Yesterdays Gone: SEASON TWO (THE POST-APOCALYPTIC SERIAL THRILLER) (Yesterday's Gone) (17 page)

Sullivan reached out and took the tablet from Brent, hit stop on the video, then spoke. “Burn Protocol. It’s what we do when infection threatens to break free from the chambers. It’s the only way to ensure that what we put inside doesn’t get outside.”

Brent stared in numb disbelief, “Why are you showing me this?”

“I need to disabuse you of the notion that the subjects in there are your family. The scientist in that video was named Lenora Paulson. The subject was her sister, Frankie. Like you, Lenora made the mistake of thinking her sister was still human. She thought that because the infected hadn’t deteriorated at the same rate, wasn’t aggressive, and still seemed to recognize Lenora, leading her to believe that perhaps she wasn’t lost. Lenora thought if she tried hard enough, she could cure her. As you can see, these infected, no matter how they appear, are no longer human. Your wife and child died. The sooner you accept that, the sooner you can begin to live again.”

* * * *

2 - RYAN OLSON: PART 1

Brookdale, Tennessee

February 17

morning

He dreamed of Mary again, waking up with a hard-on for the third morning in a row.
 

Ryan’s hands wrapped around his cock and he started to tug, imagining the swell of Mary’s breasts and the blush of her nipples against the snow of her skin.
 

Fuck, I love her tits.
 

Ryan yanked faster.

Outside, a scream shattered the silence . . . and drained his erection. A gunshot followed, cracking the morning like thunder.
 

Ryan bolted up in bed, then ran to the window. He was was on the 7th floor of an abandoned apartment. He stuck to apartments since they were easier to barricade, and preferred the upper floors because they gave him more leverage if the world went even further to hell down on the ground. The creatures didn’t like to climb the fire escape ladders that were on many of the buildings, nor did they seem to have the patience or intellect to figure out how to move intricate barriers in the stairways and halls, which Ryan happened to excel at creating. Turns out stocking intricate displays on the end caps
did
serve some purpose, after all. So, as long as he was careful and built good traps, he was safe . . . from the monsters, for now.

He peered out the window and saw a young black kid racing down the street with two men chasing him.

“What the hell?” Ryan said as he tried to make sense of the scene below.

This was the first time he’d seen anybody, let alone three people at once, since the third day after the world flushed its people away. The first person had been a crazy guy pushing a shopping cart down the street outside Warson Woods. Ryan had asked the guy if he’d seen anyone else, but the guy yelled something about yellow cabs that made no sense to Ryan, so he left the stranger to wander aimlessly, knowing full well he would attract the wrong attention soon enough. The last person he saw was some weird guy later that day who seemed to be following Ryan from a long distance, but then vanished never to be seen again.

The men chasing the young black kid were wearing jackets with hoods, one red and the other blue. They appeared to be white, or light skinned, from the best Ryan could tell seven floors up. They also seemed slower and older. But guns were a great equalizer to speed. And the man in red was aiming a pistol at the kid.

The kid stopped in his tracks in the middle of the road, just beneath the awning of Ryan’s borrowed apartment. Ryan cracked the window open so he could hear what they were saying. A crisp, cool breeze floated into the room, and on it, the voices from below.

“Give it back!” the man in the red jacket demanded.

“It ain’t yours,” the kid said, a voice that seemed younger than the kid’s height. Judging by the rising crack in his voice, Ryan pegged him at about 13 or so.
 

“I ain’t askin’,” Red Jacket said, stepping closer, gun aimed directly at the teen.

Blue Jacket had no gun, but stepped forward to intimidate nonetheless. “Hand the shit over, kid. Now.” he pressed.

The boy reached into his pocket and retrieved something too small for Ryan to see from his birds-eye perch. Red Jacket took the item, then pistol-whipped the kid hard upside the head, sending his six feet or so crashing down to the cement.

Ryan took both the thugs to be in their late teens, early 20s. Grown men picking on an unarmed kid.
 

Fucking pussies.

Ryan returned to the bed, retrieved the rifle he kept propped against the nightstand at all times, then went back to the window and scanned the street. The two men retreated back down the street while the boy sat on the ground, glaring at them, hand on his head where he’d been hit. He looked as if he was contemplating making a run at the men, but didn’t know how to level the playing field without a gun. Ryan wondered why the boy hadn’t been armed. It wasn’t as if you needed a license to carry any longer, and there were no shortages of stores to get a weapon without a license, waiting period, or even cash.

Ryan opened the window the rest of the way and leaned out. “Psst, you okay?”

The boy snapped his head up, flinching. For a moment it looked like he was going to bolt. He tried to stand, but lost his balance and fell back on his ass.
 

“Hold on; I’ll be right down,” Ryan said, then turned and raced from his apartment, already dressed. Ryan always slept in sweats, a shirt, and sneakers because he never knew when he’d need to run next, or in which direction. It was best to be ready at all times. He may not have done the best job of preparing for many of life’s slings before the world went away, but he’d become incredibly resourceful in the past few months.

He unlocked the wooden gate he’d just finished building, then eased his body past the stacked items that served as a barrier blocking the stairwell and ran down the stairs, two steps at a time.

The boy, in jeans and a green long-sleeve jersey, looked even younger up close, despite his height. His eyes widened to softballs at the rifle.
 

“Don’t worry; I’m not gonna shoot you,” Ryan said soothingly. “What happened? What did those men take from you?”

“Medicine for my Gramps. I took it from the drugstore down the street. I didn’t know it was their drugstore.”

“It isn’t,” Ryan said, watching as the men turned the corner a block away, heading toward the drug store. “Were they in the drugstore when you went in there?”

“No, they came out of the old Pizza Hut across the street. I didn’t even see them until I came out and they told me to stop. That’s when I took off running.”

“What’s the medicine for?” Brent asked. “Is it important?”

“Yeah, it’s his heart medicine. If he doesn’t get it, he could die.”

“Shit,” exploded Brent. “Okay, you wait here. I’m gonna go get your medicine back.”

“You sure you wanna do that, mister?”

Ryan cocked a smile. “Not really, but that’s not gonna stop me.”

“Thank you,” the boy said.
 

“My name is Ryan.” He jerked his thumb at the building behind him. “Why don’t you wait for me upstairs. I’m in apartment 720. Just lock the door. There’s a handgun on the kitchen table if you need it. You know how to use a gun?”

“Um....no, not really,” the boy said, fumbling his eyes on his fingertips.

“OK. Don’t sweat it. Just aim and fire, if you have to. The safety is already off, so don’t mess with it unless you need it. OK?”

“Okay,” the kid promised. “My name is Carmine.”

“I’ll be right back, Carmine.”

Ryan raced down the street, slowing only when he reached the alley that had swallowed the jacketed thugs. The men were standing in front of the Pizza Hut shooting the shit.
 

“Here we go,” Ryan said to himself, quickly closing the distance between them, rifle aimed at Red Jacket the entire time.

“Hey!” he yelled, startling the men. “You took something from a friend of mine,” Ryan said.
 

Red Jacket reached into his pocket. Ryan shouted, “Don’t move or I’ll blow your fucking head off. I’m a Marine sniper, and I never miss!”

Ryan wasn’t sure if his lie or tone of voice was convincing, but he gave his best
don’t-fuck-with-me
look.

“What’s your problem, man?” Blue Jacket asked. Up close, Ryan saw that both men were clearly over 30. Red Jacket was pale with freckles and bright orange, curly hair that reminded Ryan of a giant pubic bush. Blue Jacket was a pudgy black guy who reminded Ryan of Ice Cube, if the rapper had a lazy eye, unibrow, and looked a bit slow.

“My problem is that you took something from my friend. And I want it back. Now.”

“It ain’t his,” Red Jacket whined. “He stole it from our store.”

“Your store?” Ryan asked, glancing at the sign over the store which read, Billings Pharmacy. “Which one of you is Billings?”

The two exchanged a glance, confused by the question.

“It’s not your store,” Ryan said. “You’re just squatting until someone bigger and badder comes along to take it from you.”

“Yeah?” Blue Jacket asked. “Is that you?”

“I don’t give a shit about your drug store, asshole. Neither does my friend. He just needs some medicine for his grandpa.”

“We ain’t in the business of giving shit away,” Red Jacket retorted.

“Do you even know what kind of medicine it is?” Ryan asked.

“Nah,” Red Jacket said with a shrug. “Don’t really care much, neither.”

“It’s heart medicine, dipshit. Do either of you need heart medicine?”

Ryan wasn’t sure if they felt stupid or were just playing tough, but both men stared blankly at him.

“You going to give it to me or do I need to take it, and maybe the whole fucking store along with it?”

“Nah, you ain’t got to do that,” Red Jacket said, reaching into his pocket.
 

Ryan adjusted his aim on the rifle as if to say
don’t even try it.

Red Jacket pulled out a shrink-wrapped pack of six vials.

“Put it on top of the car,” Ryan instructed, pointing to the Blue Volvo next to them.
 

Red Jacket was a good boy; he did exactly as he was told.
 

“Now, I’m gonna leave you boys to go about your business. Next time you see my friend, I suggest you keep walkin’ because the thing about snipers is, we’re really good at not being seen. So, if I even see you lookin’ at my friend wrong, I might just add you to the notches on my rifle. Hoo-rah!”

Ryan swiped the meds, slipped them into his sweatpants, and backed away in reverse, rifle aimed at the two ass clowns until he reached the alley corner and turned. He waited a moment to see if they’d give chase, but apparently these bullies were more bark than bite when facing anything bigger than a pup.

Ryan headed toward a home that hadn't been home long enough. His intervention today meant he’d made enemies and he’d have to move again; just when he was starting to like this place. Which was probably the kick in the ass he needed, anyway.

He’d never find Mary and Paola by staying put. He had to keep searching, even if that search was in vain.

* * * *

3 - MARY OLSON: PART 1

Kingsland, Alabama

The Sanctuary

March 20, 10:40 a.m.

“The Prophet?” Mary said, barely hiding her snicker.
 

Had John gone off the deep end, running off to do God-knows-what, following a so-called prophet? Prophet of What?
Apparently he hadn’t foretold whatever the hell it was that had burned half his body
, Mary thought with a sting of guilt.

“He foresaw everything that happened,” John said, eyes toward the sky and hands in the air, proudly singing the praises of his new best-friend. Mary had never known John to be a religious, or terribly excited man. Back in Warson Woods, the only thing he ever prattled on with unbridled enthusiasm about was Jenny, and how thrilled they were to be together. John always had a story about the latest thing they’d done, or were planning to do. It was nauseating, at times. But that was John and Jenny, and you put up with it.
 

Since October 15, the old effervescent John had vanished into a shell, replaced by a bitter drunk, pissed at the world and happy about nothing . . . until now.

The Prophet had ignited something in John’s eyes and his spirit; that much was clear despite the mystery enveloping Mr. Godsend, which now enveloped them too.

The Prophet hadn't budged since John’s introduction; he just stood at the foot of the stairs watching, though observing was probably a word more fitting. While John was talking up the Prophet, most everyone’s eyes were fixed on John. But The Prophet’s eyes were fixed on everyone else, as if taking mental notes on how each of them responded to John’s message.

“He saw it all, down to the day and time it would happen. That’s why we’re here,” John said, warmth like honey on his voice. “The Sanctuary is more than the name of your new home, it’s our purpose here as well.” John waved his hands around the compound with enough pride to suggest he’d pounded the nails himself.