Yesterday's Gone: Season One

16
    2:14 p.m.
    East Hampton Docks
     
    East Hampton, New York

    They spent nearly five hours getting to the docks, after first stopping at a clinic and bandaging Luis’s arm, then grabbing some medicine and first-aid supplies for the road. They ran into a wall of stalled cars blocking passage to the bridge, so Brent had to get out of the BMW and move nearly a dozen cars. They all had keys dangling from ignitions, but the majority were either out of gas or dead as the world, and needed to be pushed aside.  
    Fortunately, they’d not seen any other aliens along the way.  
    Unfortunately, the fog had grown so thick and dark, their visibility was even worse on the coast than in the city. And the coast was just as much a ghost town, if not more, due to its lack of skyscrapers. While Brent half expected to find a bunch of people waiting at the docks for the ferry, or cars left by people who’d taken it across already, they found neither.
    Instead, they saw a large yellow cardboard sign with big black letters, reading:

    “FERRY WILL RESUME TOMORROW at 8 A.M.”

    “What the hell? I thought they were supposed to run until nighttime,” Luis said. “Now we’re gonna have to find somewhere to stay.”
    They had no shortage of homes to choose from, and most were quite nice. They grabbed the duffel bags from the car and headed across a field toward a two-story house, which probably cost more than Brent would have made throughout his entire career.
    “Anyone home?” Luis said, knocking on the front door. No answer, so he tried the doorknob. It was locked. But the front window wasn’t, so they slipped inside like burglars.
    The house, while nice on the outside, was a letdown inside. The owners were an older couple, judging by the photos, and it looked like they hadn’t redecorated since the Clinton Administration, maybe even the first Bush. The only new item in sight, standing bold amid the dated furniture and faded paint, was a large flat-screen TV.  
    “Mind if I stay in this one?” Luis asked, glancing out the window. They had a decent view of the docks from where they were, probably the best view on the block given the thickness of the fog.
    “We can stay here,” Brent said.
    “No,” Luis corrected him, “What I’m saying is do you mind if I stay here. You should find another house, preferably one I don’t know where you are.”
    “What are you talking about?” Brent asked.
    “That thing bit me. It’s only a matter of time before I turn, just like Joe did.”
    “You don’t know that. That thing didn’t bite Joe, it... I dunno, dug its fingers into Joe’s skull. It left marks. You didn’t have any marks on you, other than the bite.”
    “I might now, though,” Luis said, holding up his bandaged forearm. “For all we know, it could be a whole mess of nasty under here. I’m thinking we should split up, just in case I go full zombie and shit.”
    “No,” Brent said, “I’m not leaving you. Remember? We’re in this shit together. You said so yourself. Don’t fight me on it, either, or I’ll have to unleash my Fists of Journalistic Fury on you again.”
    Brent smiled, waving his fists like an old time boxer from silent movies, and Luis broke into a laugh.

    **

    As the day surrendered to darkness, Brent and Luis sat in the living room kicking back warm beers as the sound of ocean waves and salty breeze washed through the Colonial-styled front windows, which they left open. Brent had never been much of a beachfront guy, seemed like a lot of expense for not much return. But as the music of the lapping ocean waves relaxed him, he could see the appeal.
    Brent sat in an ugly, but comfortable recliner, while Luis lounged on an even uglier, if it were possible, checkered beige sofa. They didn’t want to risk using flashlights any more than necessary and potentially alerting any creatures that might be lurking outside along the coastline, so they ate and drank by the bright moonlight which bathed the living room in blue.
    The conversation had moved from why the Mets sucked, to whether the Jets had a shot this year, to what kinds of dads they had growing up. Luis had a strict Catholic father who died when he was young, so he was mostly raised by his mother, forced to be the man of the house and look out for his long-deceased younger brother, Ricky.
    Brent cracked another beer and said, “My dad was a tough blue-collar guy that worked at a steel mill. He hated every fucking minute of it; I could