Yesterday's Gone: Season Six

by Sean Platt

  Behind him, the kids screamed.

  He retched, certain he was about to vomit.

  He had to hold it in. Losing yesterday’s water and half-rotten fruit would only make him a target. Brent forced himself to look, to confront the truth of what he was about to do.

  There were plenty of bodies, none with much meat. Not a single corpse could have weighed much more than Ben, though they’d all been stretched like taffy. They were scattered rather than stacked. The pair nearest Brent looked like they might have once been a couple, about the same age, a guy and a girl, the man in denim and the girl in a filthy cotton dress, ripped and stained. It might have been green when new. Their bones seemed baby bird brittle, barely there, so thin they might as well have been see-through.

  Behind him, the kids cried.

  “Sshhh … ” Brent fell to one knee, eager to soothe his son before the Reaper turned his single eye upon them.

  Teagan managed to stop Becca’s tears, but Ben cried louder.

  “I suggest you give his tongue to the cat, or I’ll cut it out.” Marcus glanced at the hole. “And you’ll be dropping him in there with the rest of them.”

  Marcus pointed to the bodies closest to Brent and dragged his digit through the air, pointing at each emaciated husk until his finger found the pit.

  “All of them, in there.” Marcus turned to the guards. “Give them an hour.”

  Then the giant turned and walked away.

  Brent’s hand found Ben’s mouth, and he pressed down hard to stifle his tears. He whispered, “It’s going to be okay.”

  “I’m scared.”

  “I know you are. Me, too. But being scared is normal.”

  “Not like this, Dad.”

  “It’s the same,” Brent said. “Just different. Everyone’s afraid. Some people are afraid of the dark. Others are frightened of dogs or spiders or snakes. What scares one person might not be a big deal for someone else. Are you afraid of bees?”

  “No,” Ben said.

  “Me neither. But a lot of people are. I knew a kid named Tim when I was your age; he cried whenever he saw one. What about spiders, are you afraid of spiders?”

  “No.”

  “I am. I’ve always been afraid of spiders.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really. And I hate that I am. I really wish I wasn’t. But I can’t help how I feel. So the best thing I can do is to know there are plenty of people who aren’t afraid of spiders, then I pretend I’m one of them.”

  Ben’s voice trembled. “Does that work?”

  “It does,” Brent lied. “And that’s what I’m going to do now, pretend I’m one of the people who wouldn’t be scared about all of this now.”

  “Everyone would be scared of this.”

  “Not Boricio,” Brent said.

  He thought he saw his son crack the slightest of smiles. Before he could respond, one of the guards — the man with the black beard from their first day — came over and ordered them to work.

  Ben moved closer to Brent, and they both bent down and grabbed the arms of a thin man in his thirties. His eyes were wide open, staring at the sky.

  Ben looked away, closing his own eyes.

  “Why are his eyes open?” he asked.

  “Sometimes, that’s how people die,” Brent said. “Now let’s get him in the grave so his soul can find peace.

  As they dragged the man together, Ben asked, “Do you really think that souls find peace when a person’s body is buried?”

  Brent wasn’t sure what he’d believed before today. But in that moment, he found that yes, he did believe that.

  “Yes, I do.”

  They continued pulling bodies into the ditch, with Teagan and Becca working beside them. Sammy and Wilson were picking bodies up and throwing them, reminding Brent of old Holocaust films he’d unfortunately seen.

  So much for never again.

  Soon enough, Ben had drifted closer to Becca and appeared to be trying to cheer her up. First, he repeated what Brent had said about souls finding peace, and that they were helping these people by putting them in the hole.

  Soon, to Brent and Teagan’s surprise, Becca giggled at something Ben had said. Brent wasn’t sure if he was horrified that the kids had become so immediately numb to the death around them, or thankful that they’d been resilient enough to block the worst of it out.

  Brent appreciated Ben’s indelible spirit and was happy that his son could temporarily forget the danger. But Ben tended to get loud once carried away, which often happened around Becca. It wouldn’t take much to nab the guard’s attention, and bring trouble to them all.

  And now, Tommy was on duty.

  As Brent and Teagan returned from dragging a woman into the pit, he saw that the kids had stopped working.

  They were just standing there, talking.

  “What do you call a cow with no legs?” Ben asked Becca.

  “I don’t know,” she said, already laughing.

  “Ground beef!”

  The children burst into laughter, shockingly oblivious to the danger around them.

  Tommy marched over, hand on the pistol hanging from his belt, but not yet drawing it. Brent steeled his body to keep himself in place. He looked over at Teagan and saw her doing the same. They each wanted to intervene, run to their children and make apologies on their behalf. But that would be the wrong thing to do, and likely only get them all in more trouble.

  They were children. Things couldn’t be too bad. The adults would only make things worse by getting in Tommy’s way.

  “You two need to shut the fuck up,” he said.

  He grabbed the arm one of the corpses beside them, a boy not much older than them.

  “Back to work, or you join him in the hole, you got it?”

  Ben nodded, clearly terrified.

  Becca began to cry.

  Tommy reached out, grabbed a handful of hair, and yanked her toward him. “Shut the fuck up!”

  Brent lost it. A second later, he was next to the pervert, shoving the man backward.

  Tommy yelled, “You best step back!” then spit in his face.

  Brent stood on the precipice of doing something very stupid, barely aware of Sammy and Wilson standing behind him. Meghan and Lara watching from behind Tommy. No other guards around.

  Tommy seemed to read Brent’s mind. He smiled, winking at Brent.

  “Wanna piece of me? Eh? Go for it, tough guy.”

  He laughed.

  Brent charged at him, hands outstretched to grab the man by the throat and shove him to the ground.

  Tommy laughed, sidestepping Brent’s awkward attempt at bravery. As Brent stumbled past him, Tommy spun around then punched Brent hard in the ribcage.

  He fell to the ground.

  Tommy jumped on top of Brent, straddling him.

  Before Brent could raise his arms to deflect the man’s blows, Tommy’s fists pummeled his face, so fast and furious that he was blinded by the pain.

  Brent lost a tooth, and maybe swallowed it.

  Tommy kept punching.

  Black Beard came behind Tommy and pulled him off of Brent.

  Brent could barely see, blood clotting around his puffy eyes.

  “Enough!” Black Beard said. “These slaves have work to do, and we don’t want Marcus pissed if shit don’t get done. Stop fucking around.”

  “Sure thing, Wyatt,” Tommy said, wiping Brent’s blood from his chin with the back of his hand.

  He held a hand out to help Brent up. He tentatively raised his own to take it, knowing it was a mistake before he did.

  Tommy laughed, pulled back the offered hand, ran it through his hair, then looked from Brent to Ben and Becca before settling his gaze on Brent. He winked, blew him a kiss, then walked away.

  Brent felt a brick in his stomach. He’d surely put a target on all of their backs. Tommy paused by Meghan and Lara and laughed, petting Lara on her head.

  “We’ll be seeing you later, baby. Maybe tonight we don’t l
eave Mama alone.” He turned to Meghan. “You up for that, honey?”

  Meghan stared at the ground.

  Brent wanted to kill every fucker behind the gates of Hell.

  **

  Pain was the only thing reminding Brent that he was still alive.

  As they waited in the container for nightfall, Brent tried to focus past the ache in his ribs and entire face, and pay attention to the game of Twenty Questions that Sammy was playing with the kids and Becca.

  Brent was thankful to the big man for stepping in with some cheer because Brent felt empty.

  He wasn’t the only one.

  Wilson was staring at the ground, and Meghan and Lara were huddled together, crying. Whether it was over what they’d been through last night, the bodies they dragged into the grave today, or what might happen later tonight when the rapists returned, it was tough to tell.

  The big man in the corner hadn’t moved in more than twenty-four hours. He was clearly dead, and yet the bandits hadn’t removed him. Are they leaving him in here as a reminder not to fuck with them? Or are we going to have to drag him to the pit tomorrow?

  “Is it smaller than a potato?” Ben asked.

  “No,” Sammy said, “not even close, pal.”

  Brent saw something that moved his mind from both his pain and the game. Meghan was staring down into her palm, staring at something.

  Oh, no.

  Brent tapped Teagan, eyes wide, nodding toward the pair.

  “Don’t do it.” Teagan whispered once she realized what the couple was contemplating. “Don’t let them win.”

  “I have to,” Meghan said. “I can’t stand to be so … helpless. It’s rotting my insides, and there’s nothing I can do. Why not take matters into my own hands? At least I’d be doing something. You saw all those bodies. If we’re all going to end up in the pit no matter what, why not decide when it’s time, claim some control before those monsters do anything worse?”

  Meghan turned from Teagan to her daughter. “Are you ready?”

  Lara nodded, softly sobbing.

  “I’ll be back.” Brent stood, rushed over to Lara and Meghan, then dropped down on his knees between them. He put one hand gently on the mom’s arm, the other on her daughter’s shoulder. “Don’t do it. Please. Help is coming.”

  Meghan stared at Brent with hopeless eyes.

  “Who?”

  “A friend. She’s outside now. She escaped when they caught the rest of us. She’s bringing help.”

  “Help?” Lara asked, eyes suddenly hopeful. “How many?”

  “I don’t know how many, or when,” Brent admitted. “But I’m sure they’re coming. You don’t have to do this.”

  Meghan said, “How can you be sure they’ll come?”

  “Because they’ve never let us down before.” He shook his head. “I don’t know how long it will take them to get here. But I swear to you, once they come, they will save us all. You can’t do this. Please.”

  Maybe everything would have been fine if Brent had had another few moments. But he didn’t.

  The door creaked open; lights shone on them and showed them the horror of Tommy sauntering inside.

  “Who’s ready for some fun?” He laughed. “Hey, Mamacita,” he said to Meghan, “how about tonight you join me and your little peach in the passion pit?”

  He licked his lips.

  In a flash, Meghan lifted her hand to her daughter’s throat, whispered, “I’m sorry,” then sliced in a merciful yet vicious stroke.

  Blood rained on Brent.

  His hands flew to his face to wipe it away from his eyes. Through splayed fingers, he watched as Meghan raised the blade to her own throat and — without hesitation — followed her daughter to the grave.

  Her body slumped forward, onto Lara’s, sending them both to the floor; family blood blended in a single pool.

  “What the fuck?” Tommy screamed, pulling out his pistol, aiming it at Brent and then Sammy.

  Two bandits rushed into the container, shotguns drawn.

  “Where’d you get the razor?” Tommy waved his gun back and forth across the slaves.

  No one spoke.

  They barely breathed.

  Brent was closest, so Tommy approached him and pressed his pistol hard to Brent’s temple.

  He looked behind him, smiling at the pair of bandits standing on full alert — Purple Hair and Skull Tattoo — then turned to the slaves. “Start talking, or I’ll kill everyone, starting with Mr. Tough Guy.”

  Brent’s heart raced as he stared into the helpless eyes of his family, and then to Sammy.

  Sammy swallowed, looking like he was about to make a false confession, sacrificing himself for Brent. And as much as he hated to admit it to himself, there was a part of Brent — the part that needed to be here with his family — that was willing to let him.

  Ben pointed to Wilson. “They came from him.”

  No hesitation: Tommy winked at Ben, turned to Wilson and shot him twice in the face, then looked down at Becca and Ben.

  The kids screamed.

  Tommy shoved Brent to the ground, beside Teagan and the kids.

  Tommy dropped to a squat in front of them, met Ben’s eyes.

  “Good job, kid, you just saved your daddy.”

  Ben said nothing, sniffling back tears.

  Tommy ran a hand through his hair.

  Brent lurched forward, but Tommy’s gun was in his face, as if he expected, maybe even was trying, to provoke Brent’s response.

  Gun in Brent’s face, Tommy turned his gaze to Becca, licked his lips, and said, “How would you two kids like to come with us tonight?”

  * * * *

  CHAPTER 8 — Paul Roberts

  “What the hell were you thinking?” Desmond yelled at Paul.

  Desmond was usually smooth in his reprimands, not enraged. But as Paul stood there in the command center, Desmond wasn’t holding back.

  “I asked you a question.”

  “You wanted information, and she wasn’t giving it. I improvised.”

  “That’s what you call that — improvising?”

  “You put me in a room with the woman who slit my daughter’s throat and tell me it’s up to me to find out where she is, where the rebels are, and you’re surprised when I try to scare her?”

  Desmond tilted his head to the side in his condescending way. “And how scared do you think she is?”

  “I don’t know.” Paul shook his head. “Why don’t you let me back in and find out?”

  Desmond laughed. “Wow, Paul, you’re really unraveling, aren’t you?”

  A small part of Paul wondered if Desmond was working him. Perhaps the tracking chip hadn’t actually stopped working. Maybe Desmond was telling Paul so he would go hard on Mary — even if he was acting upset that he’d been too rough. Desmond had to have known that Paul would do something like that.

  A darker thought occurred to Paul: What if there never was a tracking chip? What if Emily had never been anything other than bait? Another worm to Desmond, and who cared what happened to a lowly worm?

  Still, Paul had to find some way to stay on Desmond’s good side and prove his value — just in case there was any chance of getting Emily back.

  “No, I mean it,” Paul said. “Let me back in. I laid the groundwork. I put the fear in her, even if she doesn’t know it yet. When I go back in, she’ll talk. It’s like good cop, bad cop. You know the routine?”

  “Yes,” Desmond nodded, “but in my scenario, you were the good cop.”

  “And who was the bad?”

  Desmond didn’t have to answer. Paul saw it in his eyes. “Oh, you?”

  “Yes, and now we have a situation with two bad cops, Mr. Roberts. Tell me, how do you think she’ll respond to two bad cops? Think she’ll open up, lower her guard?”

  Paul took a moment to respond. “I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you. Just give me another chance.”

  “Well, fortunately for us, and your daughter, I happen to have a bac
kup plan.”

  “And what if she doesn’t talk?” Paul asked. “How will we find my daughter, or the rebels, if she stays the course?”

  Desmond stared into Paul’s eyes with a ferocity that Paul had never seen in the man. “Oh, she’ll talk. One way or another, we will get our answers, Mr. Roberts.”

  * * * *

  CHAPTER 9 — Mary Olson

  Mary wasn’t sure when or how she passed out. Or if it was from exhaustion, blood loss, or something else. She woke, still lying down clamped to the table, hearing a buzzing sound, like a cell phone left on a nightstand.

  A tickling sensation ran through her entire body.

  Her eyes flicked open to darkness save for a blue sphere, roughly the size of a basketball, hovering just inches over her body.

  What the hell is this?!

  She squirmed.

  Mary moved, and the ball of light loosened, like pieces of a tire coming off in every direction. They glowed blue, and after a momentary separation, pulled themselves back into the ball.

  “I’d suggest you keep still,” a voice said behind her. “We are repairing your wounds.”

  The voice was instantly recognizable, and boiled her blood.

  Desmond!

  She struggled to turn her head around, but it was impossible, strapped down as she was, to get a look directly behind her.

  “Let me go, you fucker!”

  “Now, now,” Desmond said, his voice calm like a lover’s, “save the sexy talk for later. You need to relax, Mary.”

  Suddenly, his hands cupped either side of her head, as if he were going to give her a scalp massage, though Mary was certain he held nothing loving in his intentions.

  “Don’t touch me!” she said, surprised as her voice cracked at the end.

  She squirmed again and felt the ball of light buzz louder, disassemble, then reassert its form.

  His hands went from a gentle caress to a vice-like grip, so tight she was certain he was about to squeeze her skull just to see it pop like a melon. Or at least let her know he could.