Yesterday's Gone: Season One

by Platt, Sean

  Yeah, well where’s the note when you woke up?

  Not the same — she was probably outside when shit went down.

  Outside at 2:15 a.m.? Come on, face the facts.

  Well shit for dinner, you got me there.

  “I’ll think on it and have my mind made up by the time we get back. Worse comes to worse, I’ll catch up with you next day.”

  “Um, hell no,” Luis said, “We’re in this shit together. You wait till tomorrow, I wait.”

  Brent smiled, “Thanks, man. I appreciate that.”

  **

  Not seeing anyone, they decided to drive back to Brent’s, listening to the radio the whole way, even if it was the same message on repeat. Something was reassuring about authority establishing some form of control and safety.

  “Why do you think that’s the only safe zone?” Luis asked. “I mean, there’s a million easier places to get to than Black Island, right?”

  “Maybe that’s why. Maybe its remote location makes it the only safe place left? Maybe those creatures, aliens, whatever, can’t cross water?”

  “Can’t cross water, but they can appear over people’s beds and snatch them up in the middle of the night?”

  “Well, that’s assuming we’re not dealing with two different things altogether,” Brent suggested.

  “Or maybe the cloud things are like those things on Star Trek, teleportation devices? They zap us up to their spaceships and then come down and hunt the rest of us?”

  “I dunno,” Brent said, shaking his head, “I’m just not thinking they’re aliens. It just seems, I dunno, so unlikely.”

  “Any more unlikely than people vanishing?”

  “No,” Brent said, as they got out of the car and headed toward his building.

  They glanced at Stan’s apartment building. “Wanna meet me over there when you’re done?”

  Brent shook his head. “Nah, you can come up. Maybe you’ll get to meet my family.”

  **

  When they reached Brent’s apartment, his heart swelled at the sight of his open door.

  They’re home!

  He was halfway to the door when Luis yanked him back with one giant arm, “I take it your door was closed when you left?” he whispered.

  “Yeah,” Brent said, unable to wipe the goofy grin from his face.

  “It might not be them in your house,” Luis warned, his eyes void of any prior humor or warmth. Nothing but business.

  Brent swallowed, embarrassed by his childish optimism. He was normally a cynical bastard, and should have known better than to see an open door as a sign of fortune.

  “Call to them,” Luis whispered, gun ready.

  “Don’t shoot until you’re sure it’s not people,” Brent said, stepping in front of Luis. “Please. No accidents.”

  “Don’t worry,” Luis said, “I won’t pull the trigger unless one of them is on you.”

  “Thanks,” Brent said, as he moved closer to the door, looking inside, but seeing nobody in his apartment. “Hello? Gina? Ben? I’m home.”

  Nothing.

  “Hello?!”

  He stepped toward the doorway, acutely aware of Luis at his back. He moved with slow intent, maintaining distance between Luis and his family, as he navigated the entrance hall.

  His heart choked when he saw the disaster scattered in his living room. The dining room table was on its side, chairs were everywhere, some broken. It was like a rugby team had run into the living room, trampled the table, grabbed a few chairs and threw them across the room, smashing his TV along the way.

  “What the hell?” Brent said, unable to make sense of the scene.

  Luis pushed past Brent, gun raised, and stepped into the hall. “Stand back,” he said to Brent.

  “Be careful,” Brent pleaded, getting his own gun ready.

  Luis pushed open the first door, the bathroom, then headed to the master bedroom with the fluid movement of a well-trained SWAT officer. He left the bedroom, still intact, then headed toward Ben’s room. Brent rushed to Luis’s side and stepped in front of him, “Wait,” he said, “I’ll go.”

  Brent pushed the door open with the gun, and prayed his son wouldn’t run out.

  He’d never been so glad not to see his family.

  “Whatever was here is gone,” Luis said.

  As if on cue, his radio beeped.

  “Yeah?” Luis asked.

  “Wh... where are you?” Stan asked, his voice at a whisper, packed with fear.

  “Across the street, why?”

  “They’re in here.”

  “Who’s in there?”

  “The creatures. I heard them in the hallway, making this godawful sound.”

  “You have the guns, right?” Luis asked.

  “Yes,” Stan said, “Can you see anything outside?”

  Luis and Brent rushed to the window in Ben’s room and were met with wisps of white fog brushing the window panes.

  “Can’t see shit in this fog,” Luis said.

  “How many are there?”

  “I dunno, sounds like a lot,” Melora said.

  “Wait, wait,” Stand whispered loudly, “I think they might be leaving. Hold on, I’m gonna try and look through the peephole.”

  “No,” Luis said, “Just stay put. Do NOT make a sound.”

  Too late, no answer.

  Brent and Luis listened as silence seemed to stretch to eternity. Brent was pretty sure he could hear Melora’s breathing over the light static.

  And then all hell broke loose.

  “Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!” Stan screamed, as something pounded like thunder.

  Melora screamed.

  Stan’s next scream was followed by the sound of ripping flesh and a rising chorus of “Click, click, click, click” sounds.

  “Stan!” Luis yelled into the radio.

  “They’re eating him!” Melora screamed, but from a distance, as if she’d dropped the radio and was running into a room.

  She fired two shots, three, and then screamed.

  More flesh ripping, followed by what sounded like the splashing of blood and Melora’s gurgling death cries.

  Then nothing but silence, except for the clicking, like animals celebrating a kill.

  Brent’s heart felt like it missed every other beat as the drama played out over the radio, just a couple hundred yards and another world away.

  “Stan!” Luis screamed, and suddenly the clicking stopped.

  Brent’s eyes shot wide open, waiting for what would come next over the radio as if he would see, not hear it. But they were met with silence.

  They heard us!

  And then footsteps.

  Then the sound of a hand fumbling with the radio, followed by a ragged racket of breathing as it pulled the radio closer to its mouth.

  Brent stared at Luis, as both men waited for the next sound.

  “Click, click, click, click,” from one, at first, and then many.

  ****

  MARY OLSON

  It looked more like demolition than disaster.

  The debris was centralized in a towering core, piled skyscraper-high in the center of the blackened tundra. Power lines, cars, splintered lumber, slabs of concrete, even cracked airplanes, and what looked like an entire freeway were laying in massive oversized chunks.

  Mary’s voice was a prisoner in her throat. Jimmy’s, as usual, wasn’t. “Holy shit balls, this is some Roland Emmerich shit right here.”

  “Who?” It was amazing Paola cared.

  “He’s a shit director,” Jimmy said laughing. “Crap movies, but cool looking most of the time. Aliens must’ve been looking at his storyboards.”

  John turned and glared at him, then pulled to the side of the road. All four survivors stepped from the SUV, wordless. Desmond was already out of the van.

  The destruction gathered in the middle made no sense. It was as though the area had somehow imploded and exploded at the same time. Impossible, sure, but the reality was giving them the stink eye all
the same.

  It looked like the world had exploded before a massive tornado came and picked everything up then deposited it in a single location. No bodies were there, but no rubble was there either. Not exactly. The gravel and detritus that should’ve carpeted the ground wasn’t there. Instead, they were ankle deep in some sort of charred rock, surprisingly uniform and each roughly the size of a golf ball, though the debris was angular, not round — volcanic looking, and almost beautiful.

  “Do you think this is Ground Zero?” Mary asked.

  John picked up a chunk of debris. “Looks like obsidian, feels like glass, but seems like ... wood. I don’t think this is Ground Zero. If this is what caused it all, the forest wouldn’t have been so green just a few miles back.”

  “He’s right,” Desmond said. “Stuff would be scattered away from here, not gathered here if this were the point of origin. I’ve never seen anything like this.”

  Paola stared past the horizon. Mary wondered what kept her from crying. Her father cried like a baby when touched the right way. She’d seen it happen during commercials and sporting events. Especially when a player he liked did something historic.

  “How long do you think all the black goes for?” Paola asked Desmond.

  “No way of knowing,” Desmond rose from his knee, dropped the hunk of rock, wood, or whatever it was, into the pile with a glassy thud, then looked at Paola. “But if I’m telling you what I think, I bet black crashes into green again just a few miles up the road.”

  “Do you think the Army Base will still be there?” Paola asked, her voice surprisingly strong. Mary was proud.

  “You’re old enough for me not to lie to you, so I won’t say yes. I think the base and the people in it are probably gone like the rest of everything. I figure it’ll be empty or worse. Whatever happened was probably something the Army couldn’t have prepared for even if they knew it was coming. Might even be something we can’t fully understand. What I do know is that it’s our best hope at the moment. Even if there’s no people, there may be supplies. And it could offer some safety.”

  “Safety from what?” Jimmy asked.

  “Every environment has its predators, and predators like easy prey. We need to stick together. Our number is already too small and we can’t afford to let it shrink.”

  “Mr. Desmond,” Paola said, “Can we find someplace to sleep? I don’t want to drive after dark.”

  “Great idea,” Jimmy said.

  The sun was already a mean shade of orange, and it felt just a few feet away. It would be gone in minutes, even though it couldn’t have been later than mid-afternoon. Desmond’s chest rose and his nostrils flared as if he were going to let loose with a decisive NO. It was clear he wanted to keep driving. He opened his mouth, but closed it quickly. He opened it again, but before he could speak John interrupted.

  “It’s not a democracy. If the guy with the guns and supplies says GO, then around the board we shuffle.”

  Desmond smiled. “No need for that, John. Yes, of course, Paola. We’ll stay at the first safe place we can find. Might as well take advantage of the full End-Of-Creation discount.” He offered a wan smile at John and got into the van.

  **

  The Suburban followed Desmond for seven miles, then chased it down the first offramp with a bank of hotels waiting. Just as Desmond predicted, total devastation had ended just three miles past the pileup, meaning the obsidian rubble and mammoth pileup was definitely the evil eye of something.

  The hotel was a Drury Inn, a nice one. And to their rather wonderful surprise, the electricity was working, with all locks set to “open.”

  They chose four rooms, next to and across from one another, all on the first floor. The five weary travelers took a much-needed three-hour rest, then showered, dressed in clean clothes, and met in the lobby bar for drinks. Four hours later, everyone was drunk, including Paola in a virgin Shirley Temple sorta way. Everyone was still wearing the shock, but the last few hours had stretched the fabric.

  Mary sat with her daughter and Jimmy, but her attention was on the bar, a few feet away, where Desmond approached John.

  “How’re you doing, man?” Desmond placed his back to the bar and looked into John’s fully toasted brown eyes with his slightly tipsy green ones.

  John shrugged. “What can I say? We stared into the soul of absolute emptiness and it just stared right back.” He poured some fire down his throat, then emptied the rest of the bottle into an oversized glass.

  “I won’t tell you to stop, just remind you once more that every one of us matters right now. I’m sure I speak for the group when I say I’d prefer to not leave the hotel one man shy in the mañana.”

  John’s face softened. “I’ll be fine. A man has a right to grieve without the entire world getting in his way.”

  Desmond poured some of John’s drink into his own glass, nodded at John, swallowed the fire in one large gulp, then set his glass on the bar and approached Jimmy, Paola and Mary. The kids were cracking up.

  “What’d I miss?”

  “Paola says I smell like a marijuana skunk.”

  “She has a point,” Desmond said.

  “She always does, whether I like it or not.” Mary laughed. Her wine glass was near empty, so she went to the bar to fill it. “It’s getting warmer in here,” she said walking back. “Do you feel that?”

  “I do,” Paola said. Jimmy nodded.

  “Might be five degrees,” Desmond said, “but the difference is definitely there.”

  They ignored the climbing thermostat and fell deeper into their drinks. Eventually, Paola made herself a bed by pulling two lounge chairs together. She was asleep seconds after her head touched the pillow they’d grabbed from a room. Jimmy managed a few minutes of small talk, then offered to pass the peace pipe with the rest of the grownups. When they declined, he smiled and slipped away to enjoy his stash, saying, “More for me,” with a giggle.

  Mary smiled at Desmond and said, “So, we’re all alone and it’s the end of the world where money doesn’t matter. Will you finally tell me how you made all yours?”

  Desmond laughed. “I’ve told you before.”

  “How about telling me in a way I understand?”

  “I use the Internet.”

  “So do I, so does everybody. My cards were wholesaled across the world on my own dot com. I know how I do it. How do you do it?”

  “Well, there’s no easy answer. Cool thing about the Internet is it’s still mostly frontier. There’s plenty of treasure for anyone who knows how to dig. Best part is, you can even learn how to make the treasure yourself.”

  They’d been down this road before. His answers, no matter how thorough, usually left her more confused then when he started, and sounded more like a rousing speech about online potential than a solid business model. “You make it sound like magic.”

  “It is, sorta. Just like any illusionist, Internet entrepreneurs can make the impossible look like downright inarguable.” Desmond took a drink. “Money isn’t hard to make. You just need to find a river and dip your bucket. But the Internet makes finding the rivers a whole hell of a lot easier.”

  “I don’t care what you say. It’s not that easy.”

  Desmond blushed. “Okay, it’s not that easy. But it’s easier than you think. People go online to look for stuff, right? If you have what they’re looking for, can lead them toward it, or help them keep it organized once they get it, then there’s good money to be made — and a never-ending supply of leads.”

  “But what do you do?” Mary figured it had to be shady if he couldn’t say what it was in 10 words or less.

  “I don’t do anything illegal, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  Mary laughed and shook her head, “I never said that.”

  Desmond smiled with a blush, “I make a lot of stuff. I have a company that builds ‘roads’ that help users get from A to B quickly, software that helps people organize the growing assault on their digital lives, and a publis
hing company that releases heavily-researched white papers and reports. It used to be mostly Buyer Beware-type consumer lists we wrote for,” he looked at Mary seriously. “People will pay to be informed, so we used to do a lot of work at the consumer level, but we’ve moved into science and alternative research. The dollars are exponentially larger and some of our papers have commanded ... well, staggering fees.”