Yesterday's Gone: Season Six (41 page)

“That’s why you gotta end the game now,” Boricio whispered in Charlie’s ear.

“How did you — ”

“Read your thoughts?” Boricio smiled. “Because, Charlie boy, we’re connected, you and me. We’re all connected.”

“All?”

“Not now, Charlie Brown, we got a job to finish. Now are you gonna stand there and tickle Bob’s berries, or are you gonna fucking
hit
him?”

Charlie hit him, in the arm, again, and still not nearly as hard as he could swing.

Bob screamed, as if it hurt more than it possibly could have.

“Oh, come the fuck on, put your back into it, boy!” Boricio said.

“I can’t,” Charlie whined.

“Why not?”

“I dunno. I’m confused. I can’t tell if this is real or a dream.”

Boricio, looking disappointed, reached out and grabbed Charlie’s bat.

“I thought you were ready to play in the big league, Charlie. I thought you were ready to be Team Boricio’s all-star hitter, but frankly, I’m not sure you have what it takes.”

“Please,” Charlie begged, “give me another chance.”

Boricio’s face relaxed into a smile. “You know what, you’re right. I’m sorry. I’m expecting a bit much from a rookie. After all, you haven’t even been to Boricio’s spring training camp. I’m gonna show you how the pros play, all right? Now I want you to pay real close attention, okay, Charlie Brown?”

Charlie nodded.

“Now, the first thing is to get a good grip on your bat, like this, see? Not
too
tight, or you’ll just fuck up your swing and end up limp wristed like little Wilma here, right?”

Charlie nodded again, watching Boricio’s fingers tighten around the black tape wrapping the bat’s handle.

“Now, next you wanna pay real close attention to the angle of your swing. You want to connect with the ball, or, in this case, Bob’s fat fucking head, in just the right spot, like — ”

He swung, hitting Bob right in the temple, hard.

The bat made a sickening thunk and sent Bob to the ground like a sack of potatoes.

“ — this,” Boricio finished.

Charlie stared, unable to do anything else, wondering what the fuck just happened.

Boricio continued his lesson, all smiles, as if he hadn’t just murdered Bob.

“Now, that was a pretty good shot, but sometimes, what feels like it might go long winds up being a foul ball. And that’s a dick in the mouth when you wanted a lollipop, so you need to brush it off and find the confidence to face the batter again. Get your head straight, tell yourself,
I’m gonna knock this bitch outta the park!
”

Boricio swung again, in a downward arc, smacking Bob in the back of the skull.

“And sometimes, you get a pitcher who thinks he’s got you figured, and he’s gonna make you strike out, but no, you keep swinging, foul tip after foul tip, until you find the right pitch to drive right down his fucking throat!”

And then again, and again, repeatedly bashing, fragments of skull, brain, and blood splashing up and covering Boricio.
 

“And you just keep fucking swinging, and — ”

The bat broke in Boricio’s hand. He stopped, looked down at the mess he’d made of Bob, all over his shirt. He had no expression. No revulsion. No surprise.
 

And then a huge smile.

Boricio raised both arms triumphantly. “Fuck yeah, grand fucking slam! In the bottom of the ninth, Team Boricio comes back and wins the game!”

Boricio dropped the broken handle then trotted around Bob as if running bases. He ran up to Charlie and grabbed him, blood and remnants now varnishing Charlie. Boricio scooped him up, swung him around, and started singing Queen’s “We Are The Champions.”

Charlie pushed himself away, looking down at his shirt, disgusted.
 

“You’re a psycho!”

Boricio laughed. “Ding-Ding-Ding! What’s that? Looks like we’ve got another winner, Chuck! Now let’s show Charlie Brown what he’s won.”

Boricio grabbed Charlie, spun him around, and thrust him forward.

Suddenly, they were no longer on the street but rather in front of a grocery store. Boricio shoved him through the front doors.

Boricio was gone, and Charlie was back with Bob, hunched over in the dark aisles, searching for food, batteries, and any other supplies they could scavenge back to the house.

Bob looked over at Charlie. “What?”

This had to be a dream. Not just a dream but an unending nightmare. Yet it felt so real and … like he’d been here before.

Charlie remembered every heartbreaking moment that occurred after October 15. How they’d wound up on another world. And then, most importantly, he remembered her. The girl they’d met as she attempted to break into Bob’s truck outside the store.

Callie!

Oh, God, Callie!

Charlie scrambled to his feet, to the store’s front, and then through the broken doors, coming to a skid in the debris outside. There, parked in front of the shopping center was Bob’s truck — Callie breaking into the cabin.

He flashed back on their original meeting, how he’d chased her, how Bob had hit and nearly killed her. He saw Bob coming through the doors, bat in hand. Not just a bat, but the same bat that Boricio had been holding moments ago, but no longer broken.
 

“Hey!” Bob called out.

Callie looked up, surprised to see them, caught red handed.

She ran toward the woods in the distance.

No, no!

Charlie had to prevent the inevitable.
 

Instead of chasing Callie, he went after Bob, racing as fast as he could, a tightness in his chest as he pushed himself to catch up. Bob was about ten steps ahead, and closing in quickly on Callie.

Charlie focused on his stepfather’s back, pushing himself fast enough to launch himself at Bob and bring the man down, stop him from catching Callie and hitting her with the bat. He noticed something moving beneath Bob’s shirt, just between his shoulders.

Something fell back, hitting Charlie in the face.

He reached up, swiped it aside, then looked down in his hands to see a piece of Bob’s skin and hair.
 

Disgusted, Charlie shook his hand until he’d rid himself of the flesh. When he looked back up, Charlie saw more scraps shedding from Bob, revealing something underneath: a black, oily-looking creature with hundreds of tiny lights inside its skin — an alien!

And just as he realized what it was, and how much danger it posed, the alien gathered speed and closed in on Callie.

Charlie screamed, “No!”

The alien turned on a dime, causing Charlie to smack into it.

They tumbled to the ground. The bat fell.

Charlie grabbed the bat, spun, and slammed it straight into the alien’s giant face. Black goo gushed everywhere.

Charlie leaped away, lest the stuff touch him, then turned to search for Callie.

But she was gone. And suddenly he was alone, on a path, surrounded by giant redwoods on either side.

The dream was getting weirder.

Charlie looked up and down the path, which seemed to unspool forever, wondering how the hell he’d ended up on it. These weren’t the same woods where he’d chased Callie.
 

Are they?
 

“Callie!”

Waiting for an answer, Charlie heard water in the distance.

He left the path, following the sound, creeping through the woods toward a clearing where three people stood in the shadows. One stepped forward from the trees.

“Callie?”
 

She smiled then ran into Charlie’s arms. “You’re finally here!”

“I thought you died. I mean, I saw you die.”

She kept hugging him and whispered into his ear, “Death isn’t the end, for any of us.”

As he held her, another figure stepped from the shadows, an old man Charlie recognized from Black Island.

“Will?”

“Welcome, Charlie. We’ve been waiting for you.”

* * * *

CHAPTER 1 — Paul Roberts

News came back from the incoming shuttle, reporting results of the rebel house raid, and Paul felt his knees weaken.

“No sign of the girl,” the Guardsman said over the transmission. “One male, one female, and two children. No Emily.”

The Guardsman relayed a video of the prisoners, displayed on the window in front of them, momentarily replacing the view of Mary in her chamber.

Paul’s heart sank when he saw these other faces, and not Emily’s, on their way to the ship.

Desmond clicked off his shoulder communicator then turned to Paul, the only other person in the observation room overseeing Mary’s cell.

“I’m sorry,” Desmond said.

“
Sorry?
What? Is that it? You’re not going to look for her?”

“I’m sure we’ll get answers from the prisoners once they’re onboard,” Desmond said. “Let’s not overreact.”

Paul couldn’t believe Desmond’s manner, as if this were some minor mission failure that would be corrected in due time.
 

“She’s my daughter. She’s a child, Desmond. Alone in The Wastelands, with bandits, rebels, and Ferals
you
can’t control. Do you understand the danger she’s in?”

“I’m sure she’s fine,” Desmond said with his usual dismissive smile.

Paul crossed his arms, turned, and again stared through the window at Mary strapped to the table.

“She knows where Emily is.”

“Maybe, but she’s not talking.”

“We haven’t tried everything.”

“Are you suggesting that I let you fail to get inside her head again? Or maybe you’d prefer another crack at slitting her throat?”

“I can do it this time. Before, she was strong. Now she knows we have Paola. Her resolve is weaker. I can break her.”

Desmond stared through the window, arms crossed, chin resting in the nook of his thumb and index finger as he contemplated Paul’s offer.

“You have Luca and the others, right? You’ve already got what you want. Let me try and get the info.”

Desmond kept staring through the window. Paul tried reading his thoughts, but like with the other aliens, found little but static. He didn’t dare press, lest they notice and kill him immediately.

Paul tried one more gambit. “You said you were going to use her as a host, right? But we both know you can’t really do that until she’s broken. She’d kill whomever you put in her. So if you already have what you want from her, and she’s of no use as a host, you’ve nothing to lose. Please, Desmond. Let me try.”

Desmond finally turned, met Paul’s eyes, and nodded. “You’re right, Mr. Roberts. Go ahead, see what you can get from her.”

“Thank you.”

Paul was about to leave the room when an idea struck him. “I think I know a way to break her. But I’ll need you to trust me.”

Desmond’s head tilted ever so slightly to the side. “Whatever you need,” he said.

* * * *

CHAPTER 2 — Mary Olson

Mary’s attempts to bar regret from her head failed almost immediately.

She’d refused to surrender the rebels’ location, and now Desmond was making her pay. The longer she laid strapped to the table, now in a vertical position in the room’s center, the more horrible her imagined scenarios became. Desmond had Paola and therefore possessed everything needed to hurt her.

She should have given the location. Yes, the group would be screwed, and many of them, including Boricio, likely killed. But at least Paola would have been safe. At least Boricio, Luca, and the others would’ve stood a chance. Even if caught by surprise, they would surely mount a defense. Mary had no power on the alien ship. And they had all the leverage.

After what felt like forever, but may have only been fifteen minutes, her chamber door opened, and Paul stepped in, alone. He slowly approached her, stopping about four feet away, staring at Mary, hands folded in front of him. She wasn’t sure if this was an intimidation tactic or if Paul was deep in thought, perhaps trying to get back inside her head.

“Come back to slit my throat?”
 

Paul shook his head. “No. I don’t need to.”

Mary wasn’t sure what that was supposed to mean and wasn’t taking the bait. If he wanted to threaten her, he’d have to be more direct.

“Tell me,” he said, remaining perfectly still, “what was it like seeing your daughter again?”

Mary said nothing, refusing to bite.
 

She felt him probing at the edges of her mind but pushed him out, easily.

“So, that’s your tactic, eh? Get me to think about my daughter, weaken my defenses, and storm into my mind?”

“Pretty much. An opening move, to test your response.”
 

She chuckled. “And?”

“As expected. Tell me, Mary” he began again, as if that was a hypnotic trigger word to get her doing whatever it was he’d programmed into her, “why didn’t you take the offer?”