Yesterdays Gone: SEASON TWO (THE POST-APOCALYPTIC SERIAL THRILLER) (Yesterday's Gone)

by Platt, Sean;Wright, David

  “Where in Arkansas?” Quiet Eyes asked.

  “Up around Subiaco,” Boricio said, not missing a beat.

  Quiet Eyes didn’t push the point. He said, “Yeah, it’s a punishment box. Right now it’s holding a little girl named Rebecca.”

  Boricio whistled. “What’d she do?”

  “She snuck out of here with an older boy. The two of them went on a picnic.” He turned to Boricio. “What do you think? Does the punishment fit the crime?”

  “Well,” Boricio said. “That does seem mighty harsh to me, but if we ever needed to refine the old rules, it’s now. Wouldn’t you say?”

  Quiet Eyes didn’t answer. Neither did Stuck Up Bitch. A young guy who must’ve been part of his crew answered instead. “That’s my friend, Rebecca, in there. And she doesn’t deserve to be in there at all.”

  Boricio got a sudden flash of something he didn’t like, and he got it from the kid, who had his hand out before Boricio even knew what he was doing. The kid’s hand was halfway to his when Boricio realized where he’d seen him before.

  It’s the kid from my fucking dreams.

  The one who goes from young fucker to old.

  The one who can see right through to Boricio’s middle.

  On the outside, the kid looked like he could’ve been anywhere from 17-20. But Boricio could see right through to his middle, too, and could hear the chanting of awe-awe-awe-awesome looping in his mind.

  Boricio shook the kid’s hand, holding it as long as he could, absorbing the boy’s memories, watching him play in the bedroom of an empty house with a young bald girl, Legos assembled in half-finished wedges scattered across the floor. Boricio pulled back with a horrible feeling that he’d lost some of his life as time turned soupy inside him.

  What the fuck?

  The man-boy stared at Boricio, and the mind fuck he was feeling was like nothing else he’d ever felt before, at least not on this side of being awake.

  Boricio went on autopilot, answering questions and doing his best to make sure everyone felt comfortable and relaxed around him, except for Man Boy and Quiet Eyes and Stuck Up Bitch, and teenage Stuck Up Bitch who had come up beside her. People thickened around them as more members of the congregation crowed about to hear Boricio’s tales of survival and hunting Demons on the way to his new life at The Sanctuary.

  The more the congregation laughed, the more Boricio could feel Quiet Eyes and his Three Fuckerteers pulling farther away.

  Boricio wanted to break from conversation and follow the Fuckerteers so he could see where they were going, but John was suddenly beside Boricio with his hand on his shoulder. Boricio pretended that the hand on his shoulder didn’t make him want to break it off at the wrist and find some wolves to feed it to. He said, “Yes, Brother John, how can I be of service?” instead.

  John said, “I’d like for you to come with me, if you can spare a minute. I think you’d enjoy talking to Brother Rei. He’s dying to learn more about you. Not just your past, but what you’re good at now. He wants to make sure you’re as happy here at The Sanctuary as you can be. He’d like to talk to you about how you see yourself fitting in.”

  John walked off toward the main house, and Boricio followed.

  He had to get his shit together. He was losing himself to the mess in his mind. He didn’t know what to do, where to go, whom to kill, or how to do it. As is, shit was bad. Boricio always had the edge because he was always in control. If Boricio lost control, he’d lose the edge, and anything could happen then.

  Boricio was also pissed as fuck that his crew had decided to bail. Maybe he’d made a mistake coming back out here to find them. Sure would be fucking nice to have some back-up right about now. Maybe Chuckie Fuckstick would have an idea or two.

  What the fuck, Boricio? Get you're fuckin' act together. Who the fuck cares if those twats go their own merry fuckin' way. Team Boricio only needs its star playa to be a winner, and that's its hung-like-a-lion, blood of a pirate, captain.

  That pep-talk and his holier-than-thou surroundings had never made Boricio want to kill more.

  No one was safe.

  He wanted to kill all the Bible fuckers for fucking the Bible, the Stuck Up Bitch for looking like a stuck up bitch, and her daughter for sharing the bitchy DNA.

  Boricio figured he’d have no choice but to kill the kid who could see to his middle.

  But Boricio would have to start with Quiet Eyes, especially since he finally figured out what it was that pissed him off so much about the motherfucker.

  Quiet Eyes thought he was better than Boricio.

  Boricio could practically smell it, like a stench on his body.

  And no one was better than Boricio.

  * * * *

  WILL BISHOP: PART 4

  Ft. Lauderdale, Florida

  November 11, 1995

  morning

  It was one of those dreams. The kind he hadn’t had since a year earlier, when he’d first been warned that Sam would be injured by the drunk driver.

  In this dream, warning, or blackened promise, Sam died lying in his hospital bed. Never opened his eyes, never said a word, never saw that Will was beside him. He just faded into the long kiss goodnight. In the dream, Will cried out to whatever thing pulled the strings above the prophetic dreams that plagued him, “Why?! Why couldn’t you warn me?”

  “We did, last year, and you found a loophole,” an unknown voice whispered from the warm womb in the middle of his dream. “We found a loophole to your loophole. You can’t change fate. And now it’s time to correct the error. Loopholes go round, Will. Everything in a circle. No escape.”

  “But he wasn’t supposed to die in the original plan! He’d only been paralyzed,” Will shouted to the unseen voice.

  “And he was . . . until you interfered.”

  Will woke to the ache of the uncomfortable waiting room chair, the sound of Trudy’s voice pulling him from the mire. “Do you want to see him?”

  “I thought I wasn’t allowed,” Will said, surprised.

  “Yeah, well, you know how I can be,” she said, attempting a smile. Her eyes and nose were red from a long night of crying.

  “How is he?”

  “Not good,” she said. “There is a lot of swelling in his brain, and right now, anything could happen. He could wake up and be fine, or wake up with brain damage, or . . . He could stay in a coma and be a vegetable, or . . . die.”

  Trudy’s mouth opened into a painful grimace, a long string of saliva hanging until it popped, as she let out a long wail.

  Will hugged her, and held her tight as she cried on his shoulder.

  “I’m so sorry,” Will said, now crying himself.

  “He really loves you,” Trudy said. “I’m so sorry that I gave you such a hard time. He must hate me so much.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Will said, hugging her harder. “He loves you, too. He thinks the world of you, Trudy. He could never hate you. Not ever.”

  They hugged a while longer, until the nurse appeared, a broomstick-thin black woman who looked like she just started her shift. The same nurse from his dream.

  “Are you ready?”

  “Yes,” Will said as she led him to Sam’s room. Trudy said she’d wait for him in the waiting room.

  **

  Will nearly fainted when he saw Sam getting eaten alive by an army of wires, all being fed by the bank of machines behind him.

  There was a tube in his mouth, electrodes crawling all over his body, IVs, and a catheter tube, which emptied Sam’s piss and stored it in a bag. His face was swollen and violet, a severe gash marked his left cheek, where surgeons had stitched his skin back together. His head was shaved and bandaged.

  Will’s knees buckled as he drew closer, and he swallowed his grief.

  The nurse hovered in the background, “I’ll be back in a few minutes. If you need anything, just call down the hall.”

  Will thought about the dream he had before Trudy woke him. He shrugged the deja vu from h
is shoulders, recognizing the nurse from the dream. She had left him alone in the room in the dream, too. Minutes later, Sam was dead.

  No, no, no.

  Tears painted his face.

  Please, God, whoever, don’t do this to him. He is such a good, kind, sweet man. I’ve never known anyone so selfless and caring as Sam. Someone who would give you the shirt off his back even if it were snowing.

  Will thought back on how they’d met, five years earlier at one of those gaudy chain stores, no less. They met in the poetry section. Will noticed Sam staring blankly at the neat rows of books for more than five minutes, and wondered if he were checking him out. It wasn’t often Will saw anyone in the poetry section, let alone another guy, except the occasional college student trudging through a paper or looking to impress a girl.

  “Are you familiar with this stuff?” Sam asked.

  “A little,” Will said. “Looking for a gift, or something for yourself?”

  “Neither,” Sam said sheepishly, “I’m trying to impress someone.”

  “Ah,” Will said, “And is this someone a classical romantic, modern, maybe a fan of beat poetry?”

  “I have no clue,” Sam said, “He’s this cute guy I saw, and I . . . Ah, I’m just gonna come out with it. I just wanted to strike up a conversation with you.”

  Will smiled, surprised that the guy was gay, since Will had a pretty damned good gaydar, but also surprised that he was approaching Will. He seemed a bit too pretty to be attracted to a guy like Will, who was a bit too casual about his appearance.

  “I’m sorry,” Sam said, “This is so awkward. I never do stuff like this. But I saw you here last week, and I wanted an excuse to talk to you, but I’ve gotta be honest, I don’t like poetry. I’m a Lawrence Block guy. My name is Sam.”

  “Will,” Will said, shaking the man’s hand, firm but soft.

  “You into poetry?” Sam asked.

  “A bit,” Will said, “I used to have a big collection, but I moved around a lot, and don’t really feel like building the bookshelves again. So I come here on the weekends and thumb through some classics, and check out what’s new.”

  “That’s cool,” Sam said, shuffling his feet on the carpet, obviously trying to think of something to say.

  “You’re new at picking up guys?” Will said so matter-of-factly that Sam burst into laughter.

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “Well, most guys don’t dress up so nicely on a Saturday morning to hit the bookstores, unless they’re leaving their John Hancock on the first page.”

  “Was that a compliment?” Sam asked, flirting fairly well for a rookie.

  “Maybe,” Will said, smiling back. “Tell you what. How about I recommend a good poetry book, and you tell me which Block book I should buy.”

  “OK,” Sam said, as Will took his time perusing the shelf for a great first read.

  Will could feel Sam trying not to look at him. Will would have blushed if he were a few years younger. He wasn’t a committed relationship guy, and hated to let himself get carried away with the idea of new relationships. He preferred them short and sweet. Sam seemed, even in their first exchange, serious and longterm. Will would entertain the notion, though, and see where it led. He moved closer to Sam, caught his scent — a light cologne he didn’t recognize, a bit of lavender, but not overpowering like many men wore. This scent accented Sam, not defined him. Will loved the confidence.

  “Okay,” Will said, walking toward Sam with two books in his left and one in his right. “Good things come in three,” he handed the first book to Sam, “and I figured these were good to start.”

  Sam looked at the collection of Poe. “Really?”

  Will shook his head. “No, not really. He’s just someone you’re supposed to like. Start here instead.” He handed Sam a copy of Tarantula by Bob Dylan. “You’ll love that,” he said. “Dylan at his best. Twisting words like they were tiny tornadoes, better here than on a lot of the records. Like Guthrie and Whitman got stoned together. It’s great, I promise.”

  Sam was wearing the widest smile Will had ever seen in a bookstore. Will held up a copy of e.e. cummings.

  “Isn’t this another one I’m supposed to like?” Sam said.

  “Well, yes. But because he’s great, not because your teacher told you to. Cummings is a master of metaphor and blather. He’ll have stupid, random words and phrases thrown in a poem, then suddenly make you laugh out loud with the beauty of a perfect phrase, right there in the middle of his mess. Like a rose in a war zone. Hidden meter, gorgeous imagery, comfort and inspiration. Plus, it’s sexy.”

  Sam’s smile finally stretched itself all the way into a laugh.

  Will continued.

  “Cummings said one of my favorite things ever: ‘To be nobody but yourself in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting.’ Buy this book. You will read it often.”

  Will handed the book to Sam. Their fingers touched, and Will felt a chill. The good kind, not the creepy kind he got from so many men.

  Sam led him to the fiction section and picked out a book, The Sins of the Fathers. “You’ll love it,” Sam said. “Maybe?”

  Will smiled, “Maybe.”

  They met for coffee a week later so Sam could rave about cummings. Will read his book cover to cover, then picked up the next in the series. “Pretty damned good,” he said. “I’ve never been much of a fiction guy, save for some old science fiction stuff back when I was young. But I liked it; thank you.”

  Will hadn’t thought he’d like crime fiction. And he hadn’t thought he’d like a long-term relationship. He was happily wrong on both accounts.

  The coffee turned to dinner, turned to six years later, turned to now — Will standing in the ICU, watching his love leave the world of the living.

  He touched Sam’s arm, hesitantly, afraid he might set off alarms, or cause Sam to die on the spot.

  Sam’s eyes opened.

  Will’s heart swelled.

  The dream was wrong! Which means that . . .

  No, don’t jinx this.

  Sam’s eyes tried to surface through confusion, just like his tongue tried to get itself to talk. Maybe he finally realized that he was hooked to a ventilator; his eyes and tongue stopped trying at the same time.

  “You’re in the hospital,” Will said softly, “But I’m here now. So is Trudy.”

  Sam’s eyes filled with water. Will hoped he wasn’t feeling much pain.

  “Don’t try to talk; you’re hooked up to a ventilator. I should probably get the doctor.”

  Sam shook his head no, his eyes now tearing, and he spoke.

  “Don’t, Will. I’m dying.”

  Except he hadn’t spoken.

  He was thinking. And Will was hearing it.

  Will was certain he was imagining it, wanting to hear Sam speak to him, but no, Sam’s voice spoke again.

  “I’m scared.”

  Will turned to him, crying, “I’m scared, too.”

  Will turned, and called out, “Nurse! Doctor!” Then Will hit the alarm beside the bed.

  The monitor began to beep faster as alarms rang on the machines.

  “What’s happening?” Will asked the staff rushing into the room.

  “Sir, I’m gonna need you to wait outside,” a surgeon said. One of the nurses stepped in front of Will to push him away.

  “Will? What’s happening?” Sam called out in his mind.

  And then Will was outside the room, looking in through the window.

  That was the last thing Sam would say, if Will had even really heard his thoughts.

  “Will? What’s happening?”

  He died afraid, as his lover was wrestled from him. Inside, Will died that night, too.

  He thought he’d found a loophole.

  He’d saved Sam from one fate only to deliver him to a worse one.

  Will walked down the hall and
found Trudy, but could not bear to tell her she missed Sam opening his eyes. Fate might be cruel, but Will was not.

  * *

  The Sanctuary

  March 25

  7:11 p.m.

  The cold night air was as cruel as the goodbyes, freezing Will’s joints even beneath the thick pants and jacket he wore. Will walked to the car, a black Honda which John said was his to keep, along with a bag of supplies.

  Will wished they hadn’t been waiting outside by the gate to see him off. Yet, there they were — Mary, Desmond, Paola, Luca, Linc, and even John. Brother Rei kept a respectable distance, surprisingly, back at the porch in front of the main house. He couldn’t tell for certain, but he thought the weasel was smiling.

  Desmond was first to say goodbye, reaching out to shake Will’s hand.

  “I’m sorry to see you go,” Desmond said, pulling Will into an embrace.

  “Luca told me. Don’t worry,” Desmond whispered.

  Will pulled away, and Mary came to him, tears in her eyes, “Thank you so much for saving Paola. I will never forget your selflessness and kindness. Or our many weird conversations where I always felt like a kid in grammar school pretending to keep up.”

  She laughed through the tears, as did Will.

  Paola hugged him, “Goodbye, Mr. Will. Thank you for everything.”

  “Anytime, sweetheart. You stay good for your mom, okay?”

  She smiled, wiping tears from her eyes.

  Luca was next, the closest thing to a son he’d ever have — this child turned teen in the span of months. Tears streamed down Luca’s face, real tears, even though Will told him he’d be back. Maybe Luca knew more than he’d let on. Maybe he’d had the same dreams Will had. Or maybe the boy had read his mind, even though Will thought he’d been able to guard those thoughts.

  Will hugged him, hard, both of them crying.

  “Thank you,” Luca said, collapsing completely to tears.