Yesterday's Gone (Season 5): Episodes 25-30 (15 page)

“On the ground now!”

Boricio held the nightstick as another two piggies came at him, guns drawn.

One yelled, “Let go of the stick!” 

Boricio considered his odds of killing both pigs, but once he saw the Head Pig  from the other night, the one who prevented Guard Tard from anally raping Boricio with a nightstick, he figured his best move was to fall in line. Head Pig was the closest thing Boricio had to an ally. 

Boricio dropped the stick.

The pig whose foot Boricio smashed raced over, retrieved the nightstick, and grabbed Boricio by the back of his collar. 

“You’re going in the hole.”

TO BE CONTINUED …

YESTERDAY’S GONE

::EPISODE 27::

(THIRD EPISODE OF SEASON FIVE)

“Where’s the Beef”

CHAPTER 1 — ARTHUR MORGAN

Art had good days and bad days according to the Autumn Manor staff, the quaintly named nursing home where Art found himself following the misfortune of outliving both his children. Art’s trouble was that he couldn’t remember much of either as he approached his ninety-fourth birthday.

Most days were a confusing palette of grays. Days filled with “activities” to tide him over until the rest of Art’s body failed as his mind had long ago.

He sat in the sunroom not feeling particularly social, waiting for the reporter who wanted to get a quote about whatever war the country was currently working its way into.

Art wondered why anyone was coming to him for a quote at all. People had to know his health was failing. But he didn’t get visitors often, and wasn’t going to turn away someone who genuinely wanted to talk.

Art cleaned his thick eyeglasses as a woman on TV was standing at the scene of a mass school shooting.

People talked about how the world was going to hell, and how the proliferation of guns had suddenly made the world awful. But those people failed to realize that the world had been awful since the beginning.

This country, like most others, was paved in the blood of innocents. This was something that the underclasses in every country throughout time always knew, because they had experienced it firsthand.

Now that violence was encroaching on the white middle and upper classes, people were starting to see the truth — that humans were animals. Worse than animals, really. Animals weren’t mindlessly violent. 

Humans, however …

Art had borne witness to the worst of humanity, first as a soldier in World War II, then again in Korea. Once exposed to man’s evil, whether through war or some random act of violence, it was hard to ever see the world through rose-colored glasses again — a doubly heartbreaking end to innocence because the mourned world never existed.

Art had written thousands of pages about the history of war throughout his twenty-one book career. And not just common, regurgitated history. Art studied the
real
reasons for war. Global conflicts were rarely started for honorable or just reasons. Most were about privileged men in pursuit of power or seeking to maintain what they had. Art had known, prior to his senility, more about war than probably anyone else in the States. 

Oddly, he had fans — and detractors — on both sides of the aisle. People on the left
and
the right used Art’s writings to bolster their arguments for
and
against war. It was a strange sort of fame, one that he’d never felt particularly comfortable with. He simply saw himself doing his duty to report things as he saw them to those willing to listen and learn.

Art wondered about the reporter’s agenda. Was it someone seeking to condemn the current war, or hoping to defend it?

Either way, Art was certain to disappoint the reporter. He rarely gave basic black-and-white answers because everything was gray. Subtleties and nuances were deeply nested in every conflict. Right and wrong were only words. Without all of the facts — and no one
ever
had all of the facts — war was difficult to judge as just or unwarranted.

But a lonely Art had agreed to the interview anyway.

“Do I look OK?” he asked Estelle, the on-duty nurse, and one of his favorites — an attractive Cuban woman who vaguely reminded him of a long-gone girlfriend.

“You look fine, Art. How are you feeling? You up to this?” Her smile made him feel safe.

“Good. Yes, I’m up to this.”

An awkward silence hung between them until Art finally found the courage to apologize.

“Sorry about yesterday.”

Estelle looked down, just long enough to let him know that he’d hurt her feelings. She looked up and smiled. “It’s OK.”

Art didn’t remember the details. Paul, the nurse on duty earlier, said, “I heard you were naughty yesterday,” then proceeded to tell Art that he’d thrown a fit about his lunch, yelled at half the staff, and escalated his curses until he became borderline violent.

Art felt horrible. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt Estelle. She was a sweetheart, never short with him, and always gentle. Estelle listened to his stories and asked questions, unlike most of the others, who would be checking their idiot phones through the entire conversation.

“No,” he said to Estelle, “it’s not OK. Nobody should have to put up with my shit when I’m having my bad days. Nobody. You’re a saint, dear, and don’t think for a moment that I don’t know and appreciate it. I’m sorry for whatever I said.”

Estelle’s eyes watered, and Art could tell he was about to make her cry. But he didn’t want pity. He just wanted to improve things between them. 

Art hated that he couldn’t control the anger when it came. Hated more that he couldn’t even remember the incidents. It was hard to sincerely apologize for something you couldn’t even remember doing, and sincerity was the mother of a decent apology.

Art had never been one to believe in heaven or hell, not with all he’d seen. But that was before his mind had packed its bags. Now he realized that hell was as real as it was eternal and unforgiving.

“Oh, they’re here,” Estelle said as the receptionist escorted a woman with light-brown hair into the social room.

“Hello, Mr. Morgan, my name is Rose McCallister. I’m a reporter at
The Grunion Sun
. I’d love to pick your brain on a few things for an article I’m writing.”

“Sure,” Art said. Rose was quite a looker. Young with porcelain skin and a smile that could get anyone talking. He’d learned two things in his life when it came to public relations: never trust a reporter, and never trust a pretty woman who wants to discuss what you know.

Yet there was something about her eyes that held Art instantly captive. He
wanted
to talk to her, and know what she knew. He wanted to tell her anything she was willing to hear.

It was the oddest sensation, but Art felt like he’d known the woman forever and could trust her with anything.

Rose turned toward Estelle. “Can we talk alone?” 

“Certainly,” Estelle said. She left the room, seeming equally stricken by Rose.

Art was confused.

Estelle normally would’ve asked Art if he wanted her there, especially given his mood swings and declining memory. She was a good buffer and could prevent him from making a fool of himself or saying something he’d regret. And if he did slip into words that shouldn’t be said, Estelle could tell the reporter about his condition and beg them not to quote him. Fortunately, there had been only one incident, and Estelle hadn’t begged the reporter so much as threatened to eviscerate him.

Rose looked around, as if trying to find someone within earshot, then leaned closer with a conspiratorial whisper. 

“I’m here to help you, Mr. Morgan.”

I should’ve known she wasn’t a reporter.

His lips tightened, and Art’s heartbeat accelerated as he looked around for someone to call over to get this woman away.

She reached out, put an icy hand on his, which seemed to instantly calm his nerves and shaking hand.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Mr. Morgan. Quite the opposite.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’ve read your books, sir. You have a brilliant mind when it comes to war.”

“Had,” he said, “had a brilliant mind. Not quite what it was.”

“Yes, I read the feature in
The Economist
about your situation. Which is why I’m here. I think we can help one another.”

“Help one another?” Art found his smile. “What do you have in mind?”

“First, let me ask you a question. Would you like your old life back? Your youth? Your vitality? All of your memories?”

“Hey, lady, if you’re pitching some snake oil, go peddle your wares elsewhere.” Art’s smile turned into a laugh full of cracks. “Doctors already said there’s nothing that can be done for me. Besides, I’ve lived long enough. My family, the ones I care about anyway, are all long gone. What’s the point of being young again even if you could make it happen?”

“Because nobody wants to die. No one would choose nothingness over life. And I see the glimmer in your eye, Mr. Morgan. I see that you’ve got quite a bit of fight left inside you.”

“See, that’s where you’re wrong, ma’am. I’m quite tired of fighting. I’ve seen enough quarreling, enough violence, enough death, to last me five lifetimes. I’m ready to meet my maker — or nothingness if that’s all there is. I’m ready to lie down and just be.”

Rose shook her head. “You can lie to yourself, but you can’t lie to me. I see a tired man, yes, maybe even a discouraged man. But he’s not tired of fighting. He’s tired of losing. He’s tired of not being able to affect change. He’s tired of not counting. But what if you could have your health
and
get people listening again?”

Art wanted to tell this woman to leave him alone, stop trying to sell whatever it was she was hocking. He looked around again. 

“Where the hell is Estelle?”

Rose leaned in again, put both her freezing hands on his. He wanted to pull his away, but couldn’t. His heartbeat sped up, and a shiver ran through him.

He asked, “W-what are you?” 

“I
am
the Maker. I am going to change everything in this world. I’m offering you a seat at the table.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Art’s blood was boiling in anger, and he felt a twitter from detonation. His body refused to obey him. He couldn’t even stir enough anger to yell for someone to get this clown out of here. He was pretty certain that she was somehow holding him down, even if he couldn’t figure out how.

What the hell is she doing to me?

“I’m talking about this, Mr. Morgan.” Rose released his hands, reached into her purse, and pulled out a glass vial with glowing blue liquid inside.

A hundred thoughts swam through his mind, all screaming danger. For a moment Art was certain the woman was some sort of anti-war protester who had brought a toxin to poison him, to make some kind of misguided political statement.

But just as Art was transfixed by her eyes, he found himself unable to look at anything other than the vial.

“Go ahead,” she said, handing it to him.

His hand moved forward, as if with a will of its own.

He touched the vial.

A spark jumped from the vial to his skin. But rather than deflecting his hand, it drew his fingers closer. 

The vial was suddenly in his hand, surprisingly warm to the touch. An energy coursed through him, and within seconds Art felt a vitality he hadn’t felt since his thirties, perhaps even his twenties.

What is this?

He stared at the vial, watching as the blue liquid seemed to climb up the glass toward the black stopper, as if trying to flee.

Open it
, his mind said. At least he
thought
it was his mind.

He heard a swelling of dozens, if not hundreds, of whispers above a low hum. Together, the sounds seemed like music to a forgotten song on the tip of his tongue.

Art longed to hear more.

Rose withdrew the vial.

The energy and wonder that had filled his heart was gone, popped like a bubble.

Art already longed to feel it again. She was like a drug pusher giving him his first hit for free, before she announced the price of his next.

“Please,” he said, his trembling fingers outstretched, reaching for it.

“Not here,” she said. “Come with me.”

“OK.” Art stood and followed Rose, willing to go anywhere she wanted if it meant feeling that feeling again.

* * * *

CHAPTER 2 — MARINA HARMON

Marina stared out the window into Culver City’s filthy, beating heart. 

It was charity to say the house had seen better days. The home, with its boarded windows, chipped paint, and weed-strewn lawn, looked like a war zone. Of course, given the neighborhood’s general neglect and how many of its citizens faced death on a daily basis, that wasn’t far from the truth.

“This is your house?” 

“Yes,” Acevedo said. “The neighborhood went to hell about ten years ago or so. It used to be beautiful.”

“And you stored the most important thing in the world in this dump?” 

Acevedo nodded. “Never underestimate the power of hiding in plain sight.”

Marina looked up and down the street, saw some thugs standing at the end of the block, wearing oversized clothes that surely covered guns.

She felt guilty for stereotyping young black men, but wasn’t naive. It was the neighborhood, not their color. She told herself she’d feel the same way if it were any other race of young men hanging around looking like thugs. She also realized that anyone living here had to adapt to their surroundings so as not to stand out, and that any kid living here would naturally don a thug’s persona. That didn’t mean every kid who looked like a thug was one. But at the same time, Marina had to assume they all were, lest she let her guard down.

Marina had lived a lily-white life of comfort and opportunity. She’d done some work in poor communities and had even travelled to Eastern Europe, Africa, and Haiti to do missionary work for the church. But she’d rarely been in neighborhoods like this, let alone truly got to know anyone who lived there.