Yesterday's Gone (Season 5): Episodes 25-30 (7 page)

“Why do you care about people so much? They’re cruel, unpleasant, and they’ve not been terribly kind to you.”

“I dunno.” Luca put his feet up on the dashboard and stared at his new blue Nikes and their neon-yellow laces. 

“Well, if it helps at all, know that they’ve moved on to something better.”

“Like heaven?” Luca was surprised to hear Rose suggest such a thing. 

“No, I mean that when things die, their energy moves on to become something else.”

“Like reincarnation?” 

“Not in the way that humans see it, no. You become part of something else — another person, an animal, a plant perhaps. Matter does not die. It changes form and becomes something else. We helped those people move on to a likely less-painful existence.”

“Sorry,” Luca said, staring out the rain tickled windows. “I don’t see it that way.”

Rose turned on the wipers and headlights.  Luca found it weird how her inner alien knew to do such little things like drive and respond to the weather. He wondered, not for the first time, if there were more of Rose inside her body than he’d felt during their mental connections. 

Is it possible that The Darkness inside her is hiding her from me?

Yes,
Luca’s Darkness said.

It had been a while since he’d heard from his alien. Since the pool. 

So there is some part of Rose still alive in her?

Yes, what makes you wonder?

Luca had flashes of the Rose he knew on his home world. The woman who had been in love with his adopted brother, Boricio Bishop. 

Why not let her go? You’re inside me now. Give Rose her life back. We don’t need her. 

Do you feel sorry for her?
The Darkness asked.

Luca thought about lying, but figured the alien inside his mind might surely sense a lie.

Yes. She was happy before. You’ve stolen her life.

We’ve stolen yours, too. You’re not complaining.

It’s different with me. You aren’t forcing me to do anything. You’re not taking over my body. Right?

Correct, Luca. You can champion our cause, and help us to usher in a new era for humanity. Working together.

Well, you have me. You should let Rose go.

We still need her,
The Darkness said.

Why?

Because it’s not easy for a child to travel without suspicion. We need her to help us find the other vials. That is the only way we can win the coming war.

And after we’re done with her? Can she go free?

Nobody will be …
free
, as you say, Luca. It’s time for your species to evolve. Better she stay with us rather than risk losing her to The Chaotic Darkness.

What do you mean Chaotic Darkness?

We are a collective, Luca. We are many; we are one. But as you know, there is The Light, which hopes to destroy us. But there is yet another faction of The Darkness, a part we’ve lost control of after growing too quickly. This Chaotic Darkness festers in weak minds, urging their owners into violent acts before taking their lives. They threaten our exposure. We must gain control over all of The Darkness, and The Light. Only then can we hope to evolve humanity.

How will we do that?

Once we find the vials we’ll be unstoppable. We will consume The Light and all those attempting to halt evolution.

What if we can’t get the vials? What if The Light gets them first? What will The Light do with the vials?

The Darkness said,
The Light will find and kill us, along with any humans serving as host. If you want to live, if you want Rose to live, you must help us.

So I don’t have a choice?

Correct, Luca.

* * * *

CHAPTER 7 — MARINA HARMON

Three weeks ago

Her father’s words echoed in her head as Marina travelled the tunnel’s length toward the monastery cellar two blocks from their compound.

“There’s a man there I want you to find, Father Thomas Acevedo. Tell him who you are. He will help you.”

“Help me what?”
she’d asked.

“Save the world.”

Marina clutched the black metal box close to her chest, knowing that the two vials inside, with their mysterious glowing blue liquid, were more important than anything — from Steven’s betrayal and attempted murder, to the world splitting at its seams while Father’s ghost rose to warn her that his prophecies were true.

She wasn’t a devout believer in the religion he founded, The Church of Original Design, but believed he
was
onto something, and that there were great dangers facing the world.

Marina reached the cellar, a dark-red door barely visible in the dim lights running along the corridor, and was surprised to find no lock. Just a gold-colored metal door handle.

Marina opened the door, still in her pajamas, and found herself in the monastery cellar: long, dark, and piled with old dusty boxes. Concrete walls and wooden beams brought thoughts of her early twenties, and old Parisian churches. A stairway led to another door, this one black with no knob — a deadbolt.

Great. What do I do now? Knock?

Marina felt stupid. She didn’t know the first thing about the monastery, even though it was only two blocks away, and shared a tunnel with her compound. She didn’t know much about monasteries in general, but couldn’t recall ever hearing of a ‘father.’ They had monks, nuns, and friars to the best of her recollection. 

Who the hell is Father Thomas Acevedo? 

Is the church Protestant? Catholic? Something New Age I’ve yet to hear of? 

It didn’t matter. If her father said to go there and find this man, that was enough for Marina.

She ascended the steps and knocked on the door. The wood was thick and dense. Her knock felt as if it went nowhere.

She waited a minute then knocked again.

The door swung open to a bald man in black robes. He looked around fifty years old. He cast his eyes up and down, but said nothing.

Marina wondered if he’d taken a vow of silence. She felt suddenly stupid for how little she knew of other religions.

“My father sent me. My name is Marina Harmon.”

The man looked confused.

“My father is Josh Harmon. He was head of The Church of Original Design. He told me to speak with Father Thomas Acevedo.”

The monk’s eyes widened in recognition. He swallowed, as if suddenly afraid.

A chill ran through her body. Marina felt like she’d suddenly made a mistake, or maybe Father had in telling her to come here.

The monk nodded then stepped aside, ushering Marina in with his hand.

She followed, clutching the box even tighter to her chest.

The monk led her through the basement, through a long hallway, then up four flights along a narrow stairway that seemed like it might have once been a servant’s stairway in a forgotten long ago. The place felt at least a century old and smelled of old wood, though Malibu wasn’t known for antiquity.

She continued following until the stairway stopped on what she figured was the third floor: a long hall with a single red door at the end. 

The monk pointed, ushering her forward toward the door.

“You’re not coming with me?” 

The monk shook his head, then started down the stairs.

Marina was equally freaked and confused. 

Who are these people?

She approached the hallway’s end, slowly, footsteps clomping on the wooden floors no matter how mousy she made them.

Turn around. Go home.

She couldn’t go home. Steven would likely be there, waiting to finish her off.

As Marina drew nearer to the door she heard a man humming, perhaps in some sort of prayer.

She didn’t want to interrupt, but at the same time didn’t know what to do.

She knocked to no response. 

The man kept humming.

She knocked again and waited.

Still nothing.

She looked down at the door handle, an ancient-looking knob, glass with no lock.

She reached out and turned it.

The door creaked open to reveal a long narrow room with nothing but a bed, a dresser, a trunk, and another door, which she assumed led to a bathroom. On the floor, facing the open window was a man in a black-hooded robe, on his knees, praying, or singing — Marina wasn’t sure which.

As she stepped forward, the wood beneath her creaked.

The humming stopped.

The man sat upright.

Her heart pounded as he slowly turned. 

Marina nearly dropped her box when she saw the black thread running through his lips to sew them shut.

* * * *

CHAPTER 8 — BORICIO WOLFE

Boricio opened his eyes in the back of a beat-to-hell pickup truck, staring up at the dirty bug-encrusted lights of a gas station overhang that hadn’t been cleaned since before Kurt Cobain made himself a buckshot sandwich. 

His hands were tied behind his back with what felt like a nylon zip tie.

What the hell are they planning?

Whatever they had in mind, Boricio had no desire to play Honey Boo Boo in their bullshit.

He kept still, not sure if there was anyone in the truck’s cabin, wondering if they were all inside the convenience store, loading up on cases of Bud and cans o’ chaw, for a night of
Hee Haw
hilarity.

After a few moments void of sound and movements within the truck, Boricio rolled his bones for a better view in the back. No one in sight. He sat up, slowly, and looked around.

Three men inside the gas station — Grizzly plus a pair of gangly fuckers from his personal Nitty Gritty Dirt Band. No sign of Blondie Cumbox.

They were at the counter, either paying for their shit or chatting up the cashier, a woman Boricio could barely see from his angle. He looked around the station and saw woods in every direction. He was somewhere in South Carolina, but Boricio didn’t know a dingleberry more than that. They might be planning to drag him into the woods. Killing him there made most sense. They probably had to grab some gas so they didn’t get stranded among the trees with a corpse. Or perhaps cousin Jim Bob was getting his banjo restrung so he could play a ditty while they cornholed Boricio.

He stood, feeling exposed, certain they’d see him if he didn’t move fast and break free from the ties. Boricio bent over, brought his arms up behind him, then slammed them back hard against his tailbone and snapped the nylon zip ties.

He jumped from the truck, but before Boricio could check to see if the hillbillies had left the keys in the cab, the convenience store bell clanged violently on the door.

Time to skedaddle.

“Hey!” Grizzly yelled as he and the gangly fucks poured out of the store. 

Boricio bolted for the field — and the woods just beyond — across the street, running without looking back. 

“Hey!” one of them yelled behind him. 

As Boricio crossed the wide-open field, feeling exposed, the tree line felt like a mile away, hillbillies hot on his ass.

No way I’m gonna reach the trees!

Their footsteps pounded pavement behind him, then the grass. Boricio could hear them panting like puffy wet pussies, heaving breaths punctuating their pink little pleas.  

“Stop runnin’!” 

“We ain’t gonna hurt ya.”

“Come on, we just wanna talk shit out!”

That was beer-battered bullshit, and Boricio knew it. He’d ended plenty of fuckers after swearing he wouldn’t. Bert and Ernie could’ve seen through that shit.

He kept running, hoping he was fast enough.

Just as Boricio got woods adjacent enough to see the escape in his mind, one of the fuckers ran right into his back, tackling him hard at the goal line.

Boricio fell face-first into the wet grass, unable to brace his fall. The ground emptied his chest and had him sucking for air as his tackler, one of the skinny fucks no less, jumped up and pulled a knife on Boricio.

Boricio turned over and was about to stand.

“Stay down, or I’ll gut ya.” 

With his bulging eyes, long skinny neck, and ugly nose, the gangly fuck reminded Boricio of a bird.

Boricio kept gasping for air, heart pounding in his ears as the trinity of cunt hairs closed in around him. They were all far enough from the station that the men could kill him without a witness to dick.

Grizzly looked down and spit on Boricio. 

“Gonna talk some shit now, smart ass?”

Boricio darted his eyes among the three men, smiling as he sized them up, weighing options and measuring ways to counter their attacks. 

Boricio caught his breath, met Grizzly’s eyes, and with exaggerated fatigue said, “OK, ya got me. What do you want?”

“You tried to rape my girlfriend, you fuck. I’m gonna make you pay.”

“Oh, please. Your bitch was begging to batter my corn dog, said she was looking forward to having a
real
man play some
cuntry
on her
clitar.
”

Grizzly moved forward and drew back his foot, aiming to send Boricio’s teeth down his throat.

Boricio threw his arms over his face, bracing for a blow to the elbows instead of his jaw. Boricio countered Grizzly’s kick by trapping his right foot and delivering a punch directly above the man’s ankle joint, killing his leg so he crumpled in agony to the ground.

Boricio rolled on top of the man, shoved his fingers harder into the man’s right ankle, then with his left hand grabbed Grizzly’s foot and wrenched it back to effectively hobble him.

As Grizzly writhed in pain, Boricio hopped up from the ground, and eyed the two skinny bastards, Birdman and Nose Ring. 

Boricio smiled. “Which one of you wants next?” 

Birdman raged forward with his knife. 

Few things were as dangerous as a fucker with a knife in your intimate space. Claiming the knife
might
be possible, but maybes weren’t aces, and Birdman was as likely to find himself lucky enough to stab Boricio in the arms, or get through to his gut.