Yesterdays Gone: SEASON TWO (THE POST-APOCALYPTIC SERIAL THRILLER) (Yesterday's Gone) (21 page)

He snarled, had to fight as thoughts piled on top of him, too many to sort, voices, images, and a million colors —
fuck, the colors —
as his body swayed back and forth in the waves, all the while his stomach lurching with each movement. The waves, the noise, and the colored memories rose in pitch, carrying him ever higher, impossibly high, as if into the sky above, though he could see nothing but the colors and memories. He continued to rise and felt the rising fear of the inevitable drop that would come.

A childhood fear whispered into his mind:
fall in your sleep, and hit the ground, you’ll die in both worlds, and never be found.

And then he fell.

But the fall wasn’t long. It was instant. And instead of crashing to the ground, he simply stopped moving.

He woke face up in a dark, cold, slippery pit that was wet with the putrid scent of death. The only light came from above, but seemed so dim and far away as if to be thousands of feet from where he lay. He sat up and noticed a crow next to him, pulling at something in the ground.
 

A worm?

Then Boricio saw it wasn’t worm, but rather the flesh from a corpse. One of thousands of tangled naked bodies that lined every square inch of the pit around him, piled as high as he could see.

Jesus Christ.

Not one to stick around in hell-holes, Boricio grabbed a handful of corpse and started to climb towards the light. He climbed and climbed until sweat started to stew in his pores and coat his body. His muscles bulged and he felt inches from exhaustion, but after an hour, he was getting closer to the dim light above which he could now make out as stars. As he drew closer, Boricio felt a gust of cool air and could see the grass swaying at the edges of the pit just yards away.
 

He continued to climb but lost his grip when three heads emerged from the grass. Then he heard a horrible scream from the sky above just as the corpses beneath him came to life, clawing, tearing, biting.

This shit is about as real as a pair of Beverly Hills tits, but fuck me in my starfish and hit me with a slap of hot yogurt if it don’t feel exactly like the here-and-now.
 

The fingers kept clawing at Boricio, a thousand at once. For the first time in years, Boricio nearly screamed. But he didn’t. He clawed back, kicked at limbs, and bit hands that brushed across his face, cursing and spitting out chunks of flesh as he bit them. He kept moving until he reached the lip, and clawed his way onto the soft, cold grass, hugging him like a blanket as it rolled in waves beneath the purple sky. The pit, with its corpses, moaned in defeat.

Boricio bathed in the light of the moon, so fat it filled much of the night sky, and laughed.

I’m alive!

A sharp cry from a wolf sliced through the air, followed by an echoing chorus.
 

It’s a dog-eat-dog world, Boricio. How big is your bark?

The howls were getting closer, and the fuckers sounded hungry. Boricio rolled to his feet and stood up, opened his hands like claws, and steeled himself ready for whatever was about to come.

No pack of Motel Six for fleas mother fuckers is gonna take me down, you could bet your ballsack and both balls in it.
 

The howls fell silent as a fog rolled in, covering earth and sky alike.
 

Boricio, now blinded, titled his head to better hear his surroundings. The moaning from the pit stopped, leaving him in silence except for his heartbeat. He turned in the dark fog, waiting for anything from any side, his claws at the ready.

The fog receded and two figures emerged into view. A tall woman stood beside a dog, a Husky with large, sad eyes that looked even larger and sadder beneath the bright light of the full moon.
 

The woman turned to the Husky and said, “It’s a dog-eat-dog world, eh’ Oggy Doggy?”

The Husky ignored the woman, but turned to Boricio and spoke, “Well fuck a duck son, it looks like you just screwed the pooch!”

Boricio stared, knowing this was a bad trip and not sure how in the hell to respond.

Before he could speak, someone else appeared behind the pair. A small boy with big eyes. The boy studied Boricio, looking him over from head to toe, eyes narrowed in study. Finally he said, “Who are you, mister? Are you one of the voices?”

“I’m Boricio,” he said. “Now, you wanna tell me what the hell you’re doing out here smack dab in the middle of Fuck-All?”

“I’m lost,” he said. “But I came from over there.”
 

The boy pointed at the horizon, then down at the pit. “That’s the middle.”

Another voice, one deeper than the child’s, chimed in, seemingly from the child’s mouth, “The Center of Fuck-All.”

“Where you from, you know, besides your mama’s furbox?”

“Las Orillas.”

“Where are your parents?”

“Everyone is gone.”

The woman put her arm around the boy as the Husky lay down at his feet. The boy suddenly seemed to grow in a matter of seconds, shooting from a small boy to one old enough to have a few hairs on his balls.

Boricio stumbled backwards, then righted himself and returned forward. “None of this is real, right?”
 

The boy shook his head. “Everything is real, Mr. Boricio,” he said.
 

The woman and dog nodded in agreement.

 
The woman then whispered something in the Husky’s ear. He raised his snout in the air, stole a glance at the moon, then fell into a loud, 30-second howl. When he was finished, he winked, then fell back to a sleeping position at the boy’s feet.

“Everything’s real, Mr. Boricio,” the boy repeated. He looked at the moon, and then the woman. She nodded and the boy said, “Sorry, Mr. Boricio, but I have to get going now.”
 

“Wait,” Boricio growled, “Who in the fuck are you?”

The boy smiled, now growing to around Charlie’s age. In a grown man’s voice, he said, “Sorry,” he said, “My name is Luca. I’ve got to tell you something.”
 

Another fog rolled in and Boricio braced for the unknown, whether it be wolf, woman, dog, or child.

When the fog retreated, they were gone.

All of them, the corpses in the pit too. The moon hung in the air another moment, but only long enough to widen and blanket the sky in the brightest white, bright enough to bleed beneath Boricio’s closed lids.
 

Boricio opened his eyes and found himself in the forest, not too far off the highway, the BMW Z8 about 100 yards away.
 

Well, that was some beer battered bullshit if ever I’ve tasted any.

Boricio got in the Z8 and keyed the ignition. As he found his way back to the familiar, and was heading home, he wondered what the hell Luca, real or not, was trying to tell him.

* * * *

6 - DESMOND ARMSTRONG: PART 1
 

Kingsland, Alabama

The Sanctuary

March 23

9:06 a.m.

Desmond added another freshly-measured and cut 2x4 wooden board to the pile, wiped his brow, took a long gulp of icy water, then picked up another board. He rolled the tape measure to the appropriate spot and marked a wooden check with his pencil before placing the board into the path of the circular saw, paying just enough attention to the task at hand so as not to cut off a finger.

It had been four days since they arrived at The Sanctuary; each day of Demond’s newfound “freedom” had put him in a different part of the compound. Today, he was in the wood shop, helping with tasks for the construction of the new church. Though Desmond was decent enough with his hands, so far he had yet to be assigned a single task that a decent reward and a focused gorilla couldn't manage.
 

That was fine. He promised Will and Mary that he’d play nice, and he had. No reason not to see things out, so long as he kept his eyes and ears on full alert.
 

Luca seemed to love the place. That wasn’t too surprising since everyone doted on him, at least in their weird, far-off way. It was as if everyone at the church all took the same personality-draining pills, which turned them into Stepford Wife-like clones. Plus, Luca was allowed to stay with the other children for learning time, despite his size. The Prophet didn’t seem too shocked to learn that Luca would be celebrating his ninth birthday in another few weeks. Desmond figured that John had told The Prophet, whose real name nobody seemed to know, everything that had happened back at the Drury Inn.

Paola had taken to Sarah’s daughter, Rebecca, who had just turned 13 two weeks ago. While Desmond wasn’t buying the bond between Mary and Sarah just yet, Mary was playing a good game, side by side with Sarah during the daily chores of cooking, cleaning and laundry. Will and Linc were doing their part, too, keeping their hands busy and noses down.
 

Scott, like Luca, seemed genuinely happy in his new environment, and particularly happy to be around girls his own age, judging from the awkward smiles and stolen glances Desmond had noticed.
 

While the others seemed ready to call this place home, Desmond wasn’t so sure how long he could put up listening to a second rate evangelist who just happened to have outlived the rest of the parasites. Mary was all he had in the world, along with Paola and Luca, of course. He’d be goddamned if he was going to be barred from their lives, seeing them only after breaking bread, where “The Good Lord’s Word” was spread more than butter, or at random times when they had intersecting chores. He’d rather face bleakers and monsters and whatever else the Apocalypse had in store than be forced to surrender the most of himself.
 

But for now, he’d wait — coiled, at the ready — with his mouth shut and eyes open.

Each evening after dinner, Desmond and Will exchanged the day’s tidings. Will had already confirmed that the third floor of the men’s house was only for The Prophet, John and Rei, and that there was no doubt something fishy between Rei and John. Will was also positive that the third floor housed the weapons; not just because it would make sense for The Prophet to want them nearby, but because the locked door at the top of the stairs was the first and last stop in between each of the soldier’s shifts. Will was sure that’s where weapons were picked up and dropped off. No one was packing unless they were on active duty.

Desmond wondered if The Prophet followed that particular part of The Word. God only knew what the man was packing under his weird ass white robes.

There were four soldiers standing guard at all times throughout the compound: one per rooftop on each of the three homes and a fourth sitting in a booth beside the entrance gate. Each of the houses had a small, makeshift tower on its roof: a small room with a desk and chair, a bible, and a 14 page stapled copy of The Word, which served as a neat summary of the New Unity’s much longer dogma.

Linc was the only one of their crew so far who had been assigned guard duty. Will got the skinny from Linc, who passed it to Desmond. According to Linc, each tower had a floodlight and a switch. Flip the switch and every alarm in the compound started screaming.
 

Desmond looked up from his 2x4 as Will entered the workshop. He smiled at the old man’s appearance, wondering what The Prophet really thought of him.
 

Will sported a wild look from the moment Desmond met him, with unevenly cut hair, shorn close, and a couple of days worth of stubble. But lately, it appeared that grooming his hair or beard was the last thing on his mind.

Will’s hair wasn’t especially long, but it was much longer than anyone else’s in the group, including Luca’s, who had his overgrown locks trimmed just two days prior. And what it lacked in length it made up for in general wildness, jutting out from his head, thick tufts in every direction. The hair on his head made Will look untamed, but what really added to the old dog’s feral appearance was his barbarous looking beard. Will’s beard was mostly white, but the black thatches that peppered his whiskers looked almost angry, the way they smothered the white around them. And the hairs were thick, like wire. Will had a habit of running his hands through his hair and tugging his beard when making a point, which happened most times he opened his mouth. It made him appear extra wild, along with the way his eyes would fade along with his voice as he fell deeper into thought.

Even Desmond would agree that Will was the smartest of the group, but he was also the looniest. And he seemed the most likely candidate to piss off the powers that be at The Sanctuary, something that Desmond was constantly preparing to defend, if needed.

“What’s up?” Desmond said.
 

“You’re wanted outside,” Will replied. “They’d like us to go on a supply run.”
 

Desmond raised his eyebrows. “A supply run? You mean they’re letting us free range birdies out of the coop?”

Will laughed. “Apparently so. And Old Man Testament must be warming to us, too. We’re supposed to report to the third floor to check out firearms.”