Yesterday's Gone: Seasons 1-6 Complete Saga

by Sean Platt

  He pushed her aside, staring into the camera, intent on finishing his message, “The Darkness is coming. The Great All Seeing has showed me how close it is. Fix your Current now, for Darkness is coming to claim us.”

  Her father coughed again, and more blood spewed from his cracked lips; the dark-red spatters were thick, relentless, a certain and too-colorful sign of a second death only so many seconds away.

  “Doctor, help him!”

  Her father began to violently shake, like a seizure amplified by an electric current through his entire body. He jerked his head back hard into the headboard, repeatedly, each time leaving a deeper, more sickening crunch.

  “Daddy!” Marina screamed, throwing herself between the headboard and his head, trying to stop him from bashing his skull into squash.

  But it was too late.

  He slumped into Marina, looking up at her with wide, scared eyes. Blood gurgled from his mouth.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t save them,” he said, though she had no idea who he meant by “them.”

  Four days after passing for the first time, Josh Harmon died again in his daughter’s arms.

  TO BE CONTINUED …

  ::Episode 22::

  (FOURTH EPISODE OF SEASON FOUR)

  “Bullies”

  Twenty-Five

  Boricio Wolfe

  By the time Boricio realized what in the fuck was happening, he had a holy trinity of bullshit approaching at once.

  Right in front of him, some gash of a waitress wielding a knife, yanking it from her apron like it was a pad and a pen and she was waiting for Boricio to snap for biscuits and gravy. A fat fuck who looked like a skinhead version of Ralphie May was swinging a machete like he was hacking sugar cane, and an Ichabod Crane-lookin’ cocksucker, whistling air with a crowbar.

  Boricio stepped in front of Mary and said, “Trust me?”

  Like she has any choice.

  Her swallow was almost louder than her words. “I trust you.”

  “Good, then stay the fuck back.”

  Boricio charged off from Mary, headed for the fat fuck with the machete first. The fucker swung. Boricio ducked, falling hard on his ass in front of Ralphie May. He kicked up with his right leg and collapsed the fat fuck’s left knee, bringing him down in a scream. He dropped his machete, and Boricio grabbed it, and thrust the blade up into the fucker’s gut, twisting the handle as he wrapped his left hand around the asshole’s neck, picked the fat fuck up somehow, and spun himself behind Ralphie’s giant body just as the crowbar and knife both hit it.

  The crowbar landed with a wet-sounding squish — awful enough to draw a smile on Boricio — as the knife hit his flesh with a sickening THUNK!

  Boricio cried out, “Yee-haw!” from behind Ralphie, to let Mary know he was fine, then yelled, “Get behind the fagmobile!” meaning the Mini-Cooper, the closest car to Mary.

  Even with a machete decorating his chest, Ralphie kept growling. Boricio stepped back, dragging the fat fucker behind him, still using his giant body for cover with surprising strength, then a few feet away pulled out the machete and plunged it back in, repeatedly until the fat fuck stopped squirming on the ground.

  Boricio smiled at the remaining pair, daring a quick stare around the garage, more worried that someone else would step into their skirmish than he was about losing his life to either of the others, both still staring at Boricio with eyes as empty as any he’d ever seen.

  He wanted to take out Ichabod next, but the waitress came on him faster than Boricio anticipated. He ducked under another whistle of her blade, this one slicing a hunk of his hair, sending it fluttering like a feather to the ground as he swatted the waitress’ hand with the machete, severing it at the wrist and delivering both it and her knife to the asphalt.

  He turned toward Ichabod, plunged his machete straight through the wobbly gobbler’s heart, then froze when their eyes met. In an instant, Boricio was deluged with images, coming from the Ichabod fucker like a broadcast:

  A man stared into the mirror, his eyes red and milky as he shoved the barrel of a Magnum under his chin — behind the curtain of a foot-long beard — and pulled the trigger, sending chum from his freshly opened skull into an arc of red slop, erupting from his head like a volcano onto the wall behind him as his vision turned black.

  A woman leapt onto a baby carriage, opening her mouth like a shark to tear into a baby’s neck. A huddle of women yanked her away, but she gnashed and tore at them like an animal as they wrestled her to the ground.

  A man screamed his way through a department store, flooded with shoppers, through the store’s bottom floor filled with shoes, up one escalator then another, and into a top-floor lingerie department, waving a hatchet and dropping bodies as he ran, until he was finally felled by a guard who lost his life leaping on top of the monster.

  The atrocities were all connected, and each somehow strung to the bullshit before him. Boricio knew it as fact because the truth was bleeding from the trio’s connection and out of Ichabod’s eyes.

  Boricio cried out again, this time in an icy fear he wasn’t used to, then stopped Ichabod from breathing with a twist of his blade, and pulled it out to give the gash of a waitress what she had coming.

  Three more swings, then bodies lined the ground in a row.

  “You OK?” Boricio called out to Mary.

  She shook her head, peeking up from behind the faggot mobile, then timidly stepped out in front of it, shaking.

  “What … happened?”

  Boricio tightened his grip around the machete’s handle, sweating, his heart racing, and mind still more concerned about someone else joining the fray — good, evil, or otherwise — than anything else.

  “I don’t know,” he glanced around, “but I’m feeling all sorts a shit that ain’t making sense.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Mary sounded more scared than Boricio had heard since the dead world. He swallowed, still looking around. Seeing nothing, he turned back to Mary. “I don’t know,” he said, searching for words, trying to explain. “It’s … ”

  After too long of nothing, Mary said, “It’s what, Boricio?”

  He swallowed again. “IT’S here.”

  “What do you mean, ‘it’s here?’ What’s here?”

  “No, Mother Mary, not it’s, IT’S: Whatever IT was we thought we left behind, IT’S back, here, on this world. And IT’s after us, sure as a second season of a show called, Rich People Fucking. The three of them,” he waved his machete at the bodies. Ichabod twitched, and Boricio plunged the machete into him again, like spiking a football. “They’re all connected … somehow … and they’re targeting us, as in you and me, or at least me.”

  “How can you know that?”

  “I just do.”

  Mary looked like she was killing a scream. “So what now?”

  “First,” Boricio said, “we’ve gotta get rid of these bodies.”

  “How are we going to do that?”

  Boricio laughed, a wicked, cracking guffaw. “Do I ask you how to make blueberry muffins?”

  “No,” Mary said. “And I’d probably have to ask you anyway. Paola says I shouldn’t try to bake.”

  Boricio pointed to a Chevy Tahoe with Utah plates. “That one, we’re gonna shove ‘em in the back for now.”

  “What if the driver leaves?”

  “Then we’re in more shit than the crap we’re in now, but we’ve got seconds to do something, sister, and not a lot of choices in our bowl. We need to buy time, but it ain’t cheap, and the price is climbing by the minute. We’ll stash the cadavers, go upstairs, grab the girls, and get the fuck out of this hotel. Fortunately, I don’t see any cameras here, so maybe we’re fine. I’ll get these stiffs to the Tahoe while they’re still soft, you make sure I’m not dripping. I’m counting on you to clean up after me.”

  “With what?” Mary asked, sounding uncharacteristically helpless.

  “You’ll figure it out.” Boricio reached down, flung the waitress
over his shoulder like a bag of nothing, then went to the Tahoe, broke in — American cars were easy as fuck — and tossed her into the back. He went back for Ichabod, lifting the man like he, too, was nothing, then finally Ralphie May. The fat fuck was bloodiest and required Mary’s help.

  After the bodies were stashed, she gestured toward Boricio, then to herself. “We can’t go in there like this, we’re covered in blood.”

  “No shit, Watson,” he said, already making his way down a long row of cars, peering through windows one at a time until he found what he was looking for and helped himself inside the car, this time by breaking a window, then grabbed a suitcase from the back.

  Two minutes later they were both changed and walking through the hotel, Mary in clothes that were way too big, and Boricio in clothes that were way too small. They matched, with Boricio’s small, purple shirt saying SOUL and Mary’s large one saying, MATE.

  Mary said, “What if we run into the soul mates these belong to?”

  “Then we’ll have to kill them for not knowing when shit’s stupid.”

  Mary surprised Boricio by laughing.

  A minute later Boricio slid his keycard into their room door and opened it wide. Parted halfway, Rose said, “I was getting worried … ”

  Before she could finish her thought, Rose was looking from Mary to Boricio and back, calculating.

  “I’ll explain everything on the way,” Boricio said.

  Rose said, “On the way where?”

  Paola, suddenly frantic, cried out, “Are you okay, Mom?” Then, “What happened?”

  “Dealing with dead bodies wasn’t a part of tonight’s agenda,” Boricio said, like he was talking about emptying garbage, “so we need to get the fuck out of here 15 minutes ago.”

  “Bodies?” Rose said, “What are you talking about? What’s going on, Boricio? Are we in danger?”

  Boricio waved his hands like it was nothing.

  “You watch too much TV. This ain’t nothing. We’re not disposing so much as fleeing.”

  “Fleeing?”

  “Tell her it’s okay,” Boricio said to Mary.

  Mary said, “It’s not, okay,” then turned and set her hand on Rose’s shoulder. “We’ll explain everything as soon as we can, but right now, Boricio’s right. We have to get out of here and don’t have much time.”

  Boricio looked over at Rose, and for the first time realized he was moving too fast to think on shit proper. His lady’s bottom lip was quivering, and though he hated to admit it, his Morning Rose was shaking like a dog in the rain.

  Boricio stopped, forcing himself to think smarter, stronger, and more for her. He turned to Rose, gently planted one hand on each of her arms, then turned her toward him. “You trust me, Baby?”

  She nodded, slow but there.

  “Have I ever let you down?”

  After a second’s hesitation that Boricio didn’t like, she shook her head.

  Not missing a beat, he said, “That’s right, Ring Around the Rosie, and I’m sure as shit not about to start. All that stuff that happened to us on the other world, well it’s followed us home, and if we don’t get going right this minute, it’s gonna keep on following, and might just drag us into some fucked up sorta Hades. We’ve gotta go, all four of us, and that means you gotta come, because I can’t bear to think of waking tomorrow and not seeing you with me, okay, Baby?”

  Rose swallowed, nodded and said, “Okay.” It sounded like it took everything inside her to nudge the words from her mouth, but it would have to do.

  “Good girl,” Boricio smiled, then turned so he could see all three girls at once. “OK, we’re outta here in five, take only what’s necessary. If you can’t fit it in the first trip down, it ain’t worth taking.”

  “We only made one trip up,” Mary said. “We’ll be ready in two.”

  Boricio winked. “Blue ribbon with a gold star for Mary!”

  Rose said, “But we can’t leave, Boricio. I’m signing the contract in a few days, and I need to bring the girls to Marina’s. We have to help Paola!”

  “We are helping her, but we can’t get to fixing whatever needs fixing if we don’t get her, and us, to safety first. You understand?”

  Boricio waited for Rose to nod, then added, “And of course we’ll take care of your contracts, we just need to stay in L.A. — that’s not a problem, there are plenty of rooms in this city, and at least half aren’t booked by whores, so we’ll find something post haste. But this hotel right here’s a no-go, which means we’ve gotta relocate A-fucking-SAP. Once we’re safe and in a new spot, I’ll go out and get us some guns.”

  “Guns!” Rose cried out, eyes dilating from scared to terrified.

  Boricio was about to explain to his Morning Rose why guns weren’t a luxury when Mary practically did it for him.

  “No problem,” she said, then disappeared into her room, returning seconds later with a duffel bag.

  Boricio eyed it as she entered, a good idea what he’d see once she unzipped it. “Damn, Girl,” he said, “and you said you only made one trip?”

  “Even if I had two, I wouldn’t have left this one for a second.”

  Mary plopped the duffel onto the bed, then unzipped it to a carnival of pistols, knives, and first aid supplies.

  Boricio whistled. “Da-yum, Mary Mary, that’s enough to take care of your little lamb, and a whole goddamned flock! Though it would’ve been nice if you had one down in the garage!”

  Mary looked at Paola, then back to Boricio, finding a smile on her way. “Yeah, but I figured I was safe with my big guard dog,” she winked at Rose. “As for the guns, Desmond taught me well: Always be prepared.”

  “Ya done good, kid,” he said, laughing as he tousled Mary’s hair.

  “Thanks.”

  Rose was a hazy shade of white.

  Paola said, “When are you gonna tell us what happened downstairs?”

  Boricio promised: “The minute we get the fuck outta here.”

  They gathered their things, left the room, then went downstairs and crossed the lobby, pausing for seconds at a story on the TV about some mass shooting at a school. Boricio felt a flash of memory, as if it, too, had something to do with the bullshit going on tonight.

  They walked by the Faggot Mobile, then the Tahoe — which had no attention on it — and over to Mary’s Volvo.

  Despite Boricio’s promise to tell Rose everything the second they got in the car, they drove for 15 minutes before anyone whispered a word.

  Twenty-Six

  Luca Harding

  Luca sat on the bleachers staring at his gym classmates as they were having fun playing soccer. He wanted to play, too, but yesterday Johnny Thomas threatened to “kill him” in today’s game.

  While Luca didn’t think the bully would actually murder him, he did think it highly likely, if not certain, that Johnny Thomas would use soccer as an excuse to hurt him. He could plead to the coach, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to break Luca’s arm. It was an accident.”

  So, Luca lied to the coach and said he’d left his gym shorts and shirt at home, when in truth he had hidden them in his locker. Luca felt bad lying, suffering a knot in his throat that got thick as he told it, so big he was sure the coach could probably see it.

  Coach Carmichael was a heavyset, sunburned man in his 40s with thick, sun-bleached blond hair, who, depending on the day, could either be the most intimidating man in school, or the funniest. He was always nice to Luca, which made him feel even guiltier every time the coach looked over at him in the bleachers.

  The only other people in the bleachers were Andy Daniels and Trevor Banks, polar opposites on the popularity scale. Andy was the quiet, fat kid who never dressed out, and who didn’t seem to care if he failed the class. He was lost in his own world, reading books and drawing pictures of monsters in his spiral notebook. Trevor was one of the more popular kids in school, tall and athletic, but also super-laid back. Cool. Trevor was one of those kids who everyone — from the jocks to the rich kid
s to the comic book geeks — seemed to like, especially girls.

  Trevor also said he’d forgotten his gym clothes, which had made Luca’s fib seem all the more obvious, like the two had concocted the lie together, even though Trevor had barely ever spoken to Luca, except for one time when he asked if Luca minded him cutting in the lunch line.

  Though three of them sat in the bleachers, they couldn’t have been sitting farther apart if they’d tried.

  Andy sat on the bottom row, Luca in the middle, and Trevor up top, leaning back against the rails, staring up at the clouds and thinking about whatever it was cool kids thought about. Luca glanced at the field and saw Johnny Thomas staring at him. Luca quickly found his feet, not wanting to make eye contact.

  Luca had so far managed to avoid whatever Johnny had planned on doing to him, but he couldn’t avoid it forever. He couldn’t “forget” his gym clothes every class. And there were still several other times during the school day when Johnny could hurt him, even if it wasn’t a sanctioned “accidental hit” during soccer. Eventually, Luca would have to do what his father said: end the torment by standing up to the bully.

  In theory, it made sense. Fight back. Don’t be a wimp. But in practice, Luca was terrified. Bullies didn’t play by the rules. When Luca was younger, the most he had to worry about was someone pushing him off a slide or something. But Johnny was crazy, and there was no telling what he was capable of. Johnny was the same kid who, last summer, found a rabbit on the side of the road and started stomping it, laughing the entire time like it was a skit on Incredible Crew. Though Luca hadn’t seen the rabbit incident, he’d heard the story from enough people to know it was true.

  Something was seriously wrong with Johnny Thomas, and whatever that seriously something was, it scared Luca inside out.

  He heard footsteps on the metal planks behind him, and turned, surprised to see Trevor standing over him, looking down.