Yesterday's Gone: Season One Part 7

"Beer virgin!" Bob said like he was some kinda frat boy a.s.shole. Charlie would've rolled his eyes if he didn't think Bob would knock one of them onto the floor.

Charlie took another swig, though most of it was thankfully gone. He pretended to drink longer than he had been, then put the empty can down and let out a loud burp. That ought to make ole Bob laugh his a.s.s off.

And it did.

"Holy s.h.i.+t, you're done?" Bob said, grabbing the can and shaking it, "Wow, that's impressive."

Charlie smiled and sat back on the couch.

"You didn't pour it down the sink or anything, did ya?"

Charlie's heart sped up. He wondered if Bob had seen him, but the angle of the kitchen's opening killed the clear view into the living room.

"No, but I spilled half the can on myself. And . . . oh s.h.i.+t, the floor," he said, realizing some had gotten on the carpet, also.

"Hey, boy," Bob snapped, a serious glare flamed in his eyes, "you watch your mouth, ya' hear."

Charlie paused, staring at Bob, waiting for him to crack a smile or laugh, or tell him he was just kidding. h.e.l.l, Bob had just told him to drink a beer and now he was gonna' get all hardcore about a curse word? Sure, Charlie never cursed in the house before, but that was out of respect for his mom. He never realized Bob would be Billy Bad a.s.s about a little foul language.

Hypocritical f.u.c.k.

Bob continued to glare, "You don't use that language under my roof."

"Yes," Charlie said, glancing at the floor, not even bothering to point out that it wasn't his roof, but his mother's, and that Bob barely contributed to anything, much less rent. G.o.d knew what he did with his money, but he sure didn't give any to Charlie's mom.

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, sir," Charlie said, and shrunk into the kitchen to get some paper towels to clean the mess.

As Charlie sprayed the beer stain with carpet cleaner, Bob got up and went to the kitchen. A moment later he yelled, "h.e.l.l, we're outta beer!"

Charlie cringed, wis.h.i.+ng he'd mentioned that his was the last can. He was even more glad Bob hadn't seen him pour half the last beer down the sink. He dabbed at the stain, soaking it dry with the paper towels, pretending to be deep in concentration and hoping to avoid Bob's wrath.

Bob slammed the fridge, came into the living room, and said, "Come on, kid, we're gonna hit the store."

Charlie jumped up, threw the dirty paper towels away and told Bob he'd be right out, after he went pee, using the word pee, because if s.h.i.+t ticked off Bob, p.i.s.s would probably make him go nuclear.

"Okay, hurry up, I'll be waiting in the truck."

Great, we're gonna go out and do some drunk driving in a tow truck. That should be a blast.

Bob was a surprisingly good drunk driver, though he still went too fast for Charlie's tastes. When Bob saw Charlie clenching the hand holder thingee above the pa.s.senger side window, he vented another one of his dirty, ain't I an a.s.shole? laughs.

"What? You think I'm gonna crash us? s.h.i.+t, boy, I've been driving trucks since before you were an egg in your momma's s.n.a.t.c.h."

Wow, there's an image.

"I'm sure you're a great driver," Charlie said, "I was just thinking maybe the beers might impair your driving a bit."

Charlie regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. He expected Bob to go ape s.h.i.+t.

Instead, Bob laughed.

"She-eeit, it takes more than a six pack of beers to get me intoxicated, kid. You ain't even seen me drunk."

Charlie laughed, uncomfortably. He still had a few bruises that said otherwise, but he wasn't about to say that!

The streets beyond their neighborhood were creepy enough to keep the hair on his arms high the entire time. Not a soul on the roads. They pa.s.sed a few cars here and there, which had seemingly been left running in the middle of the road or crashed on the sides of the streets, but not enough to cause any congestion.

When they pulled up to Evergreen Square, the closest shopping plaza to their house, the emptiness got louder. The always-full parking lot had been reduced to just three cars. Bob pulled right up to the first spot in front of the Save-A-Lot.

"Let's go shopping," he grinned.

The store was dark inside, but not so dark you couldn't see between the daylight and the store's huge gla.s.s facade. The automatic doors were dead, so Bob went back to his truck, opened a side panel and retrieved a crowbar.

"Stand back, kid, I've got a door to open."

Charlie thought Bob would pry the doors apart. Instead, being the subtle kinda guy he is, Bob smashed the gla.s.s with the crowbar, until he'd made a big enough hole for them to climb through.

The store was dark and d.a.m.ned creepy without people inside. While Bob grabbed a shopping cart and headed straight to the beer aisle, Charlie was tasked to fill another cart with as much water and food as he could fit. If any other people were left, it wouldn't be long before they'd be looting the store too, Bob warned.

"Anyone too stupid to loot was just smart enough to die," he said.

As Charlie navigated the aisles, he couldn't help but feel a thrill from the all-you-can-grab shopping spree. Anything he wanted in the entire store - for free! He imagined Bob was filling his cart with nothing but beer. Maybe some canned meat products and pork rinds too. The idea made him laugh. He could hear Bob on the other end of the store singing some country song about beer, which made him laugh harder. If Bob weren't such an a.s.shole half the time, Charlie might actually get along with the p.r.i.c.k.

He loaded up on water and soda on one aisle and was shoving every battery pack, flashlight, and battery powered gadget he could find into his cart when he heard a noise one aisle over.

He froze, listening. All he could hear was Bob's obnoxious singing. He was in the middle of his aisle, ready to run in either direction. He crouched down and moved closer to the source of the noise and then he heard footsteps.

s.h.i.+t.

The barren store, h.e.l.l, the barren town, the lack of power, and the general creepiness convinced Charlie he was about to come face-to-face with a zombie.

s.h.i.+t, s.h.i.+t.

He crept toward the front of the store, abandoning the cart.

The footsteps, which were at the back of the store and heading away from him, reversed course, and were now following his path in the next aisle. He stopped. The other person stopped one step after.

Charlie was frozen in place, Bob's drunken singing sounded as though it were a mile away.

He scanned his aisle, looking for something, anything he might be able to use as a weapon. He wished he were in the cutlery aisle, but the small tool aisle would have to do. He grabbed a generic-looking hammer, orange with a black handle. It wasn't heavy, but it was metal, and he figured it could do a fair amount of damage.

He started toward the front of the store again, this time on tiptoe, hammer ready. Silence on the other aisle. He wondered if his stalker was staying put or creeping along with him. He gripped the hammer as he approached the end of the aisle. Once there, he'd have to make a decision whether to round the corner and confront whoever was there or start running and yell for Bob. He'd hate to be imagining things, then go running for Bob like a big baby, so he decided he'd turn the corner and let fate figure it out.

Bob was still singing, but now it sounded like the out-of-tune was coming from a mouthful of food. f.u.c.ker was probably chowing down on raw steaks.

Charlie inched toward the soda display at the end of the aisle, his heart in his throat as he rounded the corner. His shaky hand clutched the hammer, as he considered the ways he might use it when needed. Swinging it would require getting in close, and if the other person - or persons - had a better weapon, he was screwed. He could throw it, but if he missed, he'd be empty-handed. And he'd be facing an angry attacker.

He sat frozen and crouched at the end of the aisle, weighing his decision, and glancing toward the other end of the store to see if Bob was in sight. He wasn't.

Charlie heard the footsteps, now in full sprint toward him.

He ducked down, and got ready to swing the hammer. As trouble ran toward him, he cried out, "Bob!"

He stumbled back just as the figure in blue jeans and a black hoodie shot past him and darted toward the front doors.

Bob came running, crowbar in hand, and glanced down at Charlie who had fallen to the ground. The person had hopped into Bob's truck.

Bob raced from the store, yelling, "Hey, f.u.c.ker!"

Charlie followed, gripping his hammer. As Charlie pushed through the front door, Bob yanked the hoodie-wearing punk from the cab and threw him to the ground. He brought the crowbar up and swung. The guy rolled out of the way at the last second and knocked Bob's legs out from under him. Bob fell to the ground.

The guy hopped up and raced across the parking lot. Charlie followed, driven by adrenaline, and a desire to do something good in Bob's eyes by catching the b.a.s.t.a.r.d who tried to steal his truck.

"Stop!" Charlie yelled, as he got closer, emboldened by both the hammer in his fist, and knowing Bob would surely be beside him in a moment and help him deal with the punk.

Though Charlie couldn't see anything beneath the hoodie, he could tell the guy was shorter and skinnier than him. So long as he didn't have a gun - and Charlie didn't see one - he figured he might have a chance to win a fight for once in his life.

Charlie was almost close enough to grab the guy. He considered throwing the hammer at the back of the guy's head, but didn't want to slow down as he was almost ... catching ... up.

Just inches away, Charlie dropped the hammer, reached out with both hands and grabbed the hoodie, then yanked the guy back. They collided in a rough roll to the ground which lacerated Charlie's arms and bruised his ribs and back, but he didn't release his grip, and the two rolled until they'd come to a stop with the guy on top of Charlie. Only it wasn't a guy, but rather, a young black girl, close to his age, with short curly hair and piercing, azure eyes.

He let go immediately. She stood and their eyes locked in a tango of fear and survival. I'm not a threat, are you?

Just then, Charlie heard Bob's thundering footsteps, then looked up to see him running up behind the girl, screaming with the crowbar raised.

"No!" Charlie screamed. The girl spun around just as the crowbar came down. It narrowly missed her head, but hit her hard in her right shoulder, sending her sprawling to the ground as she cried out.

Bob immediately brought the crowbar up again and was about to take another, surely lethal swing, when Charlie leaped at Bob, pus.h.i.+ng him back, and sending the crowbar back where it bounced off the ground with a hollow metal thud.

"She's just a kid!" Charlie yelled as Bob stumbled back, but didn't fall.

Bob's bloodshot eyes were crazy, his nostrils flaring. He was out of breath.

"She's a kid, man. Relax," Charlie gasped, leaning on his knees to catch his breath.

Bob's eyes relaxed a bit and Charlie turned to the fallen girl, lying unconscious on the ground.

"Did I kill her?" Bob asked.

"I don't think so," Charlie said, leaning down to feel for a pulse.

Charlie wasn't sure whether or not Bob was disappointed.

MARY OLSON.

Desmond was a fun neighborhood mystery. Everyone loved to guess where he got his money. No one knew what he did, but everyone knew he had to be one of the best. His house, directly across the street from Mary's, wasn't larger than hers. But it was just as big and ten times as impressive. You could tell that she was someone who was struggling to stay in such a grand home; he was likely living beneath his means.

Desmond rarely wore anything other than jeans and a simple s.h.i.+rt, but on him, everything looked custom tailored. Even jeans and tees. He always had new toys, including cars. And new women, or so rumor went. And the one time Mary had been inside his house, she left thinking it was the most beautiful interior she'd ever seen. And his garden inspired jealousy from everyone in the neighborhood. She'd dreamt of the garden more than once.

Mary had known a few guys who could mint money, all of them a.s.sholes. Desmond wasn't. He was a good guy with a great sense of humor, though he spent most of the time quiet, at least at the neighborhood gatherings. He had honest eyes and was a great listener; rarely broke eye contact and usually waited his turn to speak. When he spoke, people listened.

"What do you mean the world is dead?" John asked.

"Exactly that. May not be the entire world, but St. Louis is gone for sure. If there's a rest of the world, we need to get to it now."

"People are missing, or do you mean the town itself?"

"A little of both," Desmond said. "All the people, definitely. But a lot of the town, too."

"How do you know?" John's bottom lip started to dance.

"Because I've been driving the city since 3:30 this morning. It's a ghost town, and I can't get a signal from anywhere in the world. If I can't get a signal, no one in this city can."

Jimmy lost his tongue for the first time in years.

Mary said, "What do you think we should do?"

"Pack some supplies; we're gonna head southwest to Fort Leonard Wood. If the world's gone to s.h.i.+t, you can bet the Army base is the best place to be."

Jimmy's tongue came back. "What if the Army is gone?"

John stepped in front of Jimmy. "I'm not going. I'm waiting for Jenny here."

Desmond said, "Jenny's gone."

"She'll be back."

A sadness shuddered through the tiny circle. Desmond put his hand on John's shoulder. "We'll be safer together. And have a better chance at finding Jenny."

Jimmy agreed. "Yeah man, better together."

Mary turned to John. "I know how you feel. But right now, we don't know what's happened or what that means for tomorrow. All we know is, yesterday's gone. Whatever happened, we were hit hard. If our numbers were cut, then every number matters. We need to stick together and figure out what's going on."