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

black rope circling around his neck, ripped at one end torn from its host, but still moving, its hook embedded in Jung’s right eye.
    Boricio screamed victoriously as the van rattled, moving fast and putting distance between themselves and the swarm, unaware of Jung being attacked.
    Ed moved toward Jung, trying to pull the black thing from his body, but he was too late. Ed’s mouth opened in horror as the black thing snaked its way into Jung’s skull.
    Brent and Ed stared, both of them frozen in the moment, watching in stunned disbelief as the last of the black thing vanished into Jung’s face.
    Jung’s eyes both went black, then he screamed as he launched himself at Ed.
    Jung knocked Ed to the ground, his hands gripping Ed’s neck and choking him.
    Ed struggled, trying to push and kick Jung away as Brent stared helpless, lost in the moment without any idea of what to do.
    “What the fuck is going on back there?” Boricio shouted, turning to look.
    Brent’s head spun in indecision — was Jung possessed by the aliens? Should he shoot him?
    Brent stood, rifle in his hand, paralyzed by uncertainty.
    Callie hopped past Brent, raised her pistol to the back of Jung’s skull, then pulled the trigger, painting the van’s interior with a spray of chunky red.
    The gunshot thundered in the cabin as Ed shoved Jung back, then yelled for Brent to open the side door.
    Brent moved quickly, hoping to make up for his earlier indecision, and yanked the door open. Ed kicked Jung out of the van, where he bounced off the hardened black earth, fading into the distance as the van kept rolling forward.
    Brent exhaled, then yanked the door shut.
    Ed, Brent, and Callie all looked at one another, then out the back windows, as Boricio put more distance between them and the dark swarm.
    They were safe — for now.

    * * * *

CHAPTER 3 — The Prophet

    Kingsland, Alabama
    September 2011
    ONE MONTH BEFORE THE EVENT…

    The Prophet recognized the man in black the moment he first stepped through the doors of his church — the man from his visions; a dream come true sent by the Good Lord to help him usher in the Rapture.
    How it would happen, The Prophet did not yet know, and one week after Boricio checked into the rundown Motel 6 up the road, The Prophet had to wonder if God was testing him.
    Boricio was the definition of a lost soul — sad, and full as a tick with resentment. He also seemed like a man who was looking to die.
    Boricio wasn’t just mourning his lost love, whom he’d yet to say two words about, except to mention she was gone; he was boiling over the top of his pot with a furious, bubbling anger. The Prophet invited Boricio to stay at his main house, but the man had foolishly declined. Probably for the best, since The Prophet’s family was leery of the stranger.
    That didn’t stop The Prophet from paying a visit to the man’s motel room; no harm in hand-delivering The Good Lord’s word.
    The first time The Prophet visited Boricio, he could practically smell the drink from the other side of his door. Sure enough, the man was drunk as a Kentucky skunk, and told him to “fuck off” a second after he opened the door.
    The Prophet wasn’t discouraged.
    He returned each day until finally on the seventh, he knocked on a door belonging to a sober Boricio. The man yanked open the door, fast enough to nearly wrest it from its hinges, then said, “What in the hell is it you want from me?”
    The Prophet said, “I’d like to take you for a ride.”
    “A ride?” Boricio was either suspicious of the idea, or didn’t like it a lick.
    “You’ve been here, what now, a week? I’m sure you’re feeling plenty cooped.” The Prophet looked past Boricio, then into a tiny room which had seen its best days maybe three decades before. It was dark, dingy, and plastered with pizza boxes and dozens of oversized bottles of booze, all empty.
    Boricio’s face was covered in thick black stubble, though his head was freshly shaved, and shiny enough to show The Prophet his reflection. The man’s one eye was bloodshot, but for the first time, his breath wasn’t reeking of the Devil’s drink.
    The Prophet figured the man was beaten and tired, and maybe just worn down enough to allow The Good Lord to reach into his heart and show him His Love. Maybe now The Prophet could finally discover why God had brought the man into his life.
    Boricio eyed The Prophet up and down, likely trying to figure his game . He was fluent in this reaction;