Yesterday's Gone: Episode 1

by Sean Platt

  Bob slammed the fridge, came into the living room, and said, “Come on, kid, we’re gonna hit the store.”

  Charlie jumped up, threw the dirty paper towels away and told Bob he’d be right out, after he went pee, using the word pee, because if shit ticked off Bob, piss would probably make him go nuclear.

  “Okay, hurry up, I’ll be waiting in the truck.”

  Great, we’re gonna go out and do some drunk driving in a tow truck. That should be a blast.

  **

  Bob was a surprisingly good drunk driver, though he still went too fast for Charlie’s tastes. When Bob saw Charlie clenching the hand holder thingee above the passenger side window, he vented another one of his dirty, ain’t I an asshole? laughs.

  “What? You think I’m gonna crash us? Shit, boy, I’ve been driving trucks since before you were an egg in your momma’s snatch.”

  Wow, there’s an image.

  “I’m sure you’re a great driver,” Charlie said, “I was just thinking maybe the beers might impair your driving a bit.”

  Charlie regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. He expected Bob to go ape shit.

  Instead, Bob laughed.

  “She-eeit, it takes more than a six pack of beers to get me intoxicated, kid. You ain’t even seen me drunk.”

  Charlie laughed, uncomfortably. He still had a few bruises that said otherwise, but he wasn’t about to say that!

  The streets beyond their neighborhood were creepy enough to keep the hair on his arms high the entire time. Not a soul on the roads. They passed a few cars here and there, which had seemingly been left running in the middle of the road or crashed on the sides of the streets, but not enough to cause any congestion.

  When they pulled up to Evergreen Square, the closest shopping plaza to their house, the emptiness got louder. The always-full parking lot had been reduced to just three cars. Bob pulled right up to the first spot in front of the Save-A-Lot.

  “Let’s go shopping,” he grinned.

  The store was dark inside, but not so dark you couldn’t see between the daylight and the store’s huge glass facade. The automatic doors were dead, so Bob went back to his truck, opened a side panel and retrieved a crowbar.

  “Stand back, kid, I’ve got a door to open.”

  Charlie thought Bob would pry the doors apart. Instead, being the subtle kinda guy he is, Bob smashed the glass with the crowbar, until he’d made a big enough hole for them to climb through.

  **

  The store was dark and damned creepy without people inside. While Bob grabbed a shopping cart and headed straight to the beer aisle, Charlie was tasked to fill another cart with as much water and food as he could fit. If any other people were left, it wouldn’t be long before they’d be looting the store too, Bob warned.

  “Anyone too stupid to loot was just smart enough to die,” he said.

  As Charlie navigated the aisles, he couldn’t help but feel a thrill from the all-you-can-grab shopping spree. Anything he wanted in the entire store — for free! He imagined Bob was filling his cart with nothing but beer. Maybe some canned meat products and pork rinds too. The idea made him laugh. He could hear Bob on the other end of the store singing some country song about beer, which made him laugh harder. If Bob weren’t such an asshole half the time, Charlie might actually get along with the prick.

  He loaded up on water and soda on one aisle and was shoving every battery pack, flashlight, and battery powered gadget he could find into his cart when he heard a noise one aisle over.

  He froze, listening. All he could hear was Bob’s obnoxious singing. He was in the middle of his aisle, ready to run in either direction. He crouched down and moved closer to the source of the noise and then he heard footsteps.

  Shit.

  The barren store, hell, the barren town, the lack of power, and the general creepiness convinced Charlie he was about to come face-to-face with a zombie.

  Shit, shit.

  He crept toward the front of the store, abandoning the cart.

  The footsteps, which were at the back of the store and heading away from him, reversed course, and were now following his path in the next aisle. He stopped. The other person stopped one step after.

  Charlie was frozen in place, Bob’s drunken singing sounded as though it were a mile away.

  He scanned his aisle, looking for something, anything he might be able to use as a weapon. He wished he were in the cutlery aisle, but the small tool aisle would have to do. He grabbed a generic-looking hammer, orange with a black handle. It wasn’t heavy, but it was metal, and he figured it could do a fair amount of damage.

  He started toward the front of the store again, this time on tiptoe, hammer ready. Silence on the other aisle. He wondered if his stalker was staying put or creeping along with him. He gripped the hammer as he approached the end of the aisle. Once there, he’d have to make a decision whether to round the corner and confront whoever was there or start running and yell for Bob. He’d hate to be imagining things, then go running for Bob like a big baby, so he decided he’d turn the corner and let fate figure it out.

  Bob was still singing, but now it sounded like the out-of-tune was coming from a mouthful of food. Fucker was probably chowing down on raw steaks.

  Charlie inched toward the soda display at the end of the aisle, his heart in his throat as he rounded the corner. His shaky hand clutched the hammer, as he considered the ways he might use it when needed. Swinging it would require getting in close, and if the other person — or persons — had a better weapon, he was screwed. He could throw it, but if he missed, he’d be empty-handed. And he’d be facing an angry attacker.

  He sat frozen and crouched at the end of the aisle, weighing his decision, and glancing toward the other end of the store to see if Bob was in sight. He wasn’t.

  Charlie heard the footsteps, now in full sprint toward him.

  He ducked down, and got ready to swing the hammer. As trouble ran toward him, he cried out, “Bob!”

  He stumbled back just as the figure in blue jeans and a black hoodie shot past him and darted toward the front doors.

  Bob came running, crowbar in hand, and glanced down at Charlie who had fallen to the ground. The person had hopped into Bob’s truck.

  Bob raced from the store, yelling, “Hey, fucker!”

  Charlie followed, gripping his hammer. As Charlie pushed through the front door, Bob yanked the hoodie-wearing punk from the cab and threw him to the ground. He brought the crowbar up and swung. The guy rolled out of the way at the last second and knocked Bob’s legs out from under him. Bob fell to the ground.

  The guy hopped up and raced across the parking lot. Charlie followed, driven by adrenaline, and a desire to do something good in Bob’s eyes by catching the bastard who tried to steal his truck.

  “Stop!” Charlie yelled, as he got closer, emboldened by both the hammer in his fist, and knowing Bob would surely be beside him in a moment and help him deal with the punk.

  Though Charlie couldn’t see anything beneath the hoodie, he could tell the guy was shorter and skinnier than him. So long as he didn’t have a gun — and Charlie didn’t see one — he figured he might have a chance to win a fight for once in his life.

  Charlie was almost close enough to grab the guy. He considered throwing the hammer at the back of the guy’s head, but didn’t want to slow down as he was almost ... catching ... up.

  Just inches away, Charlie dropped the hammer, reached out with both hands and grabbed the hoodie, then yanked the guy back. They collided in a rough roll to the ground which lacerated Charlie’s arms and bruised his ribs and back, but he didn’t release his grip, and the two rolled until they’d come to a stop with the guy on top of Charlie. Only it wasn’t a guy, but rather, a young black girl, close to his age, with short curly hair and piercing, azure eyes.

  He let go immediately. She stood and their eyes locked in a tango of fear and survival. I’m not a threat, are you?

  Just then, Charlie hea
rd Bob’s thundering footsteps, then looked up to see him running up behind the girl, screaming with the crowbar raised.

  “No!” Charlie screamed. The girl spun around just as the crowbar came down. It narrowly missed her head, but hit her hard in her right shoulder, sending her sprawling to the ground as she cried out.

  Bob immediately brought the crowbar up again and was about to take another, surely lethal swing, when Charlie leaped at Bob, pushing him back, and sending the crowbar back where it bounced off the ground with a hollow metal thud.

  “She’s just a kid!” Charlie yelled as Bob stumbled back, but didn’t fall.

  Bob’s bloodshot eyes were crazy, his nostrils flaring. He was out of breath.

  “She’s a kid, man. Relax,” Charlie gasped, leaning on his knees to catch his breath.

  Bob’s eyes relaxed a bit and Charlie turned to the fallen girl, lying unconscious on the ground.

  “Did I kill her?” Bob asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Charlie said, leaning down to feel for a pulse.

  Charlie wasn’t sure whether or not Bob was disappointed.

  * * * *

  MARY OLSON

  Desmond was a fun neighborhood mystery. Everyone loved to guess where he got his money. No one knew what he did, but everyone knew he had to be one of the best. His house, directly across the street from Mary’s, wasn’t larger than hers. But it was just as big and ten times as impressive. You could tell that she was someone who was struggling to stay in such a grand home; he was likely living beneath his means.

  Desmond rarely wore anything other than jeans and a simple shirt, but on him, everything looked custom tailored. Even jeans and tees. He always had new toys, including cars. And new women, or so rumor went. And the one time Mary had been inside his house, she left thinking it was the most beautiful interior she’d ever seen. And his garden inspired jealousy from everyone in the neighborhood. She’d dreamt of the garden more than once.

  Mary had known a few guys who could mint money, all of them assholes. Desmond wasn’t. He was a good guy with a great sense of humor, though he spent most of the time quiet, at least at the neighborhood gatherings. He had honest eyes and was a great listener; rarely broke eye contact and usually waited his turn to speak. When he spoke, people listened.

  “What do you mean the world is dead?” John asked.

  “Exactly that. May not be the entire world, but St. Louis is gone for sure. If there’s a rest of the world, we need to get to it now.”

  “People are missing, or do you mean the town itself?”

  “A little of both,” Desmond said. “All the people, definitely. But a lot of the town, too.”

  “How do you know?” John’s bottom lip started to dance.

  “Because I’ve been driving the city since 3:30 this morning. It’s a ghost town, and I can’t get a signal from anywhere in the world. If I can’t get a signal, no one in this city can.”

  Jimmy lost his tongue for the first time in years.

  Mary said, “What do you think we should do?”

  “Pack some supplies; we’re gonna head southwest to Fort Leonard Wood. If the world’s gone to shit, you can bet the Army base is the best place to be.”

  Jimmy’s tongue came back. “What if the Army is gone?”

  John stepped in front of Jimmy. “I’m not going. I’m waiting for Jenny here.”

  Desmond said, “Jenny’s gone.”

  “She’ll be back.”

  A sadness shuddered through the tiny circle. Desmond put his hand on John’s shoulder. “We’ll be safer together. And have a better chance at finding Jenny.”

  Jimmy agreed. “Yeah man, better together.”

  Mary turned to John. “I know how you feel. But right now, we don’t know what’s happened or what that means for tomorrow. All we know is, yesterday’s gone. Whatever happened, we were hit hard. If our numbers were cut, then every number matters. We need to stick together and figure out what’s going on.”

  John was silent. Desmond thanked Mary with his eyes then opened his mouth. “I suggest we’re packed and ready to hit the road hard in 30. Take only what you know you need. No computers or large items. I only have so much room in the cargo van for our supplies. We can also use the Escalade.”

  John said, “I’ll go. We can take my Suburban. Just cleaned it yesterday.”

  Desmond smiled. “Okay then, let’s hustle. Everyone back here in 30.”

  “Why the hurry?” Jimmy wasn’t being flip, just wanted to know. “Looks like we’ve got all the time in the world.”

  A shadow smudged Desmond’s face. “Time might not mean what it used to. But if the sky is falling, every minute matters.”

  Mary and Paola went back into the house. Paola ran upstairs to pack clothes; Mary stayed downstairs in the kitchen tossing a medley of foods into two 30 gallon trash bags. She packed all the dries, then made a cooler of perishables and set it by the front door beside the two plastic bags.

  Paola met her mom at the front door with two suitcases, stuffed with Mary’s favorite jeans, cammies, and sweaters with 15 minutes to spare.

  “Anything else?”

  Paola was sweet this morning. And it was early.

  “Not sure. Other than are we dreaming, is this real, or any other way of saying, this can’t be happening. Most of all I just want to know you’re okay. Are you?”

  Paola smiled. “Would it be weird if I said yes?”

  “A little,” Mary hugged her daughter and laughed. “But you’ve always been a little weird and a lot tough!”

  “Mom?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What do you think happened?”

  Mary had no idea and couldn’t possibly guess. “I don’t know, but I think we’ll be okay. That feels right. And you know I’d tell you if it didn’t. Whatever happened, we’re okay. That has to be enough for us right now, got it?”

  Paola gave her mom her hand. “Pinky promise.”

  Mary wrapped her pinky around Paola’s. They spent several minutes rocking back and forth, then opened the door to the sudden future waiting outside.

  **

  Desmond’s cargo van was nice but nondescript from the outside. New, tall and shiny. Black. The back doors were open. Mary saw custom cabinets and shelving inside, sitting beside a small bank of computers, every screen black. Her face must have looked louder than she thought.

  “I’m not crazy,” Desmond laughed. “I’m just always prepared and can afford to do it well. Come on, let’s get packed.” He took the bags from Mary and Paola and loaded them into the van.

  “Mind if I take a look?” Mary asked.

  “By all means,” Desmond stood behind the swinging door and bowed his head.

  Mary climbed in and started opening cabinets. They were packed with an end of the world picnic: juice, dried fruits, condensed milk, canned meats, peanut butter, jelly, crackers, granola bars, baby food, coffee, tea, hard candy, cereal, salt, pepper, sugar. There was a giant first aid kit, the biggest Mary had ever seen, a portable toilet, light sticks, a stack of 5-gallon buckets, plastic trash bags, bleach, a disaster supply kit, and tons of water, though it looked like it would run out quick.

  Mary looked at her two plastic bags and felt like she was watering her lawn while looking at Desmond’s copper piping.

  “One more,” Desmond said, straining to lift a small footlocker into the van. A padlock secured the lock.

  “What’s in there?” Mary asked, even though she anticipated the response.

  “Guns,” Desmond said matter-of-factly.

  “Who’s riding with me?” John opened the door to his Suburban and climbed in. Mary and Paola climbed in back.

  “I’ll go with Desmond,” Jimmy said.

  Desmond shook his head. “You should ride in the Suburban. I’ll hit the front line.”

  Jimmy didn’t disagree, just opened the passenger side of the Suburban and climbed inside.

  The cargo van left Warson Woods. The
Suburban followed.

  **

  The Suburban was a coffin of silence as its occupants surveyed the city beyond their neighborhood.

  It was gone.

  In its place, torn trees jutted up from the debris-strewn earth consisting of splintered remnants of houses, destroyed vehicles, broken glass, and paper. Lots and lots of paper, as if a million office buildings exploded, and paper rained from the sky, as if a super tornado had wiped out miles and miles of the city.

  Paola burst into tears, and Mary hugged her tight.

  “What happened?”

  “Jesus,” John said. “Everything is ... gone.”

  Mary held Paola tightly, unable to think of anything to say that would soothe her this time. As they drove along, Mary saw that Jimmy, who had his face buried in a fantasy book, was starting to tear up. She turned away, so as not to embarrass him.

  **

  Fortunately, the on-ramp to the highway was intact and the streets remarkably, and eerily, were free of vehicles. If a mass exodus occurred, everyone either got out in time, or took other means of escape.

  And the sky had a gauze. It made her think, opposite of Colorado and that managed a smile. They’d driven nearly 20 minutes before the trees began to appear along the side of the road again. The tornado, or whatever it was, hadn’t reached this far. In another 15 minutes or so, they would reach the next major city. She hoped it was still standing.

  As they drove in relative silence, something gnawed in Mary’s brain. Something she should either remember, or notice. That’s when it occurred to her — something was off about the trees. She realized what it was before Jimmy said a thing.

  “You hear them?” Jimmy turned to the back seat.

  “Who?” Paola asked.

  “The trees.”

  Paola did, though she hadn’t realized it until that moment. That they were able to hear anything from inside the cabin of the Suburban, let alone trees, confused her. That she and Jimmy agreed it was the trees they heard, even odder.

  “Yeah,” Jimmy drummed his fingers on the dashboard, “they’re definitely talking.”