Yesterday's Gone: Season Six (6 page)

Boricio considered telling her tough titties and soaking-wet tacos, but he already knew why she was upset. Luca said it was Paola. But if Boricio said he knew what was bothering her, she’d get at Luca for pokin’ in her head. No point in having Mary mad at the Boy Wonder, too. And hell, who was he to say she couldn’t keep her sorrow a secret? It wasn’t like he didn’t have his own demons to battle sunup to sundown. But Mary had made those battles less intense, even if she didn’t know it. He wished he could do the same for her — murder the pain that was eating her up.
 

It had been four years since Paola had died. How long was she going to keep blaming herself?

Boricio’s radio beeped, followed by Lisa’s voice. “Hey, I’ve got a hot package, and I need to know where to drop it.”

“How hot?” Keenan answered before Boricio could.

“Hotter than hell.”

* * * *

CHAPTER 5 — Paul Roberts

The Island

Earlier that day
 

Paul woke to the smell of bacon and eggs, smiling at Emily’s predictability. Today was her scheduled field trip into The Wastelands — The City he’d grown up in — and Paul still hadn’t decided whether she could go. This was her way of buttering him up.

He got out of bed, went into the bathroom and showered, dressed in shorts and a black tee, and came out to the kitchen where his twelve-year-old daughter was sitting at the kitchen table, waiting for him, smile wide, green eyes beaming from beneath her thick brown curls.

“Ah, you made breakfast today? What a
spontaneous
treat!”

Emily said nothing, probably wondering if he was on to her and being sarcastic. He felt her attempting to worm inside his mind. Her telepathic skills had improved significantly over the past year, but she was nowhere near experienced enough to probe his mind … yet. Paul pushed back, gently, and noticed her wince, probably unaware that he’d built a psychic wall. From Emily’s perspective, it probably felt like a mild migraine.

Paul was waiting for Emily to tell him about her newfound abilities. He didn’t want to let her know he already knew. For some reason, he felt it was better to let Emily feel things out for herself without his interference. She was at the age where any idea originating with him was met with natural resistance. And while he wanted to train her on how to use, and hide, her skills, the subject required a delicate approach.
 

Paul sat and looked at the glass of cold orange juice.

“Wow, you went all out!”

Breakfast usually consisted of either protein shakes or
maybe
toast and jam. Neither of them was a morning person, so their first meal was usually a rushed ceremony between waking and preparing for the day — him for work and her for school — then getting out the door.

“I like to cook every now and then.” Emily dug her fork into her eggs and took a bite.

He grabbed a piece of bacon, bit into it. Perfectly crispy, just like he loved it.

“This is good. And so spontaneous,” he repeated.
 

Emily met his eyes. Her smile faltered. “Okay, I get it. I know you know what I want. So, have you decided?”

“I have not.”

“Great.” She rolled her eyes and sighed. “Are you really gonna make me do this?”

“You know the rules.”

“Why do you make me do this? I never win.”

“That’s because
you think
you’ll never win.”

“No, I
know
I’ll never win. For every reasonable argument I make, you come back with three against me. How can I win any argument with
you?
It’s not fair.”

“What did I say about that?”

“Sorry, sir.”

Paul hated the term
not fair
— the last defense of someone too lazy to try, or fight, for what they wanted.
 

“Why do you do this to me?” Emily’s shoulders slumped, defeated already. “What’s the point in teaching me to debate? Arguing may have worked in the old world, but it doesn’t anymore. Not for us. We’re at their mercy.”

“They can be reasoned with. We’re living here on The Island, aren’t we? We could be scrounging around in The Wastelands. If I couldn’t argue and reason, I — ” Paul thought of how desperately close they’d been to death when Desmond found them, “ — well, we wouldn’t be here. No whining. Tell me why you should be able to go.”

“Fine.” Emily sat up, her eyes determined and lips pursed. The expression, the fire in her eyes, reminded Paul so much of Jane. “I should go on the trip so I can see where I came from. Because I don’t have many memories before the aliens.”

“Okay, but what’s left of The Wastelands isn’t remotely close to the world you were born in. Many of the homes and buildings are rubble. What the aliens didn’t shoot down with their lasers, humans destroyed in the aftermath. Those buildings that
are
still standing house freaks, bandits, and God knows what other monstrosities. It’s impossible to see what’s no longer there.”

“I can’t give you a logical reason that’ll make sense to you. I just feel like I need to see where I came from.”

“That’s an emotional reason not a logical one. Emotional reasons aren’t valid, Emily. But emotions can be a liability, putting you in danger if you don’t master them. Far better to be in control of one’s feelings than to need outside stimuli or validation. Master your emotions, and you can master others who are still enslaved by their own.”
 

If she were ever going to develop her telepathic gifts, she’d need a framework to put them to good use. Persuading people, or controlling them, was nearly impossible if you didn’t understand what made people tick. And part of that understanding was mastering emotions, hers and others’.

“Ugh.” Emily rolled her eyes. “Fine. Then I should be allowed to go because I can only learn so much from books and video. I need to observe these freaks, bandits, and monstrosities firsthand to develop a working knowledge. Aren’t you always saying that knowledge is power?”

“Fair enough. Counterpoint: The working
knowledge
you’ll gain on this trip will be of dubious value at best. It’s not as if you’ll be on the ground. You’ll be in a shuttle, flying high above The Wastelands.”

“Yes, but with the equipment onboard, I’m sure I’ll be able to zoom in and get bio readings on-screen, a lot more than I can get from books.”

“Agreed.” Paul nodded. “But I have to ask, why do you want to go so badly? Why are they even having this trip? The Wastelands are the past. This Island is the present and future. Why do you care so much about yesterday?”

“I told you that Mr. Pace is testing field aptitude to see who should be filtered into working in The Wastelands.”

“Is
that
what you want? To work in The Wastelands?” The idea of his daughter out there working at the slaughterhouse, factory, or farms the aliens maintained in The Wastelands terrified Paul to the bone. He’d sacrificed everything — had done horrible, unspeakable things for the aliens — to keep them safe on The Island. Not that she knew all the things his job required. She knew that he helped transition aliens into the bodies of hosts. She thought the humans were willing participants in this process. She didn’t know to what extent he went to break down the hosts to make them malleable enough to be suitable for the aliens to live in. Or that 12.8 percent of the people he transitioned wound up having to be put down when the migration didn’t take.

She shrugged. “I dunno, maybe I want to be out there.”

“Why? You have everything taken care of here. You want for nothing. Why would you want to be …
out there?
”

She looked down at her plate, shaking her head.

“What is it?”

She sniffled, titling her face down so he couldn’t see her crying beneath her hair.

“What’s wrong, honey?”
 

“I don’t like it here.”

Now it was Paul who was rolling
his
eyes. He didn’t feel like having
this
argument again.

“Do we have any other options? Is there anywhere left in the world where we would have it this good?”

“No, sir,” she said, still avoiding his eyes.

“So, what’s the point? Do you think it’s
better
out there? Out in The Wastelands?”

“At least we’d be with our own kind — not living with the
things
that killed us. That killed Mom!”

“I don’t know what you
think
is out there. It’s not like there’s people living life like they used to live. Humanity’s broken, Em. It’s nothing but people killing one another, bandits and rape gangs, survival of the fittest. Even those who manage to make it still have to look out for the Ferals.”

The Ferals were the aliens that Desmond had brought with him prior to the invasion, a species designed to wipe out the humans before the Pruhm arrived. Once, the Ferals had been under his complete and utter control. Lately, though, for some unknown and mysterious reason, Desmond was losing contact and control with the aliens. The Ferals were just as likely to attack humans as they were Guardsmen in The Wastelands.

“You don’t know that The Wastelands are like that. Maybe that’s just what the aliens here want us to think. Humans could’ve come back.”

The look in her eye, that glimmer of hope that there might be a paradise waiting, was too much for him to crush. Better for Emily to see for herself. Then maybe she’d be more realistic in her expectations.

“Fine,” Paul said. “Go on your trip. I think it’ll open your eyes and make you appreciate what you have.”

“Thank you.” She sipped her juice, still not meeting his eyes.

“Please, Emily, don’t ever talk like this, not being happy here, around them. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m serious. In fact, don’t talk like this, period. You can’t trust anyone other than me. Do you understand?”

Emily finally looked up at him, eyes still wet. Then she sliced him with his words. “Can’t trust anyone other than you in this island paradise. Gotchya.”

Emily stood from the table, having barely touched her food, and went to her room to finish getting ready for school.

Paul stared at his plate, his appetite gone.

Emily was right. Paul hated living among the fuckers as much as anyone. But there were no other options. Even if his boss allowed him to leave — which Paul highly doubted — it wasn’t as if they’d last five minutes in The Wastelands, where only death waited.
 

Yes, he had to compromise his beliefs, but morals meant nothing next to protecting his daughter. He would do anything to keep her safe. They had creature comforts — good food, running water, housing, medical care, and even entertainment by way of old sitcoms the aliens ran 24/7 on one of their two TV stations broadcast on The Island and in two sectors of The City occupied by blue collar humans and hybrids.

Emily was too young to remember the aliens’ arrival. How bad things had got, how sick she’d become. Yes, she remembered the plague killing her mother. But Emily never knew the struggle of daily survival. It was Paul’s job to ensure she never did.
 

His communicator rang on the kitchen counter.

Paul stood, went to the kitchen, and looked at the screen.

Desmond rarely called him at home.

“Hello?”
 

“Where are you?”

“Home. Why? What’s wrong?”

“Get here. Now!” Desmond hung up.
 

Sickness crept into Paul’s gut. Something told him today was a horror waiting to happen.
 

* * * *

CHAPTER 6 — Brent Foster

The scream came from outside.

Brent raced to the living room, Teagan by his side. He grabbed a shotgun from one of the gun racks then ran to the front window, looking out. Teagan grabbed a gun, too.

The front yard was pitch black. Brent shook his head at Teagan as she went to one of the side windows. She looked and shook her head, too.

“I’ll check the back,” she said.

Another scream, definitely coming from out front. Teagan stopped in her tracks — the house was alive with movement as Joe, Marilyn, and Peter descended the stairs. Marina charged behind them, pistol in hand, as if it had been under her pillow.
 

“What the hell was that?” said Joe, a forty-five-year-old former mechanic, and The Farm’s de facto leader.

Still at the window, Brent said, “Something out front. I can’t see anything.”

Joe grabbed a rifle from the gun rack. “Brent, Marilyn, come with me. Peter, you stay back and protect the others in case this shit gets out of hand.”

Peter, a young blond in his early twenties, nodded his head and grabbed a shotgun.

Upstairs, the kids started crying, though Brent couldn’t tell for sure if Ben was among them. There were four other kids on The Farm besides he and Becca.

“I’ll settle the kids down,” Teagan said then headed upstairs, gun still in hand.

Joe headed toward the front door, rifle raised.

Brent and Marilyn, a fifty-one-year-old trucker before shit hit the fan, followed behind.