Yesterdays Gone: SEASON TWO (THE POST-APOCALYPTIC SERIAL THRILLER) (Yesterday's Gone) (28 page)

“I’m not all that familiar with them, myself,” Ryan explained. “I picked it up from an abandoned house for protection. Did some practice shooting; got decent.”

Gramps stared at Ryan for a moment, as if somehow reading the man’s mind, making sure he was, in fact, safe. Though he felt absurd, Ryan tried to think nice thoughts, and not at all about the robbery at his store, just in case the man
could
read minds. Of course, trying
not
to think about the robbery gone South, or the dead bodies, only made them clearer in his mind’s eye. He hoped like hell his smile covered the sick feeling of remembering Clarissa’s body, dead eyes staring up at him.

“Thank you for looking out for Carmine,” Gramps said, holding out his giant hand, “Name is Joe Turner.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. Turner, my name is Ryan Olson,” he said, shaking the man’s surprisingly soft hand.

“Carmine said a lot of nice things about you,” Ryan said, trying to be nice without kissing the man’s ass too much. Guys like Joe couldn’t stand a sycophant.
 

Joe ignored the compliment, asked Carmine to shut the door, and invited Ryan to have a seat in the living room. Carmine handed Joe the medicine, which Joe looked at, then thanked the boy before asking Carmine to bring it to the kitchen and put it in the medicine cabinet. Ryan leaned the rifle against the wall beside the door and limped to the couch, trying to stay in front of Joe at all times, figuring a man in a wheelchair would be extra jumpy about strangers being out of his line of sight.

“So, where you staying at?” Joe asked.

“Over by the drugstore, but I’m originally from Missouri.”

“Missouri? What brings you ‘round here?”

“I’m looking for my wife and daughter, hoping they’re still alive.”

“They were gone when you woke up?” Carmine asked.

“I dunno, well, I mean, my ex-wife, we’re divorced. We don’t live together. But I went to their house as soon as I realized what happened. But nobody was there. I noticed stuff was scattered all over, though, and found a list Mary, my ex, had written, listing a whole bunch of stuff that wasn’t in the house. My guess is they’re alive and that they packed a bunch of stuff, and took off. I have no idea where they went, though.”

“So you’re just wandering around, looking?” Joe asked.

“Started out doing that, but lately, I’ve stayed put, kinda’ losing hope,” Ryan admitted. “So, what are your plans? Are you staying here?”

“Got somewhere better?” Joe said smiling.

“Wish I could say I did. You two, and those punks that came after your grandson, are the first people I’ve seen since October.”

“Where all you been?”

“Missouri, Kentucky, Arkansas, and here, so far. I was going to head down to Alabama next, maybe.”

“What made you choose those places?”

“I dunno, trying to stick to areas Mary might have gone, places she knew people, without going too far.”

Joe stared at Ryan, again as if he were reading his thoughts. “There’s something you’re not saying.”

Ryan glanced at Carmine, who smiled. “Gramps has a way of seeing the things you ain’t sayin’.”

Ryan looked at Joe, “This is gonna sound weird, but basically, I’m following hunches and these weird dreams I’m having. They were stronger a few months back, something calling me south. They stopped around the time I got here. So I just stayed put, thinking maybe I was supposed to wait here. I know, it’s weird, but right now, weird’s all I’ve got to go on.”

“Not weird at all,” Joe said, “God works in mysterious ways. Maybe He is showing you the way.”

Ryan didn’t bother debating the man on theology. If religion was all the man had to hold, who was Ryan to take it away or question it. So he nodded and said, “Maybe.”

“Or maybe God meant for you to save me,” Carmine offered.

“Well, I’m glad I was useful to someone,” Ryan said, as he stared out the window, wondering how long until Red Jacket came back seeking vengeance.
 

**

Ryan stayed for dinner, which Carmine cooked with a portable gas stove. They had tomato soup and old crackers. They were on the stale side, but it was good to have hot food for a change. Ryan had been existing solely on a diet of chips, cold canned meats, and warm cans of soda.

After dinner, Ryan asked what the bathroom situation was. He wasn’t surprised to find it was more or less the same as his. They used buckets, dumped outside daily. Water had stopped flowing a week or so after the Vanishings, so they’d been using bottled water ever since.

Ryan felt weird using someone else’s bucket to do his business, but this was the new reality, and there was no place for shyness over bodily functions in the world anymore. He made his way into the bathroom, lit by a small window that looked out onto the street behind them, squatted, and pissed and shit. He grabbed some squares of toilet paper and wiped, dropping it all in the bucket.
 

Now, what? Do I bring the bucket out, or leave it and expect someone else to clean up my mess?

Until now, he’d been on his own, so piss and shit bucket etiquette questions weren’t something he’d given much thought to. He washed his hands using water from a gallon, which sat on a shelf behind him, and a blue bar of soap on the sink. He dried his hands on a towel hanging on the door, then opened the door gingerly, carrying the bucket awkwardly and painfully aware of the smell of his own waste.
 

“Where should I bring this?”

Ryan got his answer, took care of the bucket, then came back in the apartment. “How bad you hurt?” Joe asked, giving him the eye.

“Hurts when I walk, but I’ll live,” Ryan said. “Probably be better in the morning, or maybe the day after that.”

“Why don’t you stay the night? I’d hate to send you out and have something happen and you can’t run.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Ryan said, “I don’t want to put you out.”

“Nonsense, you wouldn’t even be hurt if you hadn’t helped my boy.”

“Thank you,” Ryan said.

“Besides, we might need your help if that thug comes back lookin’ for trouble.”

* * * *

CHARLIE WILKENS: PART 1

Dunn, Georgia

March 24

6:20 a.m.

It was only in the quiet moments when Charlie felt he could see the world as it truly was. He lay in bed watching the morning sun spill through the window and creep across Callie’s soft cheeks. Though he lay beside her, and both were in their underwear and tee shirts, he may as well have been sleeping outside. Charlie was still in the “friend zone.”

He’d gotten used to being consigned to the role of friend, and most times, was cool with it. Having Callie as a friend was better than not having her in his life. She was, in fact, one of the closest friends he’d ever had. But times like this, laying close enough to smell her, wanting so much to touch her, to hold her, to kiss her — times like this were tough as hell.
 

She said it was “better this way.” Things were too complicated in the world now to get involved. Better for her, maybe. But not for him. He wondered if things were normal, if the world hadn’t vanished, if she’d feel any different? Would she even talk to someone like him? She was as geeky as he was, liking all the same TV shows, books, and comics. Hell, she even drew him a killer version of
The Maxx
. But she was still a hot girl. And social law said girls like her didn’t go for guys like him, even if it
were
the end of the world.

But he’d be damned if someone like Vic would get her.
 

Vic had been eying Callie like a dog looking at an abandoned burger left on the table. The worst part was the asshole didn’t even have the decency to hide his ogling from Charlie. It was as if he was daring Charlie to say something. Even though Charlie wasn’t really with Callie, Vic didn’t know that. So to ogle her was a clear “fuck you” to Charlie as far as he was concerned. Last week, the fucker even licked his lips when Callie was bending over outside. Charlie pretended not to see the bald steroid case, because if Vic knew he’d seen, and Charlie had done nothing, it would’ve make him look weak. Vic was as much a bully as Bob, with a nose fine-tuned to sniffing out pussies ripe for torment.

Charlie hoped the little scene last night might finally give Vic pause before fucking with Charlie overtly. Putting a knife in the one-eyed biker who killed Jeremy must’ve earned him
some
respect. Judging from Adam’s stunned expression and Boricio’s smile, he knew he’d at least impressed them. Vic grinned, but Charlie couldn’t read what inspired the smile. Had Charlie finally done something to impress the man, or was he smiling in mockery, judging Charlie’s kill as that of a pussy?

He wasn’t sure what Callie had thought either.

He didn’t even look at her after he’d killed the man. He stormed from the room, and went outside to clear his head. She followed a few minutes later, finding him on the side of the house. She approached cautiously, as if suddenly afraid. He could barely look her in the eyes, though he wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was shame, or maybe he was afraid he’d puke once he really thought about what he’d done. He killed a man. Another man. Bob was one thing. Bob had earned Charlie’s rage and hate with years of abuse, treating his mom like shit, raping Callie, and then saying the shit he did about Charlie’s dad.
Nobody
said shit about his dad. But killing the biker had been different. He’d taken no joy from it. Worse, he instantly regretted the decision. He had to go outside to try and push the thoughts from his head, before they began a forever loop in his mind’s movie reel

Callie stepped closer, meeting his eyes. She hugged him, burying her face into his chest. She didn’t say a word. She simply hugged him. And he hugged her. And then he broke down, crying.

“It’s okay,” she said, over and over, whispering to him as she hugged him so hard, he wondered who needed the hug more.

Callie had been acting weird, lately. Sad, and almost needy
 
at times. Usually, she was either tough talking, brash, and funny, or light-hearted and friendly, sharing stories of her childhood. But lately, she spent a lot of time staring at thoughts just out of focus. Sometimes, she looked like she wanted to cry. And when they slept together, she’d snuggle up closely to him, pulling his arm around her, though never once pushing it into more romantic areas. It was as close to a romantic bond as he’d ever had, yet he didn’t dare attempt to breach the line.
 

Sometimes, he wondered if she was finally falling for him. But he was too damned afraid to make another move and have a repeat of the awkwardness that followed his first attempt to ask her out.

They remained outside for a while, neither saying much and not really needing to. Sometimes, just being close to someone is enough. They went to bed a bit after that, laying together, her in his arms. They stayed that same way all through the night.

Now, as the golden light of morning caressed her skin, he had to fight the urge, and his morning wood, to follow the sun’s touch on her skin.

He closed his eyes, flashing back over the past few months, wondering where it all was leading. Not just he and Callie, but what he was doing with Boricio and crew, and whether or not his place had permanence. Would he be better off trying to go it alone, or just he and Callie, assuming she’d come with him? Boricio was no saint, and maybe the world’s biggest dick, but at the same time, he seemed to have a respect for Charlie that no man since his dad had given him. He was like a cool uncle, in a way. But he sensed there was a side to Boricio that was pitch black; a side he didn’t allow the others to see but Charlie was certain was there. A savage side hungry to break free its chains.
 

When Charlie thought back about all the time spent with Boricio, all the daring shit and all the big words, he still found himself confronted with a frighting question: What did they really know about Boricio?
 

What had he done before he showed up as a prisoner of The Prophet with he and Adam? From the best Charlie could tell, Boricio had been a cook, a mechanic, and a debt collector of some sort at one point, though Charlie wasn’t sure if that meant the kind who cashed in on legitimate debts, or something more sinister. Charlie suspected the latter, and could see Boricio being a mobster henchman, but only for a while. Boricio liked to fly solo, that much was clear. Charlie figured Boricio had grown up on the streets, pretty much doing whatever he needed to do in order to survive. If that included grifting, strong-arm robbery, or seducing women with money, so be it. Boricio was all about getting his. And Team Boricio was only a team so far as it continued to serve the captain’s needs. The players, themselves, seemed expendable.

Expendable.

The past few months saw a flux of team members; a wanderer picked up there, a casualty from monster or bandit there. The deaths didn’t phase Boricio one bit; he hadn’t stopped to mourn their losses for a second. In fact, Charlie wasn’t even sure Boricio was capable of mourning, or feeling much, really. But there were times when Boricio would say something nice or inspirational to him and Adam; moments when Boricio actually seemed to care about them, perhaps felt some responsibility for taking care of them. Charlie wondered if this was the real Boricio he was seeing in those moments, or if it was simply another mask worn by the man to manipulate them to stick with him.