Read WhiteSpace: Season One (Episodes 1-6 of the sci-fi horror serial) Online
Authors: Sean Platt,David Wright
Tags: #science fiction, #horror
WhiteSpace: Season One (Episodes 1-6 of the sci-fi horror serial) (50 page)
He leaned down and put his hands on either side of Luca’s face, feeling warmth like liquid blanket spreading through his limbs and into his fingers. And then from his fingers and into the man-kid.
Boricio stared at his hands, as if they were being moved by another. He wondered again what in Hell’s sweet honeypot the man-kid had done. He had
fixed
him, but he’d sure as shit done something else, too.
The man-kid’s eyes shot open like someone had flipped a switch inside him, and he started coughing up blood then sucking at air and gasping for breath.
Boricio started to pull away, but couldn’t. His hands were locked onto Luca, as some sorta whatinthefuck kept flowing from inside of him and into the man-kid. Warmth turned to pain and started shooting like a scattergun through the all of Boricio’s body, as he clenched his teeth and tried to work up the strength to break the connection.
Let go!
Finally, Boricio was able to wrench himself away. He fell back into the snow writhing in pain.
Luca rose from the dirt, staring at Will, who was still sitting on the ground from when Boricio knocked him down.
“Why?” Luca asked, his voice caught between confusion and anger.
“I’m sorry,” Will said, wiping a tear. “It was the only way.”
“Only way for
what?
” Luca asked.
“For that,” Will said, pointing at Boricio, rising to his feet, body feeling like it was on fire.
“Why you all looking at me like that?” Boricio asked.
Luca’s eyes were wide, as if he were staring at a two-headed demon sucking on a dick made of fire. Luca opened his mouth, but said nothing.
“What the fuck you looking at?” Boricio growled.
“I’m so sorry,” Luca said.
“Sorry? For what?” Boricio asked, confused, and feeling another new feeling — fear. He reached up to touch his face, but his hands were buzzing, too numbed to know what he was touching.
He looked around, then saw the headlights of Will’s car shining on them. He stepped past Will and Luca, moving toward the car as fast as he could despite the 15 bags of fuckall that had slapped him in the face.
Boricio reached the car, driver’s side door still open, then bent to see his reflection in the mirror.
Oh God.
He looked like he’d aged a decade, maybe more.
“What the hell did you do to me?!” Boricio roared, spinning around.
“I don’t know,” Luca said, surprising Boricio by not stepping back. “I swear.”
I should shoot this pair of fucks right here, right now, and get the hell out of Dodge.
But Boricio couldn’t leave.
Something was holding him here.
The need to stay with the man-kid sang in the same sweet tune of instinct that had fueled the engine of Boricio’s entire life. He screamed in frustration, grabbed his shotgun off the ground, and pointed it at Will.
“Talk! Now!”
Will shook his head, “I don’t know any more than you do. Only what I saw.”
Boricio curled his lip and gritted his teeth. “Then tell me what you saw.”
Will looked at the ground and swallowed, “Whatever’s in Luca. Whatever makes him special. He transferred that to you. I had to make sure you gave it back.”
Boricio wanted to shoot the old bastard right there on the spot, just to satisfy the itch. But, again, something inside him kept his finger from squeezing the trigger.
“Why?” Luca said. “Wait. Does this mean I can heal people again? Can I . . .,” Luca looked back toward the barn where Linc and Rebecca’s bodies lay in a heap, slaughtered by monsters. Then he looked toward the dungeon where Mary and Paola’s bodies lay on their way to forgotten. Finally, Luca looked toward Desmond’s corpse, along with the other dozen littering the Sanctuary like a battlefield.
Luca swallowed, then whispered. “I can bring them back?”
Will looked up from the ground after a quarter eternity spent chewing the question.
“Yes, you can bring them back. But not all of them. Only three. After that, you’ll have aged to near dying.”
“Just three?” Luca whispered, eyes on Will.
“Three,” Will repeated, as he struggled to stand.
Something looked off about the old man. Then, as Will flinched and fell back a step, Boricio saw the crimson bleeding between his fingers and realized the old fucker had been hiding an injury to his gut.
Will fell to the ground, gasping for air, about to add one more body to the battlefield.
TO BE CONTINUED . . . JUNE 19, 2012
IN YESTERDAY’S GONE: EPISODE 13
* * * *
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Sean Platt
is the co-author of the
Yesterday’s Gone, ForNevermore,
and
Available Darkness
series, in addition to the novels
Four Seasons
and the children’s book,
Penny to a Million
.
In addition to being a regular contributor for
Copyblogger.com
, the Web’s premier content marketing site, Sean has written copy for some of the largest writing and lifestyle blogs on the Web.
A new breed of publisher, Sean writes and publishes nonfiction and fiction in several genres ranging from children’s books to horror. Sean is a co-founder of the publishing imprint Collective Inkwell Media, along with David.
He is available for speaking events aimed at writers, publishers, and creative entrepreneurs, as well as for individual consultation.
Sean is living the writer's dream in Ohio with his wife and two children.
Connect with Sean at:
http://facebook.com/ghostwriterdad
* * * *
David W. Wright
is a former newspaper reporter and cartoonist. He is the co-author of the
Yesterday’s Gone, ForNevermore,
and
Available Darkness
series. He is also working on an illustrated children’s book for preschoolers (which may or may not come out before his son is out of preschool.)
You should avoid feeding David after midnight, getting him wet, or exposing him to bright light.
He writes about Collective Inkwell stuff at:
He blogs and rants about writing, pop culture, and other stuff at:
David lives on the East Coast with his wife, his four year old son, and the world’s most pooping-est cat.
Connect with David at:
http://twitter.com/thedavidwwright
* * * *
YESTERDAY’S GONE: A SNEAK PEEK AT EPISODE ONE
On October 15 at 2:15 a.m. everyone on Earth vanished.
Well, almost everyone.
A scattered few woke alone in a world where there are no rules other than survival... at any cost.
A journalist wanders the wretched reality of an empty New York, in search for his wife and son.
A serial killer must hunt in a land where prey is now an endangered species.
A mother shields her young daughter from danger, as every breath fills her with terror.
A bullied teen is thrilled to find everyone gone. Until the knock on his door.
A fugitive survives a fiery plane crash. Will he be redeemed, or return to what he’s best at: the kill?
An eight year old boy sets out on a journey to find his missing family. What he finds will change him forever.
And there’s a few people who aren’t surprised that this happened at all. In fact, they’ve been dreaming about this day for years.
These survivors aren’t alone...
Someone or something is watching them.
And waiting...
Strangers unite.
Sides are chosen.
Will humanity survive what it never saw coming?
The only certainty is that Yesterday’s Gone.
You’ve never read anything like
Yesterday’s Gone
– the epic, groundbreaking, thrilling new series of serialized fiction. Season One takes you on a non-stop ride from the day the survivors awoke all the way to the shocking season finale.
CHAPTER ONE
BRENT FOSTER
Saturday
October 15, 2011
morning
New York City
On the day everything changed, Brent Foster’s biggest concern was getting an hour to himself. But hell if he wouldn’t have settled for 15 minutes.
His head was pounding when he woke, as if he’d spent the night partying rather than staying late at the paper. Fortunately, it was his day off. He glanced at the alarm clock and saw that the blue numbers were black. The fan he used to drown out the sounds of his neighbors and traffic was off too. The power must’ve gone out.
Great.
Judging from the morning sun coming through the opening in the curtains, he figured it was probably 9 a.m. And since he couldn’t hear the sounds of his rambunctious three year old at play, Gina must’ve taken Ben for a walk or play date at the park.
He smiled. He loved when he had the apartment to himself. Moments alone were so rare these days. He worked under constant deadlines in the newsroom, still always hustling and bustling, even with the layoffs. Then, at home, his son was
usually awake
and in need of some daddy time.
“He just wants to spend time with you,” his wife would say, tugging at Brent’s threadbare guilt strings. “You’re always working.”
Brent wasn’t
completely
antisocial, even if Gina might argue otherwise; he just needed time to decompress when he woke and when he got home. He was just wired that way. If he didn’t get time, he grew moody and anxious. And he was short with Ben, which carried the rough consequence of feeling shitty for hours, one hour for every second he was uncool to Ben. The last thing he wanted to be was like his own dad, yet some days, he was headed there with a full tank of gas and a brick on the pedal.
He was in a better mood when he could start the day alone. Today, it seemed, would start just right.
Brent walked into the living room, popped open the fridge, off but still cold. He grabbed a bottle of water and took a deep swig as his eyes scanned the counter for a note from his wife. She always left a note when she went somewhere. But, apparently, not today. Brent took another swig of water and headed down the hall to his son’s room. The door was closed; big blue wooden letters spelled BEN on the door. Brent peered inside. The bed was unmade, curtains drawn, even though Gina always opened them when Ben first woke. Both pairs of Ben’s sneakers were sitting on top of his blue wooden toy box that doubled as a bench.
Brent was confused. Gina wouldn’t take Ben from the apartment without shoes.
He went back into his room, fished the cellphone from his pants, and glanced at the time. 10:20 a.m. Later than he thought.
He dialed Gina’s cell and put the phone to his ear.
No sound on the other line.
Phones are down, too?
Brent dialed again, same result.
Mrs. Goldman.
They had to be at the apartment across the hall, Mrs. Goldman’s. Her husband had passed away a few months earlier. Gina had started bringing Ben over to keep her company. She loved Ben and he loved eating her cookies — a perfect match.
Brent slipped on some sweatpants, then headed across the hall and knocked on the door. The lights in the hall were out, save for four emergency lights spaced every five doors along the ceiling.
Mrs. Goldman always took forever to answer the door. Brent suspected she was going deaf, even though she had a keen ear for neighborhood gossip. He knocked louder. Still, no answer.
Mrs. Goldman never went anywhere. Ever. Her only other family was her worthless son, Peter, who never visited. The few times Gina had invited her to the store or for a nice afternoon lunch, Mrs. Goldman declined. She didn’t care much for the city. Was only there because her husband loved it. Now he was gone, and she was happy to spend her days watching TV, reading her mysteries, and playing bridge with some of the other ladies twice a week.