Tomorrow's Gone Season 1

by Sean Platt

  “You don’t need to apologize.”

  “I’m not apologizing,” Val said with something approaching a smile. “Well, not to you. I shouldn’t have left when Charlotte might have needed me.”

  “That’s why I’m here. Stewart wants me on a mission. I was wondering if you’d—”

  “Of course. I’ll go stay with her.”

  “Thank you. And, for the record, I am sorry, to both of you. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help her. Maybe put the memories back …”

  “I’ll see how she’s doing and give it a think.”

  “Thank you,” Pascal said.

  Then he hugged her goodbye and headed home for his gear.

  Thirty-Five

  Slum Lord

  The meeting of The Six was held in the basement of The Sacred, what had once been a swanky club but was now The Slums’ biggest bar and served as Jackie’s headquarters.

  The six leaders of the six major crime syndicates sat around a large circular table in the dark, sparse, smoke-drenched room with their guest from Stratum. The Six was The Slums’ answer to a city council, each of the men or women representing a different faction of crime.

  Jackie, who was the eldest and seen to many as the true leader even if Slum Lord held the title, kicked things off by introducing the well-dressed man with the briefcase as Mr. Kind from Stratum. She coughed from her cigarette midway through the introduction, then spit on the floor.

  Slum Lord was disgusted by the woman, but kept his displeasure from showing as she finished her welcome speech.

  Mr. Kind was seated across from Slum Lord, between the grotesquely obese paragon of sloth that was Hobarth and the lithe redhead known as Siren, who was both gorgeous and leader of the Murder For Hire cabal.

  Mr. Kind delivered his speech, keeping eye contact with both Jackie and Sebastian. Clearly the man had done his homework and understood The Slums’ power structure enough to not alienate either of its strongest leaders.

  “I want to provide your city not only with updated tech—” lights blinked on and off to underscore his point “—but I want to give your city the respect it deserves among the other towns.”

  Mr. Kind took a long beat before he continued. “The Coalition Cities have been looking down on you all for too long. Why should they have the best amenities, because they happened to get lucky after The Event and wind up in places outfitted with solar power and natural resources? You should not have to pay higher taxes on grains and other supplies from the Coalition Cities. You should not be penalized for your poverty.”

  Another long beat, then he finally arrived at the punchline. “What if I told you that you are all far richer than you could even know?”

  Big Vic, who ran gambling, leaned forward. “What are you talking about?”

  “You have a very precious resource beneath your city: burn. Allow us to mine it and we can provide you with jobs, energy, and the best tech to raise your standard of living to the same enjoyed by the other cities, or perhaps something even better. Imagine, your city as a destination people are proud to visit instead of ashamed. A place where you’re treated with respect!”

  “Obviously you’ve taken great care to know who we are and I must assume you know what we are …” Slum Lord interrupted the pitch to wave at the den of thieves. “So will Stratum — a company that turned its entire enterprise into an underground community — have any problems keeping our system in place as it is?”

  “What empire wasn’t built outside of the law and in the moral grays? Of course we’re aware of your enterprises, and so long as no harm comes to us or our employees, we see no problems going forward. I might argue, however, that perhaps you may not need to continue some of these endeavors. Your community will be resource rich and you will be its powerful leaders. Vice is human, but you might find that you have little or no need for some of the less enjoyable crimes.”

  Hobarth said, “So, you all have no problem with prostitution or drugs?”

  Jackie looked on with interest. Slum Lord could only think of Rosalita and the others whom Hobarth, or others at his behest, had pimped out and then murdered. Sebastian wanted to kill him right now, but he couldn’t let on that he knew anything until he found the girl and safely returned her. Then he could take care of Hobarth, and anybody else who stood with him.

  “What consenting adults choose to do for recreation is hardly our concern,” Mr. Kind promised.

  “What about gambling?” Big Vic asked.

  “Again, not our concern.”

  “What about murder?” Siren challenged, eyes narrowing on Mr. Kind.

  He held her stare and said, “So long as no harm comes to Stratum’s people, we do not foresee any problems.”

  The Six were clearly contemplating the offer, dreams of wealth and power and resources in their eyes.

  “Why come to us?” Slum Lord asked. “Surely there’s more burn beneath Hope Springs.”

  The others looked at Sebastian like he was nuts to tell Mr. Kind, that he was practically ordering the gentleman to take his extremely generous offer to someone else — anyone other than them. It made it obvious how much they were already craving it, counting coops full of chickens that were nowhere near hatching.

  Desperation made them weak.

  “Because Stratum is tired of living underground, surely as you must be tired of living in the shadow of the Coalition Cities. With our alliance, and perhaps some help from the lovely Siren and her coterie—” Mr. Kind offered her the most well-mannered wink Slum Lord had ever seen “—we can change the balance of power and break the Coalition to create a better one.”

  “You really think they’re gonna give up their power so easily?” Jackie replied.

  “We’re already working on a solution. As I said previously, what empire wasn’t built outside the law, outside the moral grays?”

  Everybody at the table was either smiling or laughing except Slum Lord, who still needed time to think, and do some investigating of his own.

  “We will consider your generous offer.”

  The other five looked at Slum Lord like he was insane to issue anything less than an immediate YES.

  Jackie looked at him, bothered and questioning. He nodded to let her know their discussion was coming.

  “Thank you all for your time,” Mr. Kind said. “I will be staying at The Baxter. I’ve been given two days to get an answer.”

  “And what if we say no?” Hobarth asked.

  “Then we’ll be forced to make alliances with another city whose needs might not align neatly with yours. I do hope it doesn’t come to that. I see so much promise here. By the time we’re done, no one will ever call this place The Slums again.”

  “And what would they call it?” Sebastian asked.

  “Whatever the hell you want them to,” Mr. Kind replied.

  Jackie asked Slum Lord to stay behind after the meeting. Hobarth shot him a look that spoke volumes as everyone shuffled out of the room. He knew what Jackie was planning to discuss, and was probably the reason he was being called to the carpet.

  Jackie took one shrinking cigarette to light another as she coughed, inhaling deeply then venting a ring of smoke, her thick-hooded eyes peering out at him through the pluming gray wisps.

  “These things are gonna kill me and yet … I can’t stop.”

  Slum Lord leaned back in his seat, trying to appear relaxed. “We all meet our makers one way or another, right? Better to choose your exit than have it chosen for you.”

  Jackie laughed, coughed some more, then smiled. “I like you, kid.”

  Kid, even though he was thirty-one.

  “But …?”

  She smiled, her dull yellow teeth too big for her mouth. “Smart, too. Smart enough to know we need to do something about Yugo.”

  “Yes,” Sebastian agreed.

  “And yet he still lives. Why?”

  “I’m working on it.” He cleared his throat to change the subject. “You know about Hobarth runn
ing girls? Not women, I do mean girls.”

  Jackie took a deep drag, then waved a hand. “Nah. I don’t buy it. Whatever Willie did, it was on him. Hobarth is on the up-and-up. Nothing under sixteen.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Why?” Her eyes narrowed on him. “What have you heard?”

  “Only rumors, so far.” She was clearly on Team Hobarth; Sebastian had to tread carefully. “But if you trust him, then I do too, though I’ll admit it bothers me that Willie could run kids without Hobarth knowing.”

  “Me too. We’ve already spoken, and I assure you, it’s been handled. Now I need you to take care of Yugo.”

  “Yes, ma’am. He won’t be a problem any longer.”

  “Good.” Another long drag, then silence.

  And he thought of Jonas, the man who had abused Slum Lord’s sister so long ago.

  Thirty-Six

  Wolf

  They’d been walking for nearly an hour in subterranean passageways that smelled like grassy snatch when Wolf started to wonder if this fucker knew where he was going.

  They must’ve walked at least four or five miles, starting under the church and going for who knew how long before Truth’s flashlight fell upon a large socket in the wall that looked like it had maybe been a bed once upon a time but was now more of an underground trash can. This was the second time they’d passed it. A fork in the tunnel where their path split into right and left, each of them feeling about as right as ketchup on eggs.

  Wolf couldn’t remember which way they’d turned the last time, and some asshole in prayer beads didn’t trust him to hold a goddamned light.

  “Are we playing Circle Gets the Square or Ring Around the Rosie?”

  Truth’s light turned to shine on him. “What?”

  Wolf covered his eyes until the monk got the goddamned message and cast his light on the floor where it belonged.

  He pointed. “We’ve passed that hole at least twice.”

  “That was a different hole.”

  Wolf barked laughter. “You sound about as sure as a dude about to get a dick tattoo. Admit we’re lost.”

  “Not all who wander are lost.”

  “Fuck you, Shaolin! Where the hell are we?”

  “We will find him.”

  “That ain’t no answer. We’re walking the entire city.”

  “He was searching for an artifact said to be under the temple.”

  “So you said.” Wolf gestured around him. “But in case you’re still wearing your blindfold but turned that shit invisible, we’re not under the fucking temple, kimo. And let’s just forget any chance we had of getting outta here before dark like you said we needed to be. If you’re planning on making this a slumber party, I like to spoon when I sleep and—”

  “Do you ever stop talking?”

  “How about I shut the fuck up and you make your little mystery monk appear? Maybe you should describe the guy. If he looks like a sewer, then I might’ve seen him without realizing it.”

  “He’s in his thirties. Blond hair, blue eyes, about six feet tall. Thin.”

  “So, generic white dude, gotcha.”

  “Shhh …” Brother Truth raised a finger to his mouth, tilting his head. “Did you hear that?”

  Wolf wasn’t sure if this was an elaborate setup for an upcoming punchline, but he listened anyway.

  Then, humming coming from the right.

  Truth didn’t wait for instruction; the monk immediately headed in that direction, his light bouncing off the walls as he rounded the corner.

  Wolf followed, sword in hand on his way to an old wooden door.

  Purple light bled from beneath it, along with the sound of a man melodically humming.

  Brother Truth looked back at Wolf with a smile. “It’s him.”

  “Well, yippee-ki-yay.”

  Brother Truth turned the knob and the door opened slowly.

  The room was large. Taller than the others. Concrete walls broken away on both sides as if someone had clawed them out to expose the dirt.

  Wolf noticed the purple glow first, then the gnarled mass of exposed roots, moving from the ground like strands of waving hair. And finally, the monk, staring into the roots while humming.

  His back was to them and he didn’t appear to know they were there.

  “Brother Path,” Truth called softly.

  He turned, the hood of his robe falling away to reveal long white hair and a matching beard that was almost as long. The monk was at least in his seventies, probably older. Decades from thirty — this wasn’t their dude.

  “Brother Path?”

  “Brother Truth! It’s been so long.” The old man smiled, his eyes widening in recognition. He turned away from the roots and came to embrace the monk in a hug.

  “I thought you said this dude was Raiders, not Crystal Skull.”

  The old man turned to Wolf, his eyes even wider. “You!”

  “What?” Wolf said.

  Truth interrupted. “He doesn’t remember. Brother Serenity will fill him in.”

  “How about you all fill me in? We got nothin’ but time to kill until morning down here with all the whatever-the-fuck you’ve been pissing your robes over.”

  Brother Path looked confused.

  Brother Truth whispered something into his ear and sent his eyebrows arching upward. “Oh …”

  “Hey, Micky Mouse Club: Secrets are for everyone.”

  “Sorry,” Brother Truth said. “It is not my place. Once we get out of here and finish the job, I’m sure Brother Serenity will answer all of your questions.”

  “Fuck you.”

  Brother Path laughed. “He’s spicy, like him.”

  “Like who?” Wolf asked.

  But Brother Truth hit Path with what was apparently a more important question. “We need your help finding someone. Are you finished with the artifact?”

  Brother Path turned to the roots, stared at them longingly, then rounded back to the younger monk. “I have learned all I need to learn.”

  Wolf stared at the roots wondering what the hell he was looking at. Was this where they harvested their Pillar leaves? And if so, why did they call it the artifact?

  He asked but the monks headed toward the doorway instead of answering him. He drew his sword and marched toward the tree.

  “You Dalai Karmas better stop ignoring me or I’m about to play Paul Bunyan on this—”

  “Touch that tree and you will not leave here alive.” Brother Truth raised his sword at Wolf.

  He growled and waved his blade at the monk. “Wanna bet?”

  Wolf spun around and swung at the mass.

  But the roots whipped up to defend themselves, and as his blade sliced into the thickest among them to spill a pink and purple sap, an ear-piercing shriek filled the room, knocking Wolf and the monks to the ground, hands over their ears.

  “What have you done?” Brother Path bellowed over the din.

  Truth scrambled to his feet and slowly guided Path from the room.

  Wolf tried to stand, but the noise was too loud and intense, reverberating through his bones, knocking him back to the dirt-covered ground.

  Then hands were around him, guiding him out.

  Only once away from the tree and in the corridor outside the door did the screaming finally stop.

  “What were you thinking?” Brother Path glared at Wolf.

  Truth, holding Wolf’s sword and not seeming inclined to return it, scowled, “That’s his problem; he doesn’t think, he just does. And talks and talks and talks.” He turned and started walking the other way.

  Brother Path shook his head at Wolf, then followed.

  Wolf reluctantly tagged along — where the hell else could he get answers?

  They’d made it about ten minutes through the tunnels when a low rumble from above shook both the walls and their bones. Like a whale singing through the distortion of a discount guitar pedal.

  It also sounded somehow familiar.

  A flash of som
ething in his mind. Maybe a memory, maybe his imagination, giant and dark, floating in the purple fog, barely visible, its shape unnamable, sixth cousin to a giant squid, floating through the sky.

  The creature wasn’t alone, and that wasn’t even the worst of it.

  That designation belonged to the tree, a single trunk that stretched higher than any tree Wolf had ever seen. Jack and the Beanstalk would have been envious.

  Its bark was more like flesh as it moved, writhing in tune to the floating alien’s song.

  Thirty-Seven

  Johan Pascal

  They were crossing the wooden bridge just south of Riverside when Pascal noted the four thick white ropes tied to the side railing.

  He got off his horse and investigated. Found that they led to four bodies, hanging by their necks and burned to a crisp. Likely the tea merchants.

  He spotted something white sticking out of one of the corpse’s mouths.

  Pascal went over to that rope and started pulling, hoisting the man up as Captain Stewart, Knox, and Campbell began to raise the others.

  Pascal reached beneath the dead man’s arms, hands sloughing off charred skin fused to shredded clothing.

  He pulled the body over the railing with a grunt, then dropped it onto the bridge with a sickening and uncomfortably crispy-sounding CRUNCH.

  Stewart had trouble getting his man over the railing, so Campbell helped him as Pascal reached into the dead man’s mouth to retrieve the wadded paper from inside.

  He carefully unfolded it. Smeared in black and red, he saw the message: The Alts are Coming. The Cities Will Burn!

  Not good. Pascal couldn’t hide the paper from Stewart as each of the corpses contained a message. Read out loud, all of them matched.

  Stewart looked at Pascal as if he had played some part in this. That only made Pascal more eager to find the responsible party and stop them before the general started rounding up all the Alts as threats — he’d been privately joking far too often for jest.

  Pascal put his hands to the corpse’s head to extract his memories, but the signal was too faint. He saw a glimpse, no more than a flash of the man approaching a marketplace tent before it was gone.