Yesterday's Gone: Season Three (THE POST-APOCALYPTIC SERIAL THRILLER)

outside, roaming the world and among its beings, slowly absorbing everything into It .
    This shell, of this fat man calling itself the “Prophet,” was so limiting.
    Old. Obese. Used.
    It was a wonder that anything could go through life in such worn form, indulging on its very self-destruction.
    It needed to change its shell soon, trade it for something younger; stronger, and with more energy. It’s purpose was revealing itself in new ways every day. As It grew, It remembered more of its life before this.
    A life where It thrived in another world.
    But something had happened — what, It could not yet recall. Something that had changed everything, then brought It here to this world.
    Where It was not alone.
    Another Something was out there. Something that was its opposite, trying to undo Its work.
    Something It sensed on the highway when the storm came. That storm wasn’t any ordinary storm. The storm was the enemy. Fortunately, It was able to hide itself inside the old man’s husk.
    But for how long?
    A war raged outside, a war for survival that none of these ignorant humans could either comprehend or possibly see.
    It had lost before.
    It would never lose again.
    First It must kill the child. The One, Luca, It knew was different. Luca wasn’t just different . The enemy was hiding inside the child. Why it had chosen a child for a vessel made little sense to It , but perhaps brilliance was behind the move.
    As a child, it could go undetected and gather strength.
    Fortunately for It , the child’s husk had recently changed, at least that’s what Its others had reported.
    The child had gone from young to old. From strong to weak. Now was the time to strike before the enemy could change hosts and gather strength.
    Strike now, take the rest of this world and bring it unto Itself.
    It would spread.
    That was what It was meant to do.
    All would grow dark. And nothing would stop It once it was.

    * * * *

CHAPTER 9 — Charlie Wilkens

    Black Mountain, Georgia
    March 2012
    FIVE MONTHS AFTER THE EVENT…

    Charlie sat at a square wooden table alone in a 20 by 20 white sterile room, drinking an ice-cold can of Coca-Cola.
    He’d not had a cold drink since forever; ice cold soda was only a memory.
    Damn, I almost forgot how good these are!
    They’d also given him clothes. A black tee shirt and matching sweats. He requested that Callie get the same thing to wear — his one condition, other than her safety, for helping them. Charlie considered pushing for everyone on the block to get clothes, but stopped short since he had no idea how strong his hand actually was. The last thing he wanted was for the Guardsmen to resent him and take that resentment out on Callie.
    In front of Charlie was a paper plate piled surprisingly high with pretzels and chocolate chip cookies, both remarkably fresh given that they were at least a half year old. A Guardsman named Darren told him to eat as many of the pretzels and cookies as he wanted — the first thing said to him as he was led into the small room after Dr. Rudolph drew his blood in hopes of creating some sort of serum that might cure Ryan.
    Charlie didn’t understand the science behind the serum, or anything the doctor said, really, but the process seemed painless enough, at least on his end. He hoped they found a cure soon. While Charlie had somehow resisted the full mutation, unlike every other infected body Black Mountain had found, that didn’t mean he’d never fully mutate.
    The alien thing, whatever it was, was inside Charlie. He was infected. And his life was a ticking time bomb, now more than ever. The after-procedure snack was a nice bonus, though he felt guilty not being able to share it with Callie. He wondered if they’d let him bring her a drink and a cookie.
    The door to his room slid open and Bald Boricio stepped inside, now wearing an all black outfit similar to the Guardsmen, with a holstered pistol and the same glass mask worn by the other guards. He took a seat across from Charlie and spoke, his voice sounding like a radio, crackly through the mask’s speaker, “How are you feeling?”
    “Okay,” Charlie said. “Any word?”
    “No,” Boricio said. “Still waiting. I wanted to discuss something else with you, though.”
    “What is it?” Charlie said, suddenly concerned he was about to hear something bad, maybe terrible.
    “What’s he like?”
    “Who?” Charlie asked.
    “The other Boricio. The one from your world. What is he like?”
    Charlie