Yesterdays Gone: SEASON TWO (THE POST-APOCALYPTIC SERIAL THRILLER) (Yesterday's Gone) (24 page)

Brent stared at the page for what seemed an eternity, waiting as if in prayer for an answer to bleed through the ink. Though he had been a features writer at the paper, there were times he had to write about complex subjects he knew little about. That’s when he’d break out the sketch pad and map out what he knew, what he needed to know. He’d work at it, hard, immersing himself in the subject until the fog lifted and the answers showed themselves.
 

But that wasn’t happening now. The longer Brent stared at his map, the more holes he found in his plan. The biggest of which was his wife. What if Gina went full-on monster and attacked him? Hell, what if Ben did too? What would he do? What could he do? Would he defend himself against a three year old by bashing his son’s skull in or shooting him dead? Brent doubted he could bring himself to ever choose his own life over his son’s, even if it was a husk of his son with a monster inside. When it came right down to it, he would allow his wife or son to kill him rather than fight back.

Another fear, and perhaps the most realistic: what if he failed to even get to the chamber? He’d be shot for sure, or worse, excommunicated back to the ravaged wastelands of the outside world. No power, dwindling supplies, nuclear hotspots, bandits (he’d heard stories of from some of the other Guardsmen), and aliens.
 

He had to admit it; Black Island was, for all its limitations and restrictions, an oasis in a sea of chaos.
 

The more Brent considered his half-cocked plan, quarter-cocked more like, the more he resigned himself to the knowledge that he was at the mercy of Black Island. As was his family. He thought about what he’d told Luis so many months ago, how Black Island might be able to cure him. Brent wondered if they
could
cure the infection, or if the people who were bitten were already dead. The real question, Brent supposed, was whether the scientists were acting to find a cure or find a way to simply eradicate the cause. What motive would they have to synthesize a cure unless one of their own had been infected?

Wait, that’s it!

If he could infect someone else on the island, someone too valuable to lose, those in charge would be have to be compelled to accelerate work on a cure. Right?

But again, there was the problem of determining who, if anyone, on the island held that sort of value. If there were such a person, what were the odds Brent could get to them? And how would he even begin to go about infecting them? Could he lure them to the chamber? Or was there another, better way?
 

Could he somehow inject them with the blood of the creatures? Perhaps the blood of the infected would work just as well. Shit, could the virus, or whatever it was, be introduced via the blood at all?
 

Even if it could, Brent shook his head, there was still the problem of access.

Despite this plan’s flagrant flaws, the idea of infection seemed more likely to pull off when compared to a brute force smash-and-grab approach, even if that likelihood was minimal. Brent scribbled at the bottom of the page:

Who to infect? WHO?
 

Brent needed a break. He dropped his pen on the page and watched it roll to the edge of the table, then stood, went to his pantry, slipped the journal inside a baggie and then slid the baggie into a canister of rolled oats. He placed the canister on the shelf next to two other identical canisters.

The phone rang again.

Perhaps he would see Jane, after all. Last night, he told her he wasn’t feeling well. And he’d yet to tell her about what happened in the city. Had yet to tell her that his wife and son were still alive.

**

Though dinner was full of awkward adult moments, Brent was able to maintain playful conversation with Emily.
 

“Aren’t you gonna have some more green beans?” the girl teased playfully, pointing to his plate, still heaped with his original serving of the vegetables, though he’d just piled second helpings of grilled chicken, instant potatoes, and gravy. This was an inside joke between the two of them. During a prior dinner, she noticed he hadn’t eaten all his green beans on two separate occasions, and asked if he liked them. He lied and said yes, so he wouldn’t offend Jane. However, on a third night, a night when Emily was missing her dad and feeling withdrawn, Brent waited until Jane left the table to get something from the kitchen, and scooped up some green beans from his plate and put them on the girl’s.
 

Her expression was priceless, mouth wide open in shock which turned to a smile. “Hey! I thought you . . .”

“Shh,” he whispered, holding a finger to his lips. “Truth is, I hate the things. Can you help me out and finish them?”

Emily laughed and said, “Sure!” then stabbed the remaining green beans onto her fork and began to eat them. When Jane returned from the kitchen with a pitcher of tea, Emily got a case of the giggles that wouldn’t go away, which of course, made Brent fall into his own fit of laughter.
 

Now, as he dug into his chicken and gravy, Emily repeated the question, “Aren’t you gonna have some more green beans?” with a huge grin on her face.

Jane pretended Brent hadn’t told her about the little joke and feigned ignorance, “Yeah, Brent, don’t you like my green beans?”

Brent cast a sideways glance at Emily, who was trying to keep the giggles inside.

“Sure,” Brent said, overly animated, “I LOVE your green beans! In fact, I think I’ll have a whole lot more!”

Jane handed him the bowl and Brent ladled a heaping spoonful onto his plate. “One scoop,” he said, then got another, and another. “Two servings. Three. Should I have even more?”

He scooped more onto his plate, smiling at Emily.

“I’m gonna start some coffee,” Jane said, finding an excuse to leave the table.

“OK, I’m just gonna finish up all these green beans.”

“You do that,” she said, laughing on her way out of the room.

Brent scooped a fifth spoonful of green beans onto this plate and then looked at Emily with a huge grin and said, “I hope you’re hungry!”
 

He scraped the whole pile of green beans onto her plate, smiling.

“Hey! I don’t want all those!”

Just then, Jane came back into the room and sat back down, and noticed Brent’s green beans were all gone. “Wow, you really DO love them!”

“Yeah, and Emily was so jealous, she decided to have a bunch of ‘em, too.”

Emily looked at her plate with an exaggerated frown, which only made Brent laugh harder. He reached over, then took her plate and scooped half the green beans onto his. “Okay, I’ll help you,” he said.

She giggled again and they both dug into their green beans. Even though Brent had to hide his distaste, the laughs were totally worth it.
 

**

A while later, Brent asked Emily if she’d like him to read her a story before bedtime. She ran into her room as he and Jane sat beside one another on the sofa. He flashed back to their last moment alone on the sofa and flushed.

Emily ran back and hopped up on his lap, holding a book, “Can you read this one?”

He took the book, turned it over, saw Stanley Train smiling back, and thought of Ben, scared, clinging to a mother who no longer recognized him in the chamber on Level Six. It was all Brent could do not to disappear down the rabbit hole of thought that would surely reduce him to tears. He smiled and said, “Sure, I’ll read
Stanley Train Saves The Day
.”

As he read the book aloud, one he’d read to Ben countless times before, he thought back to the many nights he stayed up with Ben, rocking him to sleep, reading to him, and the last time he’d simply laid next to him in bed as his son’s breath rose and fell like a sleeping angel beside him.
 

Brent started to cough, trying to hold back the tears, and excused himself to go into the kitchen to get a drink.
 

Instead of water, he chose a bottle of beer from Jane’s fridge. It tasted like shit, but it would help. Despite his best efforts, his eyes were still full of water.

Jane appeared behind him, “Are you okay?” she whispered. Her eyes were concerned, but also scared, he thought. She probably didn’t want the mistake of the other night to ruin their friendship. Or perhaps, she liked him a lot more than she’d let on earlier, and was afraid of rejection.

He wanted to tell her the truth — that his family was still alive. She deserved to know. But he also wanted to tell her because he needed someone who could advise him, someone who might help him from making the biggest mistake of his life. But Sullivan had warned him not to tell a soul. And while he trusted Jane as much as almost anyone he’d ever known, and certainly as much as anyone he knew now, he didn’t want to put her at risk. Nor did he want to make her feel guilty about what had happened between them.
 

For now, he had to keep the secret.

“I can’t talk about it,” he said, “It’s not about us, though. Something at work.”

He took another few sips, returned Jane’s thin smile, the headed back to the couch to finish the tale of the brave train who saved the day.

**

After Emily went to bed, Brent said he had to leave, saying that tomorrow promised to be a long day. The goodbye was as awkward as a high school first date; he didn’t know whether to hug her, kiss her, or leave her with a peck on the cheek. Prior to the other night, they usually hugged their farewell for the evening, as you would with any good friend or family member. Brent went with the hug, which felt deep, and lingered longer than expected, each holding onto the embrace as if it might be their last together.

**

Brent stopped by the dining hall to get another beer, which he popped open and sipped on his way to the elevator. He’d finish the beer, hit the sack, and pray he’d be able to sleep without dreams of Gina and Ben tormenting him. As the elevator descended, he found himself thinking back on dinner, laughing with Emily, reading to her, then hugging Jane goodbye. He was torn between the world he couldn’t give up on and the world he couldn’t allow himself to have.

As long as there was hope that he could save his family, he had to try. Even if that meant risking his life, or happiness with another.

The elevator door slid open and he began walking to his room, beer in hand, tumbling the plan again in his head. There was something there; he could feel it as if it were just beneath the ice, ready for discovery if only he struck the right center. He was inches from the missing ingredient that would make the plan come together perfectly. Perhaps another half hour scribbling in his journal would help put some plan into shape.

He fumbled in his pocket, found the keycard, and slid it into the door’s handle. The door clicked open and he stumbled into the dark.
 

Only it wasn’t dark. A dim light over his dining table was on. Beneath it, sat Keenan, reading Brent’s journal.

“So, who you gonna infect?” Keenan said, accusing eyes looking up from the pages.

The beer bottle smashed against the ground, shattering before Brent even realized he’d dropped it.

Brent stumbled back, and slipped, falling to the ground in the beer.

Keenan was up in seconds, lightning-quick for a guy in his 40s.
 

“Don’t move,” Keenan said, training his gun on Brent before Brent could even consider his next move.

Keenan reached down with his left hand, patting Brent down, then offered the hand to help him up.

“We need to talk,” Keenan said simply.

“...”

“Mr. Foster, we need to talk, now.” Keenan repeated with added mettle, hand still extended.

Brent remained frozen on the floor, dumbstruck.
How the fuck did he find the journal? SHIT! But he didn’t shoot me? Why the hell not? And why didn’t he haul me away to be condemned to some unfathomable misery at the hands of Sullivan?

“Um...OK,” Brent stammered, his voice betraying his every weakness. He slowly extended his left arm and took Keenan’s left hand in his own. Keenan clamped down and yanked up with the force of an ox, slingshotting Brent into a full and upright position. After Brent checked to make sure his fingers were still intact, he followed Keenan to the table, ignoring the spilled beer, broken glass, and his freshly soaked pants.

Brent sat. Keenan stood, gun still on Brent. “What the hell are you thinking?”

“What?” Brent said, offering a ridiculous ruse.

“Don’t dick around. I want to know what you’re gonna do. Now. Or I go to the brass with this and you’ll be reunited with your family quicker than you think.”

Brent had never considered that as an option for how Black Island Research might get rid of him. Hell, they could probably use more infected “subjects.”
 

“I don’t know what I was thinking,” Brent confessed. “I was trying to figure out a way to get my family out of there. I wasn’t
planning
to infect anyone. Well, not seriously, anyway. I was just writing down different ways I might be able to get to my family and get them out of here.”

Keenan sat down and placed the gun on the table between them. Close enough to dare Brent to make a play, but far enough to ensure Keenan would have it in his hands and trained on Brent in seconds.