Yesterday's Gone: Season One

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.
    “Mrs. Goldman,” Brent called, “Are you there?”
    Nothing.
    Weird.
    Brent didn’t know the other neighbors on his floor, but Gina had recently become friends with a young mother a few doors down. Maybe they went there, Brent figured. He walked toward the end of the hall, but couldn’t remember if the woman lived in number 437 or 439.  
    He tried knocking on 437 first.
    No answer.
    He tried a couple more times, then went to 439.
    No response.
    What the hell?  
    People were always home, or at least it seemed that way. Brent was never able to sleep in because his neighbors were loud and the walls were thin. He’d wanted to move somewhere quieter for years, somewhere with neighbors who actually left the building every now and then. Brent turned and tried the door across the hall, 440.
    No response.
    What the hell?  
    Brent turned around and headed up the hallway, stopping to knock at each door along the way.
    One, two, and then five more doors. Nothing. He continued down the hall, his heart thudding, knocks turning to pounding at each door.  
    By the time he reached the end of the hallway, he was hot and sweaty, yelling. “HELLO?! ANYONE?!”
    Nothing but black silence. The darkened hall seemed to constrict as his mind started racing.
    Impossible. There’s no way that nobody’s home. No fucking way. Unless . . .
    Terrorists.
    The word bubbled to the surface as an answer to a question he’d not yet had the courage to ask. They were in New York, so it wasn’t implausible. He raced back to his apartment, door still open, went to the windows and pulled the curtains aside, then looked down on the city streets. The empty city streets.
    Brent was speechless, his heart on pause, eyes swimming in and out of focus.
    “What the fuck?”
    It didn’t add up. If there were an attack, there would be bodies. If there was an evacuation, surely his wife would’ve woken him. Unless maybe it happened while she was out and unable to get back.
    That thought died on the vine when he spotted Gina’s purse and keys on the kitchen table, right where she put them every night before bed, ready for the next morning.  
    He looked back down. No people. No cars on the street. Well, none that were moving, anyway. Brent could see a handful that were either in the middle of the street, or had crashed into the cars parked on the opposite side of the street. He could see exhaust from some of the cars, their lights still on.
    It was as if everyone on his block just simultaneously vanished. Everyone except Brent.
    He went to Ben’s room again to get a look from his son’s window, which had a slightly better angle at the cross street. Something sharp stung his foot. He cursed as he stumbled, glancing at the carpet to see a small blue train.
    Stanley Train, Ben’s favorite toy, which he carried with him everywhere, including to bed. It was there, just sitting on the floor. Brent bent and picked it up. Its wide eyes and eternally giant smile stared back at him. Wherever his little boy was, he was without his favorite toy.  
    He s e t the train on Ben’s pillow and returned to his room. He got dressed, then grabbed his keys, wallet, and phone. He shoved everything in his jeans, then went to the kitchen, found the notepad and a pen and left a note for Gina.

    “Where did you go? Went outside to look for you. Knocked on doors at our neighbors, nobody’s home. I’ll be back at 1 p.m. If you come home, wait for me.
    Love,
    Brent”

    Halfway through the front door, Brent thought of something, then went back to his son’s room, grabbed Stanley Train from the pillow and put it in his pocket.  

    **

    Brent took the stairs down to the next floor, and started knocking on those doors, despite not knowing anyone on this floor.
    At the sixth door without any response, he worked up the courage to try a doorknob. Locked.
    Halfway down the hall, he got an idea. He found the fire alarm and pulled it. The alarm blared; a banshee shriek amid the quiet. Brent covered his ears, watching the hall, waiting for people to flee.  
    Not a single door opened.
    “Fuck it,” Brent said, and went to