Yesterday's Gone: Season Six (2 page)

“A daughter. She’s ten and has a terrible fever.”

“You sick?” The man who’d taken Paul’s gun fell two steps back, still aiming at his forehead.
 

“No, no, she, I mean, we, survived the sickness. She has something else, and she’s burning up. She’ll die without those pills.”

The scarred man said, “We’re all gonna die anyway.”

Paul looked to Ruddy Face. “Please, sir, just one bottle. You can keep my gun. Just let me get back to my daughter. She’s lost her mother already.”

The old man stared at Paul, evaluating.

“I got a better idea,” the scarred man said. “Why don’t you take us to your place and give us your stuff?”

“We don’t have much,” Paul lied, meeting his awful eyes. He got a glimpse of the man’s stream of thoughts. He was already picturing shooting Paul right in the head. Maybe he’d even make the little girl watch, before he turned his attentions on her.

“I don’t believe you. Stand up. We’re going to your place.”

Shit.

Paul had to play this cool. There was no time to try and infiltrate all of their minds. If he chose the wrong target, he could trigger a chain reaction of unintended horrors. He’d nearly caused a riot early after The Fall, and had been lucky to escape with his life.

He met Ruddy’s eyes, trying to figure out the relationship between the men. If he was their father, why was Scarred Man barking orders? Was
he
their leader?

“Come on, Tony, let’s just let him be,” said the young man holding Paul’s gun.

Tony is the scarred one’s name. And he is their leader.
 

Who is the older man?

Tony snapped, “I didn’t ask for your opinion, so shut the fuck up, Marco.”

Tony stepped forward and aimed his pistol between Paul’s eyes. “You gonna get up, or you wanna die right here?”

The man glared at Paul, revealing his issues with disrespect. Paul had to be careful not to piss him off and make it personal. At the same time, he had to stand his ground. A man like Tony wouldn’t respect weakness, and would see it as further invitation to take. He had to tread the line carefully. If Paul was
too strong
, Tony would see him as a threat to his authority and shoot him on principle.

Paul stood, meeting Tony’s eyes.
 

“Tell you what,” Paul said, “I’m not going to give you everything. I have a child to look out for. She needs medicine. And we need some supplies. But I understand what’s happening and will give you everything I can if you leave us be.”

“That’s not good enough.” Tony’s eyes narrowed on Paul.

“Then you may as well kill me. If I give you the medicine, my daughter’s dead.”

Paul wouldn’t back down. His heart raced, hoping his gambit would work. If not, Emily was waiting for a father who wouldn’t come home. The thought of her alone — scared, waiting, wondering if her father had left her abandoned or orphaned — was breaking his heart.

He couldn’t show his sorrow. Had to be braver than he was.

Paul looked from Tony to Ruddy Face, going into his head.
 

His name was Frank, and he was sick of Tony’s shit. The younger man was constantly challenging his authority and pushing Frank to do things. But at the same time, Frank knew that Tony had won over the others. If he screwed up, they all might turn on him.

Paul decided to use this division in their ranks to his advantage. He looked past Tony, ignoring him, and spoke directly to Frank.

“Please, sir,” he said to Frank, “just let me keep one bottle, and I’m on my way.”

“Why you talkin’ to
him?
” Tony said. “Look at me, motherfucker.
I’m
the one with the gun in your face.”

Paul continued staring at Frank. “I just wanna get home to my daughter.”

Tony cocked his arm back and swung, striking Paul hard across his forehead, knocking him back but not down.

Hot blood trickled into Paul’s eyes. The pain was a flea to the threat.

Paul stood silent, staring at Tony, waiting to see what the hothead would do.
 

He was tempted to reach back for his pistol, but he’d be lucky to land one or two shots before the others cut him down. He had to stay the course, hope he could talk some sense into Frank, or push thoughts into the man’s head to convince him to shut Tony down.
 

It would be easier, of course, if he could tap into Tony’s head and control him. But the man was riding a wave of anger, fear, and a meth high that made his mind a dangerous place to enter.

So Frank was Paul’s best shot.

Paul hadn’t just been the executive producer for
The Box
, he was heavily involved in casting. He’d never been terribly original with his show ideas, but Paul was inventively intuitive when it came to reading people and assembling casts for maximum drama. Plus, he was a telepath — able to read most people’s minds, and sometimes even to control them for short spurts. Having such a power made show business a natural path to follow. He could use his abilities under the radar while getting rich and not rocking too many boats or drawing unwanted attention from the powers-that-be.

Sure, critics hated
The Box
because it appealed to the lowest common denominator, but a lot of people appreciated the fights, the backstabbing, and the show’s many political machinations. Paul was a master of pitting people against one another.

Tony raised his gun, aiming it square between Paul’s eyes.
 

Paul pushed the thought into Frank’s head:
Am I really gonna let Tony do this?

Paul swallowed, heart racing, hoping he’d not misjudged the situation.

“Wait,” Frank said.

Tony looked back. “What?”

“Let him go.”

“What?”

“We don’t need this shit. Give him his medicine and gun. We’re letting him go.”

Paul had hoped to leave with his life, and maybe a bottle of pills, but the gun, too? His smile was hard to throttle.
 

“What the hell?” Tony said. “You letting this guy go because, what, he’s got a kid?”

“It’s not worth it,” Frank said, still cool. “He ain’t done nothin’ to us. Let’s just be on our way.”

Tony looked back at Paul like Daddy was telling him to return his toy to the shelf. But Tony wasn’t letting go. He shoved his gun back in Paul’s face then turned to the other men. “What do you two think? We letting this fucker go?”

Marco and the other one, whose name Paul didn’t yet know, exchanged glances, both avoiding the gaze of either Tony or Frank.
 

Paul could tell from snippets of Frank’s thoughts that he wasn’t father to any of the men. But he must’ve been someone who knew them before the world went to shit, someone who had their respect — otherwise Tony would’ve been leader. Whatever the struggle’s origins, it festered for a while.
 

Still calm, Frank said, “We’re letting him go. This isn’t up for debate.”

“No?” Tony turned his aim on Frank. “I say we have a vote. Everyone who thinks we should let this guy go, say nothing. Everyone who says we follow him home and get his stuff, raise your hands.”

The four men traded stares. Only Tony was aiming a gun, at Frank.

Paul watched the first nameless man raise his hand.
 

Marco followed.

Fuck.

Tony raised his empty hand. “Sorry, Frank, you’ve been outvoted.”

“This isn’t a democracy.” Frank raised his shotgun at Tony. “Now put your gun away, and let’s end this.”

“You’re right,” Tony said, “this isn’t a democracy. And we’re tired of taking orders from you. How about another vote — for a new leader? Raise your hands if you want me to lead.”

The unnamed man raised his hand; Paul’s gut somersaulted.

Marco’s hand creeped up.

The men voted, Tony’s back to Paul.

Now was his chance.

Paul drew his gun, aimed at the back of Tony’s head, and fired twice.

Gunshots thundered through the alley.

The three remaining men traded shots.

Marco fell back, a gunshot blast to the chest. Before the unnamed man could hit his target, Frank and Paul brought him down with another two shots. All the young men were dead.

It was just Paul and Frank left, staring each other down, guns aimed.

Paul’s hands shook. His heart raced, pounding loud below his ringing ears. He thought about pushing a thought into Frank’s head but didn’t think he needed the risk.

Frank stared at him but wasn’t taking the shot.

Paul raised his gun at the sky. “We good?”
 

Frank looked down at the men with no emotion and nodded. “We’re good.”

Frank went to each of their bodies, retrieved the men’s fallen bags, hoisted them over his shoulders, then reached into his jacket and pulled out three of the four bottles of antibiotics and tossed them, one at a time, to Paul.

“Be careful out there,” Frank said then turned to be on his way.

Paul let out a deep sigh of relief then went to the dead man who’d taken his gun. As Paul leaned over to get it, a cacophony of shrieks echoed off the buildings.

He spun around, gun raised, just in time to see a trio of black creatures descend from the shadows above, dropping on top of Frank. They were fast — long, black, wet limbs like lightning, large clawed hands slicing Frank’s body to pieces in an instant.
 

Frank fell to the ground, in chunks of flesh and splashes of blood.

Paul was paralyzed.

He’d seen the aliens from the windows of an upstairs apartment and on TV before the networks — and power — had left forever. But never up close.

They were tall, though bent, almost as if their enormous, bulbous heads were too heavy for their long, thin necks. Their eyes were large and even blacker than their almost translucent flesh. Something like lights pulsated under the aliens’ flesh in an almost rhythmic, hypnotizing, cycle that Paul found it impossible to turn from.

They spun toward him.

He wanted to run. But the thought came too late.

They closed in on Paul in an instant, surrounding him, arms raised, wide-open mouths with sharp black teeth chattering, clicking, as that horrible shrieking grew so loud that he wanted to cover his ears and crawl into a hole.

The aliens were so close, he could feel an icy wind wafting from their bodies, sending chills through his.

He wanted to raise his pistol and fire but couldn’t eliminate three aliens at once. Even if he managed to injure or kill one, the other two would shred him, like they had Frank, in seconds.

Before Paul could raise his barrel to aim, he noticed that the aliens were no longer moving — almost frozen in place.

What the hell?

Paul looked up to see his panicked reflection in their large black eyes, staring at him as if waiting for a reboot.

A man’s voice spoke from behind.

“Mr. Paul Roberts, what an honor to finally meet you.”

The aliens, all three at once, fell from their positions, allowing Paul to see the man walking toward him.

Why isn’t he scared of them?
 

Is he
controlling
them somehow?
 

Maybe he’s one of them — an alien within a human host.

The man was wearing a charcoal gray suit and had brown hair, greased back, and piercing blue eyes. Paul could easily cast him as a successful entrepreneur on one of his shows. But there was something else about the guy, something under the surface —
maybe the way he’s controlling the aliens, or how he knows my name?
— that unsettled Paul like the sight of his own headstone.

“Who are you?” Paul asked, not attempting to hide his suspicions or fear. “And how do you know my name?”

“My name is Desmond Armstrong, and I’ve been watching you for a while.”

“Watching me? How?”

Desmond smiled. “I have eyes and ears everywhere, Mr. Roberts.”

The aliens clicked as if acknowledging their master.

“What are you?”

“I suppose that depends on whom you ask. I think the question you ought to be asking is why I’m so interested in you, Mr. Roberts.”

“Okay. Why?”

“Because I could use a man with your talents.”

“Talents?” Paul wondered how he could possibly know of his talents.
 

“I’ve seen you talk your way out of certain death no less than six times in the past couple of weeks. In a world full of people running around like chickens missing their heads, you maintain your composure. You’re able to negotiate your way out of almost anything, aren’t you? I’d call it an almost preternatural quality you possess. Would you agree?”

Paul wasn’t sure if the man was leading him with the question, trying to see what he might admit.

Desmond stepped toward Paul, eyeing him up and down. His gaze was unnerving, like an unwanted lover’s. But Paul didn’t dare move, or take offense. Doing so would spell his death, and given what the man seemed to know, perhaps Emily’s too.