”
“You sick?” The man who’d taken Paul’s gun fell two steps back, still aiming at his forehead.
“No, no, she, I mean, we, survived the sickness. She has something else, and she’s burning up. She’ll die without those pills.”
The scarred man said, “We’re all gonna die anyway.”
Paul looked to Ruddy Face. “Please, sir, just one bottle. You can keep my gun. Just let me get back to my daughter. She’s lost her mother already.”
The old man stared at Paul, evaluating.
“I got a better idea,” the scarred man said. “Why don’t you take us to your place and give us your stuff?”
“We don’t have much,” Paul lied, meeting his awful eyes. He got a glimpse of the man’s stream of thoughts. He was already picturing shooting Paul right in the head. Maybe he’d even make the little girl watch, before he turned his attentions on her.
“I don’t believe you. Stand up. We’re going to your place.”
Shit.
Paul had to play this cool. There was no time to try and infiltrate all of their minds. If he chose the wrong target, he could trigger a chain reaction of unintended horrors. He’d nearly caused a riot early after The Fall, and had been lucky to escape with his life.
He met Ruddy’s eyes, trying to figure out the relationship between the men. If he was their father, why was Scarred Man barking orders? Was he their leader?
“Come on, Tony, let’s just let him be,” said the young man holding Paul’s gun.
Tony is the scarred one’s name. And he is their leader.
Who is the older man?
Tony snapped, “I didn’t ask for your opinion, so shut the fuck up, Marco.”
Tony stepped forward and aimed his pistol between Paul’s eyes. “You gonna get up, or you wanna die right here?”
The man glared at Paul, revealing his issues with disrespect. Paul had to be careful not to piss him off and make it personal. At the same time, he had to stand his ground. A man like Tony wouldn’t respect weakness, and would see it as further invitation to take. He had to tread the line carefully. If Paul was too strong, Tony would see him as a threat to his authority and shoot him on principle.
Paul stood, meeting Tony’s eyes.
“Tell you what,” Paul said, “I’m not going to give you everything. I have a child to look out for. She needs medicine. And we need some supplies. But I understand what’s happening and will give you everything I can if you leave us be.”
“That’s not good enough.” Tony’s eyes narrowed on Paul.
“Then you may as well kill me. If I give you the medicine, my daughter’s dead.”
Paul wouldn’t back down. His heart raced, hoping his gambit would work. If not, Emily was waiting for a father who wouldn’t come home. The thought of her alone — scared, waiting, wondering if her father had left her abandoned or orphaned — was breaking his heart.
He couldn’t show his sorrow. Had to be braver than he was.
Paul looked from Tony to Ruddy Face, going into his head.
His name was Frank, and he was sick of Tony’s shit. The younger man was constantly challenging his authority and pushing Frank to do things. But at the same time, Frank knew that Tony had won over the others. If he screwed up, they all might turn on him.
Paul decided to use this division in their ranks to his advantage. He looked past Tony, ignoring him, and spoke directly to Frank.
“Please, sir,” he said to Frank, “just let me keep one bottle, and I’m on my way.”
“Why you tal
kin’ to him?” Tony said. “Look at me, motherfucker. I’m the one with the gun in your face.”
Paul continued staring at Frank. “I just wanna get home to my daughter.”
Tony cocked his arm back and swung, striking Paul hard across his forehead, knocking him back but not down.
Hot blood trickled into Paul’s eyes. The pain was a flea to the threat.
Paul stood silent, staring at Tony, waiting to see what the hothead would do.
He was tempted to reach back for his pistol, but he’d be lucky to land one or two shots before the others cut him down. He had to stay the course, hope he could talk some sense into Frank, or push thoughts into the man’s head to convince him to shut Tony down.
It would be easier, of course, if he could tap into Tony’s head and control him. But the man was riding a wave of anger, fear, and a meth high that made his mind a dangerous place to enter.
So Frank was Paul’s best shot.
Paul hadn’t just been the executive producer for The Box, he was heavily involved in casting. He’d never been terribly original with his show ideas, but Paul was inventively intuitive when it came to reading people and assembling casts for maximum drama. Plus, he was a telepath — able to read most people’s minds, and sometimes even to control them for short spurts. Having such a power made show business a natural path to follow. He could use his abilities under the radar while getting rich and not rocking too many boats or drawing unwanted attention from the powers-that-be.
Sure, critics hated The Box because it appealed to the lowest common denominator, but a lot of people appreciated the fights, the backstabbing, and the show’s many political machinations. Paul was a master of pitting people against one another.
Tony raised his gun, aiming it square between Paul’s eyes.