Yesterday's Gone: Season One

couldn’t. Nor could he move.
    And that’s when he recognized the true source of his tears — t he realization that he was about to die.

    * * * *

MARY OLSON

    October 18
    Dawn
    Belle Springs, Missouri

    Mary woke feeling happy.
    She couldn’t wait to smell the fresh air of the open road. She was sick of the hotel and sick of the waiting. It wasn’t that she didn’t understand John’s urgency; she wanted to leave every bit as much as he did. But she wasn’t willing to put her daughter in danger or leave before everyone was ready. And she trusted Desmond’s judgment completely, Will’s, too, even though she met him just the day before.
    The last few days had been long, but the sun was breaking, and in an hour they would be on the road to whatever was next. Desmond had stayed up all night on guard and finalizing plans with Will. Desmond had to be exhausted, but he kept going like he thrived on exhaustion.
    “I was just thinking of you,” she said as Desmond approached.
    “Have you seen John?” he asked, minus his characteristic smile.
    Mary shook her head. “No, why?”
    Because I can’t find him anywhere, and he was in bad shape last night. I’m trying not to worry, but I’d be a liar if I said I wasn’t.
    “I imagine you’ve checked his room?”
    “Yeah, I went through all the rooms on the first floor, but didn’t see a thing. Mind helping? I don’t want to tell the others because I don’t want anyone to worry.”
    “Of course, what can I do?”
    “I’m hoping he crashed in one of the upper rooms, trying to get as far away from the rest of us as possible. I’ll start on the top floor if you start on the second. We can meet in the middle. Sound good?”
    Mary nodded. Desmond handed her a gun.  
    “Do you know how to use this?”
    “I think so,” she said.  
    “Good,” Desmond said, “Just shoot or scream, and I’ll come running.”
    She took the stairs to the second floor, stepped off, then started opening doors. The first three rooms were empty, but Mary opened the door of the fourth and saw John lying motionless in bed.  
    Her heart nearly stopped when she saw him.  
    He was face down, motionless, his bare feet caked with dirt, as were the ankles of his jeans.  
    “John,” she said tentatively. For a sick moment, she was certain he was dead.
    Then John rolled over, sat up, and opened his eyes.  
    They stared at one another for 10 full seconds of silence, and Mary felt a vacuum of recognition as if he had no idea who she was. Goosebumps prickled her skin.  
    “Are you okay?” she asked.
    “Never been better.” he smiled, all teeth. “Today’s the first day of the rest of my life.”  

    TO BE CONTINUED...

 
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    EPISODE SIX
     
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JOHN

    John saw from behind a thick stew of growing fascination and utter disgust.  
    Who are these foul, repugnant creatures, and why are they so...unstable?  
    Their minds were all so disparate, yet each seemed to ignore their true selves so they could fade into the background of collective humanity. Empty echoes of obsolete originals, mocking distinction by granting themselves individual names, and walking through life as if they had free will; like they were snowflakes rather than seeds.
    It stared at Mary, one of the humans and the mother of the girl Paola, whose mind and body had been too immature to occupy. The exploration was entertaining, but she wasn’t a suitable host: too soft where it mattered. Of course, the human called John was also soft mentally, still swimming in the primordial ooze of self-discovery.  
    It didn’t concern itself with such self exploration. Not when so much was out there to ingest, absorb, and assimilate. It found its purpose, and first suitable shell. This shell was good enough, with access to everything It needed to grow: the dark light of the planet’s spreading disease, and the collective memory from her most repellent species.  
    It would be John , at least until its strength expanded enough to make titles pointless.
    John rubbed its temples. The shell’s memories were occasionally painful. It was different with the girl; she hadn’t been carrying nearly as many, and the ones she had, were wrapped in a sort of delicate innocence. The shell’s memories were different. Even the best of them bled with a darker edge, as though the simple act of living had marred all purity and sewed misery into even the most joyous memories. And while the girl’s feelings were sweet, they were