They met up with Sanchez and Turner of the Alpha Team just outside the rooftop doorway leading to the stairwell.
“We’ve got two infected trapped in the elevator on the ninth floor,” Turner said to Ed, “We dropped gas on them 15 minutes ago, so they should be out. We cleared most of the hostiles, but there’s a few we missed, so be prepared to shoot.”
“You got the gear?” Keenan asked Michael, who patted the big black black bag strapped to his back like camping gear.
“OK, let’s do this,” Keenan said, then stepped out of the morning and into darkness.
**
The emergency lights that once lit the hallways had burnt out, so the men used lights attached to their rifles, which added to the claustrophobic feeling of the walls closing in around them as they navigated their way down the stairwell to the ninth floor. The sound of their boots echoed and carried the length of the stairwell, which was sure to draw the attention of aliens, were there any inside.
Once they reached the ninth floor, Ed instructed Brent and Michael to stay behind and guard the stairwell door. One of the men took the backpack from Michael and carried it with his left hand, his rifle in the right as he and the remaining men headed down the hall toward the elevator, about 12 doors down.
“You okay?” Michael asked Brent. “You look sick.”
“I used to live across the street.”
“No shit?”
“Yeah. And I know it’s crazy as fuck, but I feel like if we just went over there, maybe Gina and Ben will be in the apartment waiting for me.”
“You know that’s not possible, right? We haven’t run into anyone in a long time. The odds that anyone is left here are next to nothing.”
“I know,” Brent admitted, frustrated, “At least logically. Yet, being here, so close to home, it feels like I should at least try to go over there.”
“No way Keenan’s gonna let you do that. You’d be putting this whole operation, including all our men, at risk. So unless you want us to leave you behind - and by the by, I’m not letting you do something that fucking stupid - you need to get your head in the right here, right now. Okay buddy?”
Michael’s voice was firmer than Brent had ever heard it, but still compassionate, showing that he was looking out for Brent’s interests even if Brent was getting a bit loco.
“You’re right,” Brent said. Besides, Brent didn’t think he could take another disappointment so soon after yesterday’s helicopter ride over the dead city.
“FUCK!” someone screamed in the hallway. Gunfire exploded and echoed like thunder, followed by more gunfire and the unmistakable, unholy shrieks of the aliens.
“Shit!” Michael said, swinging the door all the way open and storming into the hall. As Michael lifted his rifle, dark arms and claws appeared in the gun’s light moving swiftly, ripping, tearing, and shredding, blood splashing the wall behind him as Michael’s cries faded into a gurgle. Michael’s gun fell as the doorway faded to black, even as the sound of chaos travelled into the stairwell.
Brent’s heart froze in his chest as he brought his gun and light up, illuminating the carnage. The alien deftly turned its slick, black head and opened its maw, shrieking and clicking.
For a moment that seemed to stretch into infinity, Brent froze, unable to move.
The alien dropped Michael’s corpse to the ground, then turned, its body moving impossibly fluidly, raising its claws as it descended on Brent. His finger found the trigger and he squeezed off a burst of gunfire that sent the alien sprawling back against the wall.
The clip went silent but the chaos continued – more gunshots, screams, and alien shrieks. Worse, the unmistakable sound of more aliens approaching.
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
He struggled to pull the empty clip from the rifle and replace it with one of three more he had. The new magazine clicked into place just in time as another alien pushed through the door, held open by Michael’s corpse-turned-doorstop.
Brent screamed as he fired into the alien, tearing its head to ribbons. Brent finished loading another clip as he reached Michael and ducked down to grab full clips from the man’s belt, all the while trying to avoid looking at what was left of his body. Smoke poured through the hall just ahead of him; one of the men must’ve accidentally thrown a smoke grenade.
More screams and flashing lights echoed off the walls through smoke as Brent stepped into the hall, coughing as he aimed his rifle into the cloud of darkness, trying to make sense of the movement. It was impossible to grasp the scene; there was simply too much smoke, too many bodies moving, and too many gun lights dancing all over the place. Brent sank into the corner of the hallway, fear an electric current surging through his entire body, as he lifted his gun and held it shakily in front of him, waiting for anything to move toward him and hoping not to accidentally shoot another human.
Bodies continued to hit the ground until the gunshots finally fell silent.
Lights littered the ground, at least five of them, as the smoke began to dissipate.
Is everyone dead?
Brent’s heart pounded in his chest as he strained to hear anything other than the ringing in his ears from the gunfire. His light shook up and down as his hand refused to stay steady, casting a shaky light beam through the smoke.
Something moved ahead. He blinked his eyes and held the gun tighter, only to have it shake more dramatically, afraid to speak or even breathe.
“Identify yourself,” a man’s voice said as a shadow moved through the smoke, light aimed waist-high, scanning the hallway.
“Brent Foster,” he said, his voice shaky as his hands.
“Anyone else?” the man said, stepping through and into view. It was Captain Keenan, brow sweaty with a streak of blood across his left cheek, likely someone else’s.
“Anyone else alive?” Keenan repeated.
Nobody answered.
“Jesus Christ,” Keenan sighed.
Both radios crackled to life. “Beta Team, do you read?”
“Beta One,” Keenan said, “We have massive casualties. Send someone from Delta Team in to help. Beta One out.”
“How many casualties? Do we need the medic? Alpha One out.”
“Almost everyone,” Keenan said. “No medics are necessary. Beta One out.”
As the smoke cleared, Keenan flashed his light across the hall to reveal the fallen comrades and alien corpses littering the narrow passage; blood, both red and black, smeared the walls, floors, and ceilings. There were at least six of the creatures from what Brent could see.
“Looks like a nest,” Brent stammered.
“Or an ambush,” Keenan countered as he located the Guardsman he was looking for and retrieved the black backpack from his body. “Come on; help me get these elevator doors open so we can see what the hell was worth killing all our men for.”
Keenan dug inside the bag, brought out a pry bar, and slid it between the elevator doors at the center. Ed held his rifle in one hand and turned back to Brent, “I’m gonna stick this in and pull, which will trigger the pneumatic release and open the doors, either partially or all the way. But we won’t be able to close them again. So be ready to fire, but only if they come at us. We want to take these things alive if we can. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.” Brent said, trying to sound more confident than he felt.
Keenan applied all his force to the pry bar, opening the doors about 60 percent. Keenan trained his light inside on the two infected bodies, face down in the darkness, seemingly asleep. Hopefully, asleep.
Brent thought of Joe and how dangerous he’d become once infected. How inhuman. Though he was sad Luis was dead, he was glad he didn’t have to watch his friend devolve into a zombie-like creature.
“Friendly coming through,” a man announced from the stairwell as he and a second Guardsman from the second chopper entered the hallway. “Jesus Christ,” one of the boomed when he saw the bloodbath. Keenan pushed the doors the rest of the way open. Once the elevator doors we
re fully open, he instructed the two men to go inside and pull the bodies out.
Brent stepped back, gun ready, light shining into the elevator as his eyes kept watch for more aliens from either direction.
The Guardsmen pulled the first body out. Keenan dropped to the ground, quickly handcuffing the infected. He then tied a hobble restraint strap around the feet and connected it to the handcuffs, locking the infected’s limbs behind them.
Keenan turned the body over to reveal the face. Instantly, Brent felt as if someone had punched him in the chest, knocking all the breath from his body.
No . . . it can’t be.
He inched closer. The face was scarred, slightly dark, but there was no doubt it was her.
Gina!
He looked into the elevator and saw the smaller body, face down, wearing dirty blue pajamas.
“Ben!” he cried out and ran inside the elevator, pushing past the Guardsmen.
Brent turned the boy over to expose the blue Stanley Train shirt covered in dirt, grime, and blood, then picked his son up and cradled him in his arms.
“Put him down!” one of the Guardsmen commanded, putting a hand on Brent’s shoulder.
Brent turned, “This is my family!” he said.
Keenan held up a hand to tell the guard to stand down then turned to Brent.
“You can’t kill them,” Brent begged Keenan, tears streaming his cheeks as he stared at his son’s face, scarred, a cruel mask of the child he once was. His eyes were closed, eyelids darkened. Nearly black. God only knew what his eyes looked like beneath the lids.
“Please,” Brent begged. He looked up and found Keenan’s eyes. “Please,” he repeated. “We can’t bring them back to Black Island.”
* * * *
TO BE CONTINUED . . .
NEXT TUESDAY (JAN. 17, 2012)
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CONVERSATION WITH AUTHORS SEAN PLATT AND DAVID WRIGHT
We’ve gotten some great feedback from readers since Season One of Yesterday’s Gone. We’ve also gotten a lot of questions from both readers and fellow writers. In January, we put out a call for questions and sat down (virtually, since Sean and I live in different states) to discuss the questions.
Here’s the conversation:
WHAT INSPIRED YESTERDAY’S GONE?
DAVID: As Sean and I watched the digital publishing revolution unfolding, we saw an opportunity to do something we’ve long wanted to do but would never have gotten a chance to do under traditional publishing — serialized fiction. As fans of Stephen King’s The Green Mile, and serialized TV like The Wire, LOST, Carnivale, Deadwood, The Sopranos, The Walking Dead, Mad Men, Breaking Bad and a bunch of other shows, we LOVE the whole concept of “To be continued . . .”
Given that traditional publishers don’t even embrace the format with proven authors, there was no way in hell they’d touch the format from a couple of unknown writers. But that’s the thing about this revolution, the power has shifted, and now writers like us can write the things we want to write.
Common wisdom says there’s not a huge audience for serialized fiction. But we feel that’s about to change with eBooks. We’ve gotten great response from readers for Season One, and have since heard from many writers who are planning to pursue serialization.
SEAN: Serialized fiction isn’t really new, it’s actually a really old way of doing things. It’s how Dickens released the majority of his work. Readers love open loops and cliffhanger endings because it gives them more to think about, pulls them deeper into the narrative, and gives them a deeper connection with the characters, as well as investment in their story. And that’s what an author wants most, for their reader to care about their story.
I love TV. But the TV I think about when I’m not watching, are the shows that leave me asking questions and wanting answers. It’s a ridiculously fun way to watch a story, so surely it would be a ridiculously fun way to write one, too.
And it was. Just as television shows are shot with scenes out of order, that’s how we wrote Yesterday’s Gone. Dave wrote his scenes and I wrote mine, then we went into post production together, edited into a unified story with the best possible flow.
We’re thrilled that it worked, both for us as writers and you as a reader, because our inspiration flies far beyond this title. Writing Yesterday’s Gone has been so much fun, and so creatively rewarding, we can’t wait to follow it up.
WHAT HAPPENED TO THE WORLD? WHAT KEPT THESE PARTICULAR PEOPLE ALIVE?
David: You’re gonna learn what happened to the world real early in the season. That’s one of the answers we knew we HAD to answer early on. One of the criticisms I heard for Season One is we (the writers) didn’t answer that many questions. One person even suggested the theories that we posited were ridiculous and showed no understanding of quantum theory. The thing to remember is that the speculations about what happened in Season One were from the mouths and minds of the people trying to figure out what the hell happened. The explanations weren’t informed in any way by knowledge, but rather people with limited knowledge, trying to figure shit out.
Imagine if you and your friends woke up and most of the world was gone. Unless you’re a scientist, or well-versed in scientific theories, you’re probably gonna say more stuff that sounds crazy and far fetched than things which make sense. As a reader, you are limited to what the character whose point of view the chapter is, knows.
That being said, you’ll get a peek at someone a bit closer to the original event early in Season Two.
As for what kept these particular people alive, that would be spoiling one of the bigger secrets. Sorry.
SEAN: I’ll add that this was one of the most rewarding parts of writing the second season for us, was really putting all of this together. When we started writing, we didn’t necessarily know what happened to everyone, though we’d certainly batted around a few ideas. But by Season Two, we needed to know a lot more about our world, even if the characters didn’t.
Dave did a lot of the heavy lifting for this part of the story, and did an amazing job threading everything together. I couldn't be happier with the story’s direction, or more proud of the world building that’s been done since the first season concluded.
WHO WAS YOUR FAVORITE CHARACTER TO WRITE? WHO WAS THE HARDEST?
DAVID: I know Sean’s answer to this before he gives it! My favorite was probably Brent Foster, only because he’s similar to me. Brent is an overworked journalist with a young son, trying to do the best he can to keep his family together and doing what he feels to be the right thing even as he distances himself from his family.
I approached his story thinking, how would I respond? Some of his scenes in Season One, particularly the one where he laid in bed with his son and came to the realization that he was an absent father, were difficult to write because it was an admittance of my own feelings to that effect. I actually cried when I finished that scene.
The hardest to write for me was probably Boricio, because that is all Sean’s creation, and his dialogue is way over the top. It’s hard for me to get the voice just right, and we don’t want Boricio to become a caricature of himself. It’s a fine line. I think Boricio’s dialogue might be the closest we’ve come to disagreeing with each other. Arguments over Boricio could be an entertaining inclusion for a book! Sean: “Why can’t we call him a cum-colored cracker?” Me: “That doesn’t even make sense!”
SEAN: Ha, that’s too funny. Dave’s not exaggerating. We actually have that email. There’s no doubt, I love writing Boricio and even have fun rewriting Dave’s interpretation. He’s a ridiculously over the top character, sure, but I do think we fill him with enough fun to make him a blast to read. I thought he would be more polariz
ing than he was. I figured some people would love and some would hate, and it would be around half and half. But it seems like most people enjoy reading him. My wife’s the best litmus test. When I read Boricio’s parts out loud and she’s smiling, I know I’ve done a good job. I would even give Boricio his standalone series, but Dave won’t let me. So you need to speak up, send him an email, and let him know how wrong he is. GO TEAM BORICIO!!!
As far as the most difficult to write, that’s Luca for me, by far. Part of him is easy because I have a son his age, but my son isn’t fighting voices in his head, or aging years in seconds. Getting his voice just right is difficult. It’s also funny that some of the criticism for the unrealistic dialogue of Luca are things I’ve taken directly from my own son. BONUS FUN FACT: My son named Boricio and knows about the character, though he only knows he is a “bad guy” and doesn’t know any specifics.
WHAT WAS THE BIGGEST CHALLENGE IN WRITING YESTERDAY’S GONE?
SEAN: Knowing the story we wanted to tell. We never wanted to build out so much of the story out that we left nothing to discover along the way, but we also didn’t want to leave so much to chance that we wrote ourselves into a corner, or made the story a molecule less than what the reader deserved.
Finding the just right between the magic of surprise and the intelligence of plotting was instrumental to delivering the best stories possible. But it’s hard to know where that just right is. Because the first season started from nothing, we were able to make up more of it as we went along in the first couple of episodes. By the end of the first three episodes, we were much more focused on specific spots the story needed to hit so we could deliver a more rewarding payoff at the end.
Yesterdays Gone: SEASON TWO (THE POST-APOCALYPTIC SERIAL THRILLER) (Yesterday's Gone) Page 9