Yesterday's Gone: Season One Read online

  But having no father figure in his life had made him meek and a magnet for the aggro assholes wanting to vent their frustrations and call him momma’s boy, faggot, and anything else their tiny intellects could muster.

  He might have been able to cope, if it weren’t for Bob.

  Charlie’s mom met Bob four years back. They began dating immediately. Dating turned into an impromptu wedding. Everything was good for a few months. That’s when Bob dropped the mask and let his drunken, violent colors bleed into Charlie’s world. In a land of bullies, Bob was their king. And there was nothing Charlie could do. And nothing his mother would do.

  And for that, he was glad she was gone.

  Smell ya later, Mommy.

  **

  Charlie rode around a while longer until he circled back to Josie’s. He knocked again. When nobody answered, he tried the doorknob. To his surprise, it was unlocked.

  Hot damn!

  He opened the door and stepped inside “Hello? Josie? Are you here?”

  When nobody answered, he closed the door.

  The house was cool, despite the loss of power. And it was well lit by all the large windows and open blinds. He hadn’t been in Josie’s house in three years, but it was as nice as ever. Her mother was in real estate, made good money, and routinely indulged in her premium tastes.

  Josie’s dad had left her mother a few years earlier, but the a-hole was an investment banker, so the monthly checks were fat.

  Despite her family’s wealth, money didn’t seem to affect Josie all that much. In fact, she seemed embarrassed by her mother’s extravagance, which was probably the thing Charlie liked most about her, other than how she was cuter than an anime character. She didn’t act like the other rich kids in the school, and had never treated him like the poor kid he was.

  Well, at least until she started hanging out with the Bitch Clique.

  Charlie trudged up the stairs to Josie’s room, and opened the door.

  She had redecorated since he’d last seen it. She used to be obsessed with stuffed penguins, which once lined her shelves, closet, and even her bed. Now, her room was more adult with pinks, blues, and the sort of furniture his mom circled in the catalogue but never bought. No childish stuff anywhere, save for one lone penguin standing guard at the foot of her unmade bed. His name was Percy, Josie had once told Charlie. That was something else he’d liked about her. She wasn’t afraid to be goofy, one of her most endearing qualities, actually.

  Charlie sat by the headboard and picked up her pillow. He lifted it to his nose and took a deep breath. It was soft, fluffy, and smelled just as he remembered her.

  He closed his eyes and sent his mind to a time when they were sitting on the floor in the room. They were both 12, and she’d asked Charlie to give her a neck massage. It wasn’t sexual of course, he’d barely even thought about sex at that age. And she wasn’t that kind of girl. But sitting behind her, with her long hair spilled in his face and his hands on her shoulders, along with a glimpse down her shirt, gave him a raging erection.

  When she lifted her shirt, and asked him to rub her back, he was painfully erect. Then, to his utter horror, he ejaculated in his pants, and had to make an excuse to rush home.

  So, technically, Josie was his first, and only sexual experience with another person, even if she never knew.

  Thinking about Josie as he sat on her bed, he was hard again.

  He began to look around her room and found a photo album she’d made. He thumbed through the book and saw pictures of her, taken recently at the beach. Her lips were full, her skin the color of honey, and her breasts practically falling out of the pink bikini. He was rock hard.

  He went to her dresser and thumbed through her drawers, investigating her underwear, surprised to find such lacy numbers. He wondered if her mother knew what Josie was wearing under her skirts. In the mirror, he caught a glimpse of the expandable hamper in the corner, pink, of course.

  Charlie retrieved a pair of pink silky panties from the top and smelled them. The faint scent of piss and perfume made him wince, then smile. He closed his eyes, imagining the prettiest of her pink that he’d never see, then went to her bed, dropped his pants, wrapped her underwear around his staff and started stroking.

  He lasted three seconds longer than he had when he’d given her a back massage.

  Charlie caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, denim snaked around his ankles and wiping himself with her underwear. Shame flushed his face. He threw the panties into the hamper and yanked up his pants, then glared at himself in the mirror, angry at his lack of self control. Josie was right to shun him — maybe some part of her had sensed his perverted thoughts. Maybe she’d only become a bitch to him because he was such a creepy geek.

  The thought depressed him and he went downstairs to her fridge. Rich people always had good food.

  He grabbed a piece of birthday cake. It was half gone, but enough remained for Charlie to imagine the “Happy Birthday Mom!” scrawled across the top. It had a chocolate ganache frosting, at least he thought that’s what it was called, and it tasted better than delicious. Maybe even the best cake he’d ever had. He was about to grab a glass of milk, when he thought better. Though the contents of the fridge were still cold, the milk (even thought it was soy milk, whatever the hell that was) might’ve already started to spoil. The last thing he wanted to do was get sick, especially if no doctors were left in the town, or hell, maybe the world!

  Instead, he found himself eyeing a four pack of red wine coolers.

  He’d never drank before. As a child, he’d never had the urge. And Bob was a living poster for why NOT to drink. But he knew a lot of the kids in school did drink. Mostly the dumb jocks, cheerleaders, and the “Fiesta Crowd,” as they were called. Charlie considered them all about as smart as a hot dog and didn’t want to be anything like them, even if that meant being a pizza faced geek, but they did seem to enjoy their lives. His life, on the other hand, was a constant broadcast of misery.

  It didn’t take long to do the math. Charlie grabbed the four pack, locked the front door (just in case), and headed back to Josie’s room.

  He decided there were worse places to hang out at the end of the world. He sure as hell wasn’t going to go back home to his shitty little house.

  **

  Three bottles in, Charlie wondered what all the fuss was about. He didn’t feel all that different. If anything, he felt worse. His head was hurting, and he was feeling sad.

  He decided to take a nap. He slid off his jeans and shoes and laid down in Josie’s bed, nestling his head into the cool, perfumed pillow.

  Josie was so beautiful. Why did she have to be such a bitch?

  Charlie began to think about where the world had gone. Or rather, where all the people had gone. Whether this was a localized thing or if maybe people were missing in India, too. He’d thought about it earlier, of course, when he realized something was wrong. But now, a bit tipsy, he found himself sinking deeper into the thought.

  He decided that though he hated most of the world, or at least the people he’d met, he didn’t want to see everybody gone. He’d be awfully lonely. In fact, he was lonely now. Hell, he’d even be happy to see Josie, even if she were mean to him.

  Charlie cried himself to sleep. Fortunately, he faded fast.

  **

  A loud knocking downstairs woke Charlie from his sleep.

  “Charlie? Are you in there?!” a man’s voice.

  What the fuck?

  Charlie leaped from the bed, nervous, looking around until he found his jeans and shoes.

  Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.

  He was busted. This had all been a dream; he sleepwalked and broke into Josie’s house. The police were outside!

  His heart raced as someone shouted his name again. The voice was deep, angry, and familiar. He ducked low on his way to the curtains, then slid them aside just an inch to peek at who was outside. It was the devil himself — Bob.

  **

  E
DWARD KEENAN

  Saturday

  October 15, 2011

  2:18 a.m.

  The first thing Edward Keenan felt was rain, cold and splashing his face, snapping him from the darkness and into the bright light beaming through a thick canopy of trees.

  The next thing he felt was pain — everywhere, as if his entire body had been thrown from a building and slammed against every awning on the way down and then picked up again and thrown off the building once more to hit the awnings he missed the first go round. A high-pitched whistle pierced his throbbing eardrums. He reached up to cover his ears, before realizing his wrists were still bound together by plasticuffs.

  Ed stood clumsily, pain shooting through his legs, back, and arms, then glanced around. A faint, flickering glow broke through the tree line. He made his way forward tentatively, stumbling several times, but managing to stay upright.

  As he got closer to the glow, he could hear the crackle of fire. Could smell the fuel. And there, as he pressed into the clearing, he saw the mangled, fiery wreckage of Flight 519.

  Ed raced forward, searching for any sign of survivors. The plane was split in half, swallowed by billowing smoke and a quick-spreading curtain of flame.

  Suitcases, clothing, papers, chunks of the plane, and other debris littered the field, with some of the smaller scraps sailing low in the sky. From what he could see of the cabin, nobody survived other than himself. Yet, there weren’t any bodies. He looked back into the woods, wondering if perhaps all the passengers had been ejected from their seats as he had. Perhaps some, but not all of them.

  Where the hell is everyone?

  The last thing he remembered was his escort, Agent Grant, telling him to shut the fuck up. They’d be in Washington soon enough. Ed decided to take a nap, but didn’t think he’d actually fall asleep. He must have. Next thing he knew, he was on the ground.

  He was torn — go back into the woods and search for survivors, or run as far and fast as he fucking could. Last thing he wanted was to run into Grant — assuming Grant was alive.

  He took a chance. “Hello?!” he called.

  As he stood at the edge of the woods, another high-pitched sound sailed over the drone in his ears, sounding as if the sky was ripping to shreds above him. He instinctively ducked, glancing up as another airplane shot by maybe 10 stories from the forest floor, on a sharp dive, soaring past the tree line before disappearing into a deafening explosion just out of sight.

  Christ on a cross. What’s happening?

  Ed raced toward the crashed plane as fast as he could, pain shooting through his atrophied legs. He stumbled into the woods, but stopped short when he reached a partition of flames where a large, unidentifiable chunk of the plane had set the surrounding trees on fire.

  There’s no way anyone survived that.

  He retreated, away from both crash sites, following a winding path that led uphill, where he spotted power poles and lines leading toward civilization, he hoped.

  “Happy 44th birthday,” he said to himself as he slipped into the black of night.

  **

  Despite being in top physical shape, Ed was exhausted by the time he reached the first row of homes. Falling out of the sky will do that to you.

  Two-story faux New England architecture lined either side of the street, barely illuminated by the half-concealed moon. Was one of those new gated communities in the suburbs, designed to look nice, but they were usually shit quality with tiny lots. As he stepped onto the first street, he realized not a single light was on. Not a streetlight, nor a light in any of the windows of the 20 or so homes on the street.

  A blackout?

  Ed rolled his neck, sighed, and headed toward the closest house, a neatly manicured, two-story home with a large double door and windows on either side. Judging from the moon’s position, he figured it was around 3:00 a.m. Not a great time to be knocking on doors, especially when you’re bloody and in handcuffs. But options were scarce — he had to find a phone and contact Jade. No doubt news of the crashed plane would’ve already reached her.

  Perhaps, though, it was best that he not contact her. Maybe she’s better off this way, thinking I’m dead.

  The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. He should just disappear. It was what he did best. He had a safehouse in Florida that nobody knew about. He’d just fall off the radar. Again. And this time he knew better than to trust the agents he used to work with. Maybe the plane crash was the best thing that could have happened. Nobody would be looking for him. Not hard, anyway. This was his chance at a fresh start.

  Ed would live like a ghost. No relationships, no friends — just live out his life until someone found him or he died of old age. As much as he’d love to hear his daughter’s voice one more time, to let her know he was alive, he knew he’d lose what might be a golden opportunity to finally make things right. She was a big girl; she’d get over his “death.”

  But he still needed to get to a phone to contact Xavier, the only person left (other than his daughter) he could truly trust. Xavier would help him get out of town.

  He knocked on the first door, lightly at first. No response. Raindrops grew larger and started to fall faster, but he was mostly sheltered under the gable roof. He knocked again, louder, watching through the window into the dark house for any sign of movement or light.

  Nothing.

  He knocked a third time, this time with authority, like the law.

  Still nothing.

  Ed glanced around at the house across the street to see if he’d attracted any attention. All the windows were dark, showing no movement.

  On the ground, Ed spotted a garden with large decorative rocks. He grabbed one, gripped it tightly on the end, and tapped it hard against the window to the right of the doorknob. The glass crashed loudly, and Ed glanced around to see if anyone had taken notice.

  Nothing, still.

  Crackerjack gated community security, hard at work.

  Ed smashed a large swath of glass away; he’d need plenty of room to reach inside the doorway with his hands bound. He swept the last shards of glass from the frame until he had room to safely reach in and twist the locks. He opened the door and rushed inside, closing the door behind him.

  “Hello?” he called out, wishing he’d thought to bring the rock. “This is Officer Grant. Anybody here?”

  Nothing.

  He knew, from years of experience, that he was alone in the house. Houses harbored a specific brand of quiet when empty. A still you could sense immediately. This house wasn’t only silent, it was dead. No electricity meant no humming fans, electronics, air conditioning, or any other heartbeats of the average home. Sounds you didn’t even notice until their voices were taken away.

  Ed made his way toward the kitchen scanning outlets for any sign of plug-in lights. Finding nothing, he rifled through drawers until he found a flashlight heavy with batteries. To his relief, they weren’t dead, and the light was bright. He waved the spotlight around the kitchen, finding the phone. A fucking cordless, meaning it wouldn’t work with the power out.

  He tried it anyway, just in case.

  Nothing.

  Fuck, doesn’t anyone use regular phones anymore?

  He clicked the light off, thinking about his next step, then headed back upstairs, light on. Two doors were on either side of the hall, and a large, double door was at the end, which he assumed would take him to the master bedroom.

  The first two rooms weren’t bedrooms at all — one was a converted office. The second was a monument to clutter, tons of boxes leaving little room to walk. Finally, he reached the double doors, drew a deep breath, and pushed one of the doors open, training his light on the king-sized bed.

  Unmade, nobody in it.

  He figured whoever lived here was out of town, maybe on vacation. But something reflected back as he swept his light over the nightstand — a glass of ice water. As he moved closer, he saw beads of sweat, a small pool of water around the glass, and the last remn
ants of ice floating.

  His heart stopped as he spun the light around toward the bathroom door, which was shut.

  Had they heard him and ducked inside?

  Ed squinted his eyes, searching for any signs of movement. He was too old for this shit. And not at all ready to die at the hands of some yuppie with a Beretta playing Die Hard.

  He considered turning around and leaving, but something rooted him in place.

  The house was empty. He could feel it. And he was never wrong about these things. Yeah, the loss of power might have been screwing with his instincts, but he didn’t think that was the case. Whoever was here was gone.

  He clicked off the light and began to creep toward the closed bathroom door. A closet was to his left, but it was open, and he could see it was empty. If anyone was with him, they were likely in the bathroom.

  He was nearly five steps away when he rolled his neck again, then spoke.

  “Hello? This is officer Grant. We’re investigating a break-in at your neighbor’s house and we saw your front door was wide open. You okay?”

  Nothing.

  He turned on his light again.

  “I’m coming into the bathroom now. My partner is in the hallway, checking out your other rooms. Do NOT shoot me. I repeat, do NOT shoot.”

  He twisted the knob, pushed open the door, and thrust his light into the bathroom.

  Nothing.

  He caught his reflection in the mirror, dirty, banged up, bloody, and a huge knot sticking out from his closely-cropped dome. He laughed grimly at the reflection, then checked the closet for clean clothes. He would be stuck with his dark trousers, but he grabbed a black tee from the closet which he’d put on as soon as he got the cuffs off. The shirt looked like it would be tight on his muscular build, and a bit short, but it would have to do.