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

carrying?”
    “Always.” Sullivan reached into his pocket and pulled out a pistol, an HK USP .45, and handed it to Ed, butt first.
    Ed patted him down, searching for more weapons, but found none. He led Sullivan toward his study, where a bank of monitors showed every room of the six-bedroom house, as well as all the areas outside. Ed glanced at the screen showing Becca still sleeping, then offered Sullivan a seat opposite him, at his planning table.
    “How did you find me?” Ed said, cutting to the chase.
    “I’m a resourceful person.”
    “Bullshit,” Ed countered. “Tell me now. Who else knows I’m here?”
    “Don’t worry, you’re safe. I found you because Will and Luca weren’t the only ones granted abilities by the vials. I’m not nearly as gifted as either of them, but I’m gifted enough to find the four of you.” He shook his head. “But you don’t need to worry about whoever else is trying to find you.”
    Ed wasn’t sure if he believed Sullivan, but Sullivan was always an honest broker, and Ed sensed nothing fishy, so he was inches from buying the guy’s story.
    “So,” Ed said, “What do I have to worry about? I assume you’re not just here to say hello.”
    Sullivan swallowed, adjusting himself in his seat.
    “Luca brought most of us back home,” he said, then cleared his throat. “But we’re not alone. Something else came back with us.”

    * * * *

CHAPTER 16 — Paola Olson

    Our Earth
    Harrison, North Carolina
    July 2012
    NINE MONTHS AFTER THE EVENT…

    Paola dipped her fork into the quiche, her hand practically trembling. The bite was inches from her mouth when she suddenly stopped, inspecting the chunk of egg, ham, cheese, and the specks of green spinach bulging from the white as though taunting her, and ruining a perfectly good breakfast.
    Spinach was the Devil’s vegetable.
    “Just try it,” Boricio said coming from the kitchen to the dining room and setting a basket of muffins in the center of the table. “Breakfast doesn’t always have to be pancakes.”
    “But pancakes are yummy!”
    “So is this. Have I ever bullshitted you, Kid? And besides, didn’t you have enough pancakes during the Apocalypse? Hell, a short stack would practically have to bulge with blueberries and the promise of a half-billion dollars to get me to chew ‘em again.”
    Boricio laughed, and Paola’s mom laughed with him. She took a seat beside her daughter and said, “Come on, you’re gonna hurt Boricio’s feelings. Just try it.”
    “Yeah, please don’t make me cry.” Boricio rubbed his fists into his eyes and loudly boo-hooed. “Besides, you know how much most people would pay for a breakfast like this? I worked at this joint called Au Poivre in Georgia where people who liked to have the best stuff in their mouth, and had wallets fat enough to pay for it, spent north of 25 greenbacks for a slice of my quiche!”
    “I’d pay twenty-five dollars not to eat it,” Paola laughed.
    “OK,” Boricio said, pretending to be upset, “Get out! Oh wait, this is your place. Well, you’re lucky I’m a guest, or you’d see me throw a real shit fit.”
    Paola nudged the food into her mouth, then quickly swallowed, gagging as it went down. She grabbed her glass of milk and took a long swig, though it did little to disguise the gross aftertaste of spinach.
    “There! Tried it. Don’t like it!” Paola said. “No offense.”
    Her mom laughed.
    “Damn, kids these days have no appreciation for good food!” Boricio said, playfully throwing his apron on the granite island countertop. He went back into the kitchen, then returned a moment later with a plate-sized pancake, covered in freshly sliced fruit and lightly dusted with powdered sugar.
    “Luckily, I made pancakes too,” he said with a wink.
    “Yeah, I knew you did,” Paola smiled. “I smelled them when I woke up.”
    “Man, I can’t pull anything over on you, Little Lamb.”
    Paola poured syrup on the pancake as Boricio brought her mom a plate with a large slice of quiche, then set a platter of bagels in the center of the table.
    “I should have you all over more often,” her mom said. “Breakfast around here is usually a smoothie, at best. And a bowl of Fruity Pebbles at worst.”
    “Or maybe you all should move to the island,” Boricio said. “It’s beautiful.”
    “I know,” her mom said. “But I don’t think I want to be anywhere near Black Island. Or any island.”
    Paola’s mom trailed off, but Paola knew