Yesterday's Gone: Season One

by Platt, Sean

  “What the hell? I thought they were supposed to run until nighttime,” Luis said. “Now we’re gonna have to find somewhere to stay.”

  They had no shortage of homes to choose from, and most were quite nice. They grabbed the duffel bags from the car and headed across a field toward a two-story house, which probably cost more than Brent would have made throughout his entire career.

  “Anyone home?” Luis said, knocking on the front door. No answer, so he tried the doorknob. It was locked. But the front window wasn’t, so they slipped inside like burglars.

  The house, while nice on the outside, was a letdown inside. The owners were an older couple, judging by the photos, and it looked like they hadn’t redecorated since the Clinton Administration, maybe even the first Bush. The only new item in sight, standing bold amid the dated furniture and faded paint, was a large flat-screen TV.

  “Mind if I stay in this one?” Luis asked, glancing out the window. They had a decent view of the docks from where they were, probably the best view on the block given the thickness of the fog.

  “We can stay here,” Brent said.

  “No,” Luis corrected him, “What I’m saying is do you mind if I stay here. You should find another house, preferably one I don’t know where you are.”

  “What are you talking about?” Brent asked.

  “That thing bit me. It’s only a matter of time before I turn, just like Joe did.”

  “You don’t know that. That thing didn’t bite Joe, it... I dunno, dug its fingers into Joe’s skull. It left marks. You didn’t have any marks on you, other than the bite.”

  “I might now, though,” Luis said, holding up his bandaged forearm. “For all we know, it could be a whole mess of nasty under here. I’m thinking we should split up, just in case I go full zombie and shit.”

  “No,” Brent said, “I’m not leaving you. Remember? We’re in this shit together. You said so yourself. Don’t fight me on it, either, or I’ll have to unleash my Fists of Journalistic Fury on you again.”

  Brent smiled, waving his fists like an old time boxer from silent movies, and Luis broke into a laugh.

  **

  As the day surrendered to darkness, Brent and Luis sat in the living room kicking back warm beers as the sound of ocean waves and salty breeze washed through the Colonial-styled front windows, which they left open. Brent had never been much of a beachfront guy, seemed like a lot of expense for not much return. But as the music of the lapping ocean waves relaxed him, he could see the appeal.

  Brent sat in an ugly, but comfortable recliner, while Luis lounged on an even uglier, if it were possible, checkered beige sofa. They didn’t want to risk using flashlights any more than necessary and potentially alerting any creatures that might be lurking outside along the coastline, so they ate and drank by the bright moonlight which bathed the living room in blue.

  The conversation had moved from why the Mets sucked, to whether the Jets had a shot this year, to what kinds of dads they had growing up. Luis had a strict Catholic father who died when he was young, so he was mostly raised by his mother, forced to be the man of the house and look out for his long-deceased younger brother, Ricky.

  Brent cracked another beer and said, “My dad was a tough blue-collar guy that worked at a steel mill. He hated every fucking minute of it; I could tell, but he never let us know how much the job was busting his ass. I was too stupid to appreciate how hard he worked at the time. I was more concerned with having fun, buying shit we didn’t need, and stuff. We were in the suburbs, and I’d been hanging out with the preppy crowd.”

  “No shit, you?” Luis said, laughing.

  “Yeah. I had these grand schemes that I’d be this famous writer; I’d make my first million by the time I was 22. I wasn’t gonna bust my ass for some job that would dry up when the company shipped all the jobs overseas. I wasn’t willing to be anyone’s schmuck. I’d make my own living, thank you very much.”

  “So how did your dad feel about your career plans?”

  “Actually, he didn’t want me to follow in his footsteps. He had a hard job because that’s all he could get at the time. He wanted me to have the opportunities he didn’t have. He wanted me to go to college and make something of myself. But when I was in high school, college was the last thing on my mind. I wanted to goof off and have fun, you know. In my junior year, I was on the verge of being held back. Then one day, I was waiting for my mom to pick me up from school. I was hanging out in the front of the school with these girls who were way out of my league. I was doing my best to impress them, and being pretty damned charming, if I do say so myself. Anyway, here I am, about to win over this girl I’d been lusting after for two years, when all of a sudden, my dad shows up.”

  “So?” Luis asked, “That a bad thing?”

  “Oh yeah. You see, my mom had the ‘good car.’ While my dad had this beater car, biggest piece of shit to ever roll off a factory floor. I was mortified. I couldn’t let these girls know I was poor and that my old man drove the Shitmobile 3000. And God forbid he got out of the car looking all dirty and shit. I would have died right there on the spot. Fortunately, he hadn’t seen me, because we were standing in this alcove near one of the doorways. The minute I saw him, I told the girls I had to go to the bathroom, then ran to the other end of the school, out the side doors, and started walking home on the road where I knew he would pass me.”

  “Oh shit,” Luis said.

  “Yeah, so I was walking for about 10 minutes when my dad pulled up beside me, and opened the door. I got in and he asked me why I was walking. I told him some lie about how I didn’t think anyone was gonna pick me up because it had been late, so I figured I’d walk. He told me that my mom’s car was broken down and that he had to take time off work to come get me, which meant he’d have to make up the hours on the weekend. He wasn’t complaining, or anything, just telling it like it was. He seemed more concerned that I’d had to walk. He reminded me it was dangerous to be walking alone on the road. Man, I felt like such a shit heel. How the hell could I be embarrassed by my own dad like that? So, as we were driving home, I found myself watching him, seeing him for the first time like the real man he was — a guy who took care of his family and always did the right thing. And I started to see how insignificant I was, and how lazy, and I vowed right there not to waste any more time and to work as hard as I could to get ahead.”

  “Wow,” Luis said. “That’s some heavy shit. So, was he proud of you when you got your first job?”

  “Yeah. I got a job at this small paper in our hometown. A shit paper with 20,000 readers, maybe, and I was writing obits and cats-in-tree stories for the first year, but whenever I saw him, he’d comment on whatever story I wrote no matter how insignificant. He was connecting with me through stories I was writing about other people. It was weird and completely cool at the same time.”

  “That’s awesome,” Luis said. “What did he think when you had a kid?”

  “He died of lung cancer, even though he never touched a cigarette, a month before Ben was born,” Brent said, starting to tear up. “I know he was looking forward to having a grandchild more than anything, though. He kept going to the store, even when he was sick, and buying stuff for Ben. He bought him this, actually,” Brent said as he pulled the blue train out of his pocket and held it up so the moonlight captured the train’s big smile. “Stanley Train, Ben’s favorite toy ever.”

  “What about your mom?” Luis asked.

  “My mom got to see Ben. She loved him and doted on him like a good grandma does. But she died a year to the day my dad did; a stroke.”

  “Jesus,” Luis said.

  Brent stared at Stanley’s smiling face, and told himself he wasn’t going to cry even as he felt his chin quiver.

  “So, that’s why you worked so hard and never saw your family?” Luis asked, “To prove to yourself that you were the man your dad was? To be a good dad like him?”

  “Ironic, eh?”

  “No doubt,” Luis said.


  They passed the next several minutes in silence until Brent fell asleep in his chair.

  He woke in the darkness to the sound of a car outside.

  * * * *

  LUIS TORRES

  October 16

  5: 40 a.m.

  East Hampton, New York

  Luis woke about five minutes before Brent, having heard the car stop across the street at the docks, where it had sat since, two spots from his own, with the lights on. Luis grabbed a chair and his shotgun, then sat in the darkness, watching and waiting.

  Though he could only vaguely see the taillights through the dark and fog, the car looked like a Toyota.

  “What’s it doing?” Brent whispered, yawning as he took a seat next to Luis.

  “Maybe waiting for the ferry too.” Luis said.

  “Another survivor? Well, shit, they ought to turn off the lights and not call so much attention to themselves!” Brent said.

  “Maybe they haven’t seen the aliens or monsters, or whatever the hell those things are,” Luis said.

  “Think we should go out there?” Brent said. “Let ‘em know there’s at least two more people and tell them to turn out the lights?”

  “I dunno. Shit could go south real quick if we approach the car in the dark, even if they’re friendlies. We’ll wait. Besides, we don’t know if they’ve attracted any unwanted attention. So we stay put until we need to move.”

  “So, we use ‘em as alien bait?” Brent asked.

  “Well, not intentionally, but it’s a good way to see if there are any out there before we go out.”

  “We’ll step in to help if we need to, right?” Brent said.

  “As long as I don’t see Red Sox bumper stickers on the car,” Luis said with a smirk. “Otherwise, they’re on their own.”

  “What time is it?” Brent asked, yawning.

  Luis glanced at his watch, and through a yawn said, “Five forty. Got another hour or so before the sun is up.”

  “Mind if I take a shower?” Brent asked.

  “Go ahead, but take your gun. You’ll hear me shooting if I need you.”

  Brent paused before he started up the stairs, “How’s the arm?”

  “Stings like a bitch,” Luis said. “I’ll check it out when I shower.”

  “You’re not feeling weird or anything?”

  “If you’re asking am I gonna turn into a zombie, I’m not getting a craving for brains or anything ... yet.”

  Brent laughed, if a bit nervously, then went upstairs with a flashlight in one hand, his gun in the other.

  Luis turned his attention back to the car, wondering if he should take a chance and head outside. He didn’t like having unknown variables in play. And not knowing who was in the car when they needed to get to the docks shortly, was a pretty big variable as far as he was concerned.

  “Why don’t you turn your damned lights off?” he whispered before getting up and heading toward the kitchen. He was famished and craving junk food, something he rarely allowed himself back before the world flushed its people. He found a box of granola bars in the pantry. Chocolate chip peanut butter. Close enough to junk, he supposed. He ripped the foil from the bar and took a bite.

  Wow, this is like the best granola bar ever!

  He downed it in seconds, then gobbled another. He went to the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water from the more than 20 that filled the bottom crisper bin. He wasn’t sure how long before the plumbing stopped working in a world without people to power the water plants, but figured they probably had enough bottled water to last a few hundred years. He never saw sense in paying for bottled water, but was glad enough people had been frivolous enough with their cash to create a demand that might supply survivors for a century.

  Of course, he hoped it wouldn’t come to that, hoped Black Island would offer hope, to let them know this event, whatever it was, was localized. That the rest of the world was alive and kicking, thank you very much, and the prophetic dreams Luis had been having, along with the other 215ers, were just a weird ass coincidence.

  He also hoped his daughter and Brent’s family were still out there, too. And while he was feeling hopeful, he went ahead and hoped Joe’s bite wouldn’t turn him into one of those fucking creatures.

  But Luis knew better than to get his hopes up.

  He had a bad feeling. And as the hours ticked, the certainty something horrible was going to happen grew even stronger in his gut. He grabbed a third granola bar, then returned to his post at the window.

  The car’s lights were off.

  He put the granola bar down, picked up the shotgun, and scanned the distance between the house and parking lot. He saw nothing but darkness. Perhaps the driver had finally decided he or she didn’t need the lights on and would simply sit and wait for morning. Luis would sit, too, and wait for the sun to come up so he could get a better idea of what he was dealing with.

  **

  Brent came down, dressed in black sweat pants and a grey tee shirt, two or three sizes too large with a picture of a golf ball on the front, as big as a target. Luis laughed. “Damn, bro. That is hideous.”

  “Wish I’d thought to pack some clothes,” Brent said. “Don’t worry, I saved all the cool clothes for you.”

  “Can’t wait to see what passes for cool in this house,” Luis said, looking at his bloodied jeans and tee shirt. “But I’m good, I’ve got some clothes in one of the bags.”

  “You fucker,” Brent said with a laugh. “You’ll be dressed like usual, while I’m wearing Oldy McOlderson’s tacky workout gear.”

  “I don’t know,” Luis said with a grin. “I think you make it work.”

  “Fuck you, sir. So, what’s happening with the car?”

  “Lights went out while I was in the kitchen, but I haven’t seen anyone, so I’m thinking they’re just waiting until morning when the ferry rolls in. Once the sun’s out, we can check it out, if you want.”

  “Alright,” Brent said, searching for something to eat in the kitchen. “Oh, man, you ate the last of the granola bars?”

  “Sorry,” Luis said, laughing. “Didn’t see your name on ‘em.”

  “That’s okay,” Brent said a minute later. “I found some Pop-Tarts. I haven’t had these in forever. Of course, it’s the damned unfrosted cherry ones.”

  “And without power, we don’t have a toaster,” Luis reminded him.

  “Oh well,” Brent said, returning to the window with a Pop-Tart and a bottle of water. “You gonna shower? I’ll stand guard down here.”

  “Alright, if anyone gets out of the car, come get me. Don’t go out there, or answer the door if they come knocking.”

  “Okay,” Brent said, sitting down.

  “And keep your gun ready,” Luis said, as he headed up the stairs with his bag, flashlight, shotgun, and one of the first-aid kits he’d grabbed earlier.

  **

  The flashlight stood on the sink, its light bouncing off the mirror and ceiling of the bathroom giving Luis just enough light to bathe by. He stood under the shower, allowing the cold water to wash the blood and dirt from his body. Would’ve been better if the water were piping hot, but Luis didn’t care. After recent events, any water felt good. Cleansing. He leaned forward, allowing the pulsating jets to massage his shoulder blades. He glanced at his right arm. The bandages were soaked and sure to fall off soon if he didn’t do anything.

  He remembered how Joe’s face had changed after he’d been infected. The black veins and splotches on his skin right before he turned.

  He continued staring at the bandage, wanting to change the dressing, but not wanting to see what lay beneath. If he was infected, he was as good as dead. He knew it like he knew the sun would rise. What he didn’t know, was how quickly the infection would spread. Would he even know it was happening? He remembered the look in Joe’s eyes — at first white, then all black, almost alien-like in the way they seemed to bore into Luis. Nothing was left of Joe in those eyes; it was all alien, monster, whatever
the fuck the infection had put into him.

  Luis leaned against the shower wall and began to claw at the bandage with an immediate need to see.

  The wet bandage fell to the shower floor with a plop. Luis stared at his arm, not believing the dim light’s certain lie. He reached from the shower and grabbed the flashlight, and trained it on his arm.

  The bite was gone, completely healed, though the burning and pain were still present.

  What the fuck?

  He put the light under his chin, and began to rub his other hand along the wound. The skin was smooth, as if never broken. He brought his arm closer for a better look, when something moved beneath his skin.

  “Fu-” he shouted, the light slipped, bounced around the shower floor with a loud echo, before coming to a stop. Luis grabbed it, focused the beam back on his arm, waiting for movement.

  Maybe I’m just seeing things.

  Something moved again, and this time he was certain he’d seen it. And not just one thing moving, but several worm-like shapes, just beneath the surface of his skin.

  Luis stared in horror. Eyes wide, unable to look away.

  Infected.

  No, I’m not going out like that.

  Luis yanked the shower curtain aside, threw the light into the sink where it rolled before pointing at the mirror, and grabbed the shotgun. He sank to the floor of the shower, water pouring over him, blinding him, as he wrapped his lips around the barrel of the shotgun.

  He prayed that suicides didn’t go to hell, and he would see his wife and daughter again in the great beyond.

  * * * *

  JOHN LARSON

  October 17

  Early evening

  Belle Springs, Missouri

  The afternoon was long. Despite creeping danger outside and mounting evidence that they should leave, Desmond wouldn’t budge. A weird kid, a crazy old man and the Olson Twins had made sure of that.