Yesterdays Gone: SEASON TWO (THE POST-APOCALYPTIC SERIAL THRILLER) (Yesterday's Gone) (23 page)

Desmond didn’t want to dive into deeper detail; in fact, he wanted to leave the conversation right there and never pick it up again. Fortunately, John swung off the highway and into a thatch of woods on the right.
 

“Rebecca loves this patch of woods,” John said, diverting the conversation. “Before last October, she used to live just on the other side.” John pointed through the windshield, toward a rolling hill dotted with the first promise of spring. He decelerated, killed the engine and stepped from the car.
 

Desmond followed, gun drawn. “You won’t need that,” John offered. “I can’t feel a single Demon right now. We’re safe.” He cupped his hands next to his mouth and screamed. “Rebecca!”
 

He turned to Desmond. “No worries, Desmond. I understand how you feel.” He held out his hand. Desmond shook it and John said, “We’re all trying to survive and make the most of this. Breathe in, breathe out, be merry.”

They checked the surrounding woods and were all the way up the hill, ready to descend the backside, when Desmond’s thoughts derailed. He’d heard that last expression from John before. But not from John. It was out of place coming from him, eerie even. Not just the words, but the tone. The echo was odd, and ominous. He felt like he was pulling splinters of thought while trying to place it.
 

They were at the top of the hill, looking at the horror on the other side when Desmond realized with a sick, slippery dread where he’d heard that expression before.

We’re all trying to survive and make the most of this. Breathe in, breathe out, be merry.
 

That was something Jimmy had said.

* * * *

7 - RYAN OLSON: PART 2

Brookdale, Tennessee

February 17

morning

“How long will this medicine last?” Ryan asked, inspecting the pills as they headed up the street toward Carmine’s apartment in the opposite direction of the drug store. Ryan didn’t want the kid walking back there alone with those ass clowns still out there. The more he thought about it, the more Ryan wished he’d shot the bastards when he had a chance. He pissed them off, so they’d likely want vengeance, against him or Carmine, or both.

“I think he takes one a day. There’s 100 in each bottle, so a while.” Carmine answered.

“How bad a shape is he in?”

“He’s in a wheelchair; lost a leg to diabetes a few years back.”

“Shit,” Ryan said. “Does he have diabetes medicine?”

“Yeah, he’s good on all that other stuff. I got those last week. Those men weren’t there then. Or maybe they just didn’t see me.”

“Well, for future reference, I’d find another place to shop, okay?”

“Yeah, there’s another drugstore a few blocks the other way, but it’s a bit farther and I like to keep as close to Gramps as possible. I’ll go there next time, though.”

“And maybe stick to homes and stuff for food, just to make sure you don’t cross paths with those guys.”

“Yeah,” Carmine said as he continued to lead Ryan down another street.

“You see any monsters around here? Or any other people?” Ryan asked.

“You all are the first I’ve seen since November. But yeah, I see the monsters every now and then. I hide. They haven’t seen me yet. I don’t see them near as much as I used to, I don’t think.”

“What about your grandpa?”

“He don’t leave the house, so as long as none of those things hear us or see us, we’re okay. What’s your deal?” Carmine asked. “You from here?”

“No, I’m looking for my wife and daughter. Well, my ex-wife.”

“Ah,” Carmine said as if he’d been there, done that. “You heard from them at all?”

“No.”

“How you know they’re alive?”

“I don’t,” Ryan said. “Just a feeling.”

“Do you know what happened? Where all the people went?” Carmine asked.

“Nope, no idea. What do you think happened?”

“I dunno. I ran into this dude a while back who said everyone was taken by the government. Some big secret experiment going on.”

“And they grabbed up everyone all at once?” Ryan said incredulously.

“I didn’t say I
believed
him, just sharing what I heard,” Carmine said, smiling. “Gramps thinks God took everyone. Said God got good ‘n pissed off and rinsed the planet, but left some of us behind on accident.”

“Some accident,” Ryan said. “How does Gramps explain the monsters?”

“He ain’t seen ‘em yet. I told him a little bit, but I didn’t want to scare him too much or he’d never let me out.”

“So, what are you two gonna do? You gonna go somewhere? You got anyone else?”

“Not that I know of. My mom died when I was born. Don’t know my Dad; he cut out shortly after. Gramps said he’s an asshole and if God got rid of all the bad people, he surely got rid of my dad.”

They turned another street, and Carmine pointed out a faded peach-colored apartment building a block away, six stories and rundown before October, in all likelihood. A depressing looking place, from the outside anyway.

As they reached the parking lot, a gunshot cracked and echoed off the buildings.

Ryan spun around and saw Red Jacket and Blue Jacket, both armed this time, aiming and firing.

“Duck!” Ryan screamed as he dropped behind a black pickup truck.

Carmine scrambled inside the apartment building. Ryan wished he’d not done that. Now the fuckers knew where he lived.

“Hey Marine! You hiding? That ain’t very brave!” Red Jacket shouted, suddenly ballsy and brave.

A spray of bullets slapped the surrounding metal. Ryan kept his head low. Blue Jacket made a beeline across the street, heading for the apartment, probably after Carmine.
 

Ryan swung into the clearing, hoping to tag Blue Jacket, but didn’t have time to aim. In his periphery, he registered blood colored movement as Red Jacket flew into view, about five car lengths ahead, then settled behind a blue Buick, taking aim at him. Ryan twisted and fired at Red Jacket, missing by a mile, then rolled out of the way as Red Jacket fired, his shot spitting up asphalt where it struck the road five yards behind Ryan.
 

Ryan rolled to a spot between a sedan and a truck, and paused.

Blue Jacket laughed, turning away from the apartment’s entrance where Carmine had gone, his attention now on Ryan as he eyed the street in search of him. Ryan was across the street, insulated by a row of cars on Blue Jacket’s side, and his own.

“You see that, Jessie?” Blue Jacket called. “You ever see a Marine who shot like a drunk retard before?”

Red Jacket returned the laugh, then said, “Maybe he meant he’s a cook for the Marines.”

Ryan crawled behind a truck, staying low, pretty sure neither man knew exactly where he was. They were fishing with their insults hoping he’d bite, but it wouldn’t be long before they found him. He had to put some distance between himself and Red Jacket before Blue Jacket flanked him from behind and had him trapped.
 

The going was slow, but Ryan stayed low. Both men were too close for him to peek his head up. On the other side of the street, he heard a patter of 20 or so footsteps. Ryan finally risked a peak and saw Blue Jacket jogging north, likely looking to flank him from behind.
 

He could hear Red Jacket’s footsteps approaching, maybe two cars ahead.
They’re getting closer.
Ryan squeezed under the truck, praying he’d fit. Somehow, he did, just barely.

He held his breath. It was game over if either of the Jackets knew where he was.
 

“Hey Marine?” Red Jacket called, “You’re not calling your mommy to cry, are ya?”
 

Ryan wanted to yell any one of the seven smart answers in his head, but swallowed every one. He heard Blue Jacket a second before he saw him coming from behind. There was no way to get a shot off, though. Blue Jacket retreated a step, suddenly unsure, as though he felt Ryan was near even though he couldn't see him.
 

If Blue Jacket retreated completely, Ryan would lose his chance. He glanced back and saw that Red Jacket had crossed the street, putting a bit more distance between them. That gave him the opening he needed to strike. Ryan slid his rifle up, took careful aim at Blue Jacket’s gut, and squeezed the trigger.
 

 
The bullet’s scream was punctuated with one from Blue Jacket as he fell to the ground. As he fell, Ryan took a second shot, this one zeroed in on the man’s face. Direct hit.

Ryan rolled free from under the truck, then raced around the side and searched for Red Jacket, who had vanished from sight.
 

Or not.

Red Jacket popped up at Ryan’s 2 o’clock and fired, but missed.

Ryan returned fire, hitting Red Jacket in the shoulder, a few inches from where Ryan was aiming. Red Jacket dropped his gun, screaming in agony, and fell to the ground behind an ancient powder blue Honda.

Ryan raced across the street to finish Red Jacket off once and for all.
 

As he reached the curb, he landed awkwardly, twisting his ankle, and fell hard to the ground.

“Fuck!” Ryan cried out, as Red Jacket stood up, cackling like a hyena. The man’s injury couldn’t of been too bad. Judging from the small amount of blood, Ryan figured he must’ve grazed the man, who then overplayed his injury to lure Ryan over.

Ryan struggled to locate his rifle, which ejected from his grasp in the tumble.
Where? Where? There!
He wormed a foot to his left, retrieved the rifle, and flipped onto his back in one fluid motion. He already knew he was down to his last round No second chances. No misses.

He instantly found his target a dozen yards away and took aim.

Red Jacket’s smiling eyes went from
fuck you
to
fuck me
. He looked down, searching for his pistol. Not seeing it, he glared at Ryan, then ducked between the cars and ran off, disappearing into a maze of alleys.

Great.
 

Ryan picked himself up gingerly, dusted himself off, then limped toward the apartment building, calling for Carmine and unsure of what awaited him inside.
 

* * * *

8 - BRENT FOSTER: PART 2

Black Island, New York

Black Island Research Facility

March 22, 2011

5:01 p.m.

The phone rang again, the third time in 10 minutes. Brent didn’t bother to answer.

If it were Guardsmen on the other end, they’d simply come to his dorm and get him. So it had to be Jane. And the last thing he needed to do right now was deal with distractions. He needed to keep his head clear, a task impossible enough with the world missing, but now; it felt hopeless. The scenes he saw the other night, along with his adulterous guilt, presented a near fatal distraction from what he needed to concentrate on most: a solid plan to save Gina and Ben.

The phone blared again only to fall silent after the sixth ring.

Sitting at the table in his room, doubling as desk and dining area, Brent used a black rolling ball pen to sketch the new areas of the facility’s map into his small black journal, one of few items he owned, which he got from the commissary a month earlier. As he drew, ideas for an escape plan began to root in his head. The toughest part would be gaining access to Level Six. There was no way he’d be able to pass the security devices. Hacking into complex computer systems might work in the movies. But in reality, most people could barely remember their banking security questions, let alone crack passwords or infiltrate complicated firewalls.

He’d have to be resourceful. And ruthless. He knew what that meant...

A hostage.

He’d need to force whoever was in charge to provide him access to Level Six, then access the chamber, and then permit him to escape with Gina and Ben. It was a plan fat on assumptions. For one, would Black Island Research ever allow one hostage’s life to outweigh the safety of the entire facility? That seemed doubtful unless he could find, and get to, a valuable enough target. Yet, even after months on the island and now working for the Guardsmen, he still had no idea who the hell was in charge. Whoever it was had gone through great trouble to keep themselves and the scientists insulated from everyone else. While such lengths seemed mysterious and almost conspiratorial to Brent, they were also perfectly logical.
 

That was how you set up governments. You put the leader at a safe distance from the people. You didn’t allow the President and the Vice President to travel together for fear that some lunatic with a gun and nothing to lose might try to change history with bullets. And when the world went to hell, and people turned desperate and savage, the leader had to be at a safe distance, perhaps even veiled in secrecy, to steer clear of danger.
 

That meant Brent wouldn’t have access to anyone too high profile. And anyone beneath a leader might be expendable. The moment he stepped into the chamber with his hostage, someone might seal the doors and execute a burn protocol, killing them both and the treat of an escape.
 
Perhaps he could get to Ed Keenan, or maybe Sullivan. Both seemed to have value to the Island. Ed would be the tougher of the two to catch by surprise. Sullivan might be easier, but there was something Brent didn’t trust about the man. He was too calm, too sure of himself, too used to wielding power. Sullivan definitely seemed like someone you didn’t fuck with.