Yesterday's Gone: Season One

mother’s! Not yours! And according to her, you never paid your fair share! She had to beg you for money, because you held onto all yours and then had the balls to take hers, too! YOU are the FUCKING parasite, not me!”
    Bob’s eyes widened, his jaw dropped.
    And though Charlie knew he’d made a huge mistake, the look on Bob’s face, if for even a second, was worth the price of admission.
    Bob screamed, throwing himself on Charlie. The two fell to the ground.
    “You little fucker!” Bob screamed, punching Charlie square in the jaw.
    Pain shot through Charlie’s face. Another punch found him right beneath the left eye and left his face at the edge of explosion.  
    “No!” Callie screamed, pulling Bob away from Charlie. “Stop it!”
    Bob reluctantly pulled away, glaring at Charlie.
    Callie bent down to help him up, “Are you okay?”
    Bob continued to glare as Charlie started to cry from pain and embarrassment. When Charlie responded in a sniffle, Bob smirked and walked to the fridge to get another beer. “Clean this shit up so we can eat like a family.”

    **

    The rest of dinner was uncomfortably quiet, as Charlie and Callie exchanged nervous glances while Bob seemed to almost completely forget about the whole damned thing.
    As Bob drank, he told crude jokes, and even made small talk with Charlie, telling him he’d done well with the pistol at target practice earlier.
    Charlie played along. His pride was wounded, as was his face, but if Bob was being nice now, he’d not look a gift horse in the mouth. Charlie started to understand how his mother must’ve felt living with a ticking schizophrenic time bomb, never knowing what would set it off or what would defuse it.
    Bob got up to take a piss upstairs. Callie looked at Charlie, her eyes gentle.
    “Thank you for lying for me. I’m so sorry. I should’ve spoken up sooner.”
    “It’s okay,” Charlie said. “Better he take it out on me than you.”
    As Callie gave him a giant hug, Charlie felt, despite his weakness, like a momentary hero.

    **

    9:12 p.m.  

    Bob was in front of the TV in a drunken stupor, even though it wasn’t working. Callie and Charlie were playing chess upstairs in the bedroom Callie had taken as hers for however long they planned (and there was very little planning involved with Bob) at Derek’s house.  
    Thankfully, they hadn’t spoken again of “the dinner incident” and Callie was being extra nice.
    The house had five spare rooms in addition to the master bedroom, though only three had beds. While they’d each slept in separate rooms each night, Charlie was hoping tonight, Callie might stay with him.
    He didn’t event want to have sex with her — though he would in a heartbeat — so much as just lie beside her and hold her.  
    “Are you letting me win?” she asked as she took his black Queen with her white Bishop. “How could you have not seen that coming?”
    “I dunno,” he said, trying to work up courage. His stomach was butterflies. “I was just thinking about stuff.”
    “Like what?” she said, her beautiful eyes meeting his.  
    “Um, I dunno,” he said, suddenly realizing that he didn’t even know HOW to make a move on a girl.  
    Do I kiss her? Do I ask her out? Is asking someone out even possible now? I mean, how the hell are you gonna date when you don’t even know if you’ll be attacked by zombies tomorrow?
    His head was spinning as he tried to think of something, anything , other than the rambling words falling awkwardly from his mouth. His mouth was moving a mile a minute, but he wasn’t hearing the words. It was just small talk, meaningless gibberish, as panic moved to full steam.
    He had to get control of the situation before his lunatic ramblings sent her running.
    Be bold. Be assertive. Girls respect boldness.
    “I like you,” he said. His racing heart pushed out the three words, then stopped on a dime.

    * * * *

BRENT FOSTER

     
    October 15
     
    9:47 p.m.
     
    New York City
     

    Brent’s apartment was a fortress of darkness, barely illuminated by a single battery-operated lantern. A second light sat in the hallway, turned off to keep the batteries fresh.
    The refrigerator blocked the doorway and the kitchen table blocked the living room window. Brent’s mattress, dresser, and a trunk blocked the window in his and Gina’s bedroom. The window in Ben’s room was blocked, partly, by his mattress and dresser.
    Their fortress wasn’t impenetrable by any means. They hoped