Yesterday's Gone: Season Six

by Sean Platt

  They held their aim.

  Mary watched the girl approach and couldn’t help but admire her bravery.

  Is it bravery, or is she a clever bleaker with no reason to fear?

  Mary started toward the girl, hand on her belt, the blade in a sheath on her right side. Mary walked fast, closing the distance between them. As Mary drew closer, about twenty feet away, she saw the girl’s eyes and the fear inside them.

  Good. You should fear us.

  Mary kept moving, waiting for something — maybe a shuttle to descend from the clouds or a sniper to fire from a nearby building to the north.

  But as she drew closer, nothing happened.

  Could the situation be what it appeared — defenseless kids in need of help? If so, Mary and the group could both help them, and maybe figure out a way to finally get onto The Island.

  Fifteen feet away.

  Can’t let down our defenses. Something has to be off.

  Ten feet away.

  The girl looked up at her, eyes wide and full of hope.

  “Thank you for helping us!”

  The girl’s youth and wide eyes reminded her too much of Paola.

  Mary grabbed the girl, spun her around, and put the blade to her throat.

  “Show yourselves, or she’s dead!” Mary shouted.

  * * * *

  CHAPTER 13 — Boricio Wolfe

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Boricio yelled at Mary

  She took the girl at knifepoint, screaming at the sky, demanding their unseen enemy come out of hiding.

  Lisa, Keenan, and Jevonne were turning their rifles, scanning the woods and the buildings in the distance for any sign of a threat.

  “I mean it!” Mary screamed. “I’ll slit her throat!”

  The girl cried out. Mary pressed the blade hard against her skin. Boricio flinched when he saw she wasn’t bluffing.

  Blood trickled from the knife’s tip down her neck.

  A part of Boricio felt a nostalgic rush, remembering the feeling of a knife against a soft throat — that sensation when it plunged into his victims, just before the gurgle.

  But this wasn’t some fucker who had it coming. This was a young girl, someone’s daughter. And while Boricio had killed all sorts who didn’t deserve it, including daughters, he’d never murdered a child.

  Someone should throw me a hero parade!

  The look in her eyes scared Boricio. He’d not seen Mary this filled with rage in a couple of years. There had been a while, after their return to this world, when Mary had run on nothing but hate and vengeance. She’d killed hundreds — of aliens, bandits, and any motherfuckers that crossed them. She’d become a regular Britany Badass. And he liked it, even if not the horrors that broke her. But this … this was something else entirely.

  “Show yourself!” Mary shouted.

  No one was coming.

  If there was anyone waiting to take them out, they would’ve showed their faces already. Boricio had to end this bullshit before Mary killed the girl.

  “It’s not a trap,” Boricio said, approaching Mary. “See? Nobody’s shooting. No ships in the sky. I know you don’t wanna hurt her, Mary.”

  Her face looked blank, as if Boricio’s words were hitting a wall. Her eyes were wild, searching for enemies, something to kill and absorb her deep well of rage.

  The girl whimpered, the sound of her pain making Boricio wince.

  He waved his hands in front of Mary like a magician showing the nothing up his sleeve, trying to snap her out of whatever the hell kind of PTSD she seemed to be suffering.

  When her eyes finally stopped on Boricio, seeming to register him as a friend, he said, “Please, Mary, let her go. She’s just a kid.”

  Mary met his eyes. “So was Paola. And they took her.”

  Boricio turned to the girl. “Hey, honey, what’s your name?”

  “Emily,” she said, voice shaking.

  “You hear that, Mary? Her name’s Emily. Emily didn’t do nothing to Paola. Emily is not your enemy.”

  Mary looked around again, searching for enemies that weren’t coming. “You have five seconds to show yourselves! One!”

  “Come on, Mary,” Boricio said. “You don’t have to do this.”

  “Two!”

  “Listen to me, Mary. You’ve gotta let Emily go.”

  “Three!”

  “Mary!” Boricio yelled.

  “Four!”

  The girl cried, “Please, I’m not an alien!”

  Could Mary really do this?

  Was this a bluff to get the enemies to show themselves? Maybe get Emily, or one of the other kids, to reveal their true selves?

  “Mary!” Boricio waved his hands, begging her to look at him.

  “Five!”

  The girl cried out.

  Mary’s eyes darted back and forth then up to the skies.

  She met Boricio’s eyes. In that look, he could tell that Mary finally realized she was wrong. This wasn’t a trap. Nobody was coming to get them.

  At least he thought that’s what he saw.

  Mary slit the girl’s throat.

  TO BE CONTINUED …

  YESTERDAY’S GONE

  ::EPISODE 32::

  (SECOND EPISODE OF SEASON SIX)

  “Hell”

  * * * *

  PROLOGUE — It

  Four years ago

  When the mothership arrived, It had been no less surprised than the Earthlings.

  It had watched the mothership obliterate cities. Had watched the virus, presumably unleashed by the ship’s occupants, wipe out most of humanity. It had watched and wondered what Its purpose was in this invasion.

  Why hadn’t It felt the aliens’ thoughts as they floated overhead laying waste to the world? Was it not part of the collective that It had unleashed when It got the final vials? It had to be. Nothing else made sense.

  If that were the case, why was the virus also killing many of the new creatures It had unleashed, along with hybrids It had created?

  Something wasn’t adding up. As weeks went by, It wondered if this was a separate alien invasion. Its human part — Desmond, as he called himself — laughed at the irony.

  You’ve taken over the world, and for what? Another race to claim your prize?

  It sent pain through Its body to silence the human.

  It tried probing the minds aboard the alien ship. But like its brethren calling itself The Light, It couldn’t connect. Couldn’t even sense anything aboard. The ship’s inhabitants were different than It.

  Six weeks after the mothership appeared in the skies, It was beckoned to The Island where the ship had docked high above.

  An unmanned shuttle came down to retrieve It.

  It went aboard and was ushered to the mothership. Doors opened into a dark bay where It was met by something unfamiliar, yet oddly felt like home.

  A large red creature, roughly eight feet high — like a centipede mated with a moth — standing upright, like a human, somehow supported by two dozen or so spindly, sharp, shiny black legs along the lower third of its body. More legs ran along its length, though what use they served was beyond It. They were short and had only tiny pincers, rather than digits designed to hold and manipulate objects. Its face was a stub with a gaping maw and giant black eyes that offered no reflection. This was what reminded It of a moth most, besides the large papery wings that were sheer enough to see through.

  The creature was beautiful and hideous.

  “What are you?” It asked.

  The creature spoke without its mouth, inside Its head, and in Desmond’s voice, as if accessing the language and voice Its host preferred.

  Little did the creature know that the last thing It wanted to hear was more from the human who had gone from being a barely there passenger to an increasingly annoying backseat driver in the past few weeks. It feared that like others, It was about to lose control of Its host body, or perhaps go mad. But It could say this to no one. It had to hide this deficiency — or r
isk ejection from Its role as de facto leader of the alien army It had unleashed.

  The creature said, “Do you not recognize us?”

  Three more beasts, all similar, though with minor differences in coloring, skittered forth. They seemed heavy yet moved with grace that belied their bulk. It figured their legs must be quite strong to move them so effortlessly. One, more gray than red, walked on all of its legs like an Earth centipede.

  “No,” It said. “Though you feel familiar.”

  A couple of the creatures — It couldn’t be sure which ones, as they all had Desmond’s voice in Its head — laughed.

  “We are the Pruhm. Do you not recognize your creators?”

  “Creators?”

  “He doesn’t think he’s human, does he?”

  It shook Its head, offended by the suggestion. “No, I am better than humans, here to replace them! To evolve them — us — into something better.”

  More laughter.

  “What?” It said, angered by the tone of these giant fucking insects, as if It were a stupid child with insignificant plans.

  One of the things said, presumably to the others, “You can’t blame him. It has been a long time since we sent them out.”

  “Please,” It said, holding Its temper in check, “will you tell me what you’re talking about?”

  One of the creatures obliged. “We made you then sent through the universe, to help us find a new home. To find a species we could implant, as you say, ourselves into. Your job was to thin the herd to a manageable amount. We arrived and unleashed a virus to eliminate all who wouldn’t be compatible.”

  “I was created? What do you mean?”

  “You are a tool. A fungus imbued with artificial intelligence. A rudimentary and somewhat uncontrollable tool, but an implement of our design nonetheless.”

  “No, I am not a tool!” It shook Its head. “I am an evolved species, blending the best of my kind and humanity.”

  “You may have evolved, but do not mistake your role.”

  Its body felt hot. Its heart raced faster. Human emotions surging through It — fear running rampant, short-circuiting Its ability to process what was happening. It finally managed to string a few words together.

  “What is my role?”

  “To find hosts for our species.”

  “How? I know nothing of your biology. I’ve been preparing for my species, not yours.”

  “Do not mistake our corporeal appearance for our true nature. This is but one of many bodies we’ve been forced to use since fleeing our world. We engineered you in our image. We can use the same bodies as you.”

  It didn’t like this a bit. These things, the Pruhm, were taking the wheel of his ship. It didn’t care if they created It or not.

  But It had to be wise.

  It had to play the game, and make sure they still needed It.

  “Whatever you need,” It said.

  “How stable are these bodies?”

  “We’ve had mixed results. There have been issues with the hosts rejecting us.”

  “What happens?”

  “In the worst cases, a complete psychological breakdown followed by suicide, usually leading to the death of our species.”

  “What?” said one of the creatures, seemingly surprised. “It was our understanding from the transmissions that the humans were a match.”

  While It didn’t know what transmission they were speaking about, now was Its chance to prove Its value.

  “Well, finding a host is more than just finding a suitable physical specimen. We also need to find the right psychological makeup, to find a stable match. How many of you are there?”

  There was a moment of silence. It wondered if they didn’t know their number or were trying to determine if it was wise to let It know. Did they view It as a threat with whom they shouldn’t share information or expose potential vulnerabilities?

  “Nine hundred and fifty-eight. Though, once implanted, we can propagate our species. Like you, we reproduce by regenerative cell division. Can you find us stable humans to start our program?”

  “Yes.”

  It would play ball … so long as their goals were aligned. But It would also seek a way to destroy all 958 lives aboard the mothership the moment the Pruhm’s goals branched from Its. It had come too far to abandon Its attempt to fulfill Its potential, regardless of Its design.

  You may have created us, but you do not own us.

  It had Its own collective destiny to fulfill. And damn anyone, or anything, trying to stop It.

  “Good,” the Pruhm said in unison.

  The shuttle door opened behind him.

  It took that as Its cue to leave and turned.

  A horrible pain seized Its body, as if someone had found every one of Desmond’s pain points and pressed them at once.

  Desmond’s body moved on its own, without Its control.

  For a horrifying moment It was certain the human inside had somehow seized control of Its shell at the most inopportune of times. Its usefulness would be questioned by the Pruhm, and then they would terminate It.

  But then, as It was turned face-to-face with one of the grotesque insectoids, It realized that the aliens were somehow asserting control of their creation.

  The gray one made itself taller, more intimidating.

  The creature moved closer to Its face, so close It could hear the gnashing of the insect’s rows of needle teeth, could hear the sharp legs thrashing along its body like a rattler’s tail.

  The creature spoke in Its mind, this time in a horrible screeching that was neither human in sound nor English in words.

  But its message was clear:

  We are superior to you. We own you.

  Deviate from our plans, and we will end you.

  Somewhere in Its shell, Desmond laughed.

  * * * *

  CHAPTER 1 — Boricio Wolfe

  The girl fell to the ground.

  Boricio yelled, “What the fuck did you do?” and dropped to her side, staring into the girl’s helpless eyes. Blood gushed from her throat. Boricio could do nothing to stop it.

  She murmured something he couldn’t make out.

  Boricio leaned closer.

  “Why?” she asked.

  He stared into her eyes and felt the world tip on its end. If he didn’t hang on, he, along with the rest of them, would plummet into a chaotic abyss.

  Boricio hadn’t a single word of comfort. Only, “Sorry,” as the girl faded, eyes rolling into the back of her head.

  He glared up at Mary, staring down at the girl without expression.

  His voice cracked. “How could you?”

  A loud whine over an even louder rumbling roar tore the air above them. Startled, Boricio looked up to see an alien shuttle racing toward them from the clouds, then rippling as it stopped on a dime.

  While the kids’ shuttle looked like a boxy subway car with a trio of wings, this thing was sleek, circular, and with no visible cabin to house a pilot. Boricio registered two mounted cannons on the ship’s bottom a heartbeat before it opened fire.

  There was nowhere to run.

  No way to fight back.

  They were about to be shredded by alien gunfire.

  Mary might have been right. Maybe it was a trap.

  Gunfire grazed Boricio’s left shoulder. Another several rounds spit asphalt behind him.

  He grabbed his gun and turned, ready to unleash hell on the motherfuckers trying to kill him, determined to do whatever damage he could before it tore him asunder.

  But a flash changed the world in a second.

  Boricio blinked to find himself inside what looked like a dark warehouse. Luca was kneeling on the ground, hands over the girl’s bleeding neck.

  Lisa, Keenan, and Jevonne stood in a semicircle, staring at Luca and the bleeding girl as if they weren’t sure what to say, or do. Lisa and Keenan traded a nod, indicating that they would sweep the warehouse and ensure their safety.

  “What the hell are you d
oing?” Mary yelled at Luca, despite the potential danger of raising her voice in an unknown area where enemies could be lurking.

  Eyes closed, Luca said nothing.

  “Indoor voices,” Boricio said. “And can’t you see he’s trying to save her? What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “It was a trap!” Mary said, still too loud.

  “We don’t kill Happy Meals,” Boricio whisper-shouted back.

  “Why the fuck not? They do.”

  And there it was.

  No one spoke.

  Mary stared at Luca and the girl. Boricio wondered two things at once. One: How could Mary look at the girl after what she’d done? She should feel a Vatican’s worth of guilt for that shit. Two: Would she try something again? And if so, how far would he go to intervene?

  Boricio liked Mary. A lot. Loved her, even. Not just as someone he’d grown close to over the years, and shared a bed with for a while, but before then — as a sister-in-arms. A bond forged in the hellish fires of loss. She’d lost her daughter, and he’d lost Rose, the only other woman he ever loved.

  But no amount of affection could let Boricio sit by while she killed an innocent child.

  Yeah, but how far will ya go, pal?

  Boricio hoped he wouldn’t have to answer.

  He reached up to where his elbow had been shot to find his shirt still ripped but his wound healed. As was his finger from the earlier apple slice. Luca hadn’t just teleported them away from certain death — he’d managed to heal Boricio’s wounds. He looked at the others, not sure if any of them had sustained gunfire from the ship. Tough to tell if they were bleeding since they were all wearing dark clothes. If so, they seemed fine now.

  He looked back at Mary.

  Her eyes were still wild, angry. He had to get her away from the group, sort things out, calm her down. If not for Mary’s sake, then for the group’s. If Boricio was starting to think she might’ve become a liability, the others were certainly wondering the same thing.

  “Come here.” He grabbed her gently by the elbow.