Yesterdays Gone: SEASON TWO (THE POST-APOCALYPTIC SERIAL THRILLER) (Yesterday's Gone)

scattered inconsistent sounding pops, then finally to nothing.  
    Ryan crept from the office and into the chaos of the now mostly empty grocery store. Aisles were overturned, cans rolled along the linoleum and cereal carpeted the floor, causing Ryan to detour around aisle 7 so he wouldn’t crunch the sugary grains under his feet.
    What the hell happened?
    Pete and one remaining officer were the only men standing, pistols in one another’s faces. Ryan stepped back, trying to make his way to the back of the store so he could escape unseen. As he was backing up, his foot slipped on something and fell backward, right into a display of glass Ragu jars that fell to the ground in a crash.  
    He looked up as the officer turned, startled by the noise. The punk made the most of the cop’s split second distraction, pulling the trigger and splattering the cop’s brains out the front of his skull.
    The officer fell as Ryan screamed.  
    Pete said, “Shut the fuck up, Pollyanna, and go make yourself at home in the back of the Lincoln. Otherwise you can join Johnny Law on the floor.” He waved the gun in the air. “So, what’s it gonna be?”
    A siren blared in the distance. Several more immediately echoed. Ryan chewed his lip, then walked the rest of the way down the aisle, over the dead officer, past Pete, then to the front of the store where he saw two of his people on the ground. One was Bill, face down in his own blood. And then he saw her- Clarissa, lying on the ground and staring straight up, blood bubbling in her mouth. Her eyes met Ryan’s, and she tried to speak.
    “Oh my God,” he said, kneeling down.
    “Come on!” Pete screamed.
    “She’s still alive!” Ryan said, “I have to help her.”
    Pete marched over, looked down at the girl, and aimed the gun at her face.
    Ryan screamed, and tried to reach out, but was too late. Pete pulled the trigger.
    “Come on!” Pete said, grabbing Ryan by the back of the neck, forcing him to the front doors and out into the parking lot.
    It was a short drive to Viktor’s pad, surprisingly close. Ryan always thought the guy lived further out. They were inside the house for five minutes or so, Pete explaining things to Viktor in a whisper on the other side of the door. Viktor’s anger was nearly silent, but fuming and thick in the air, even with an oak door between them.
    Another guy, Ryan had once heard Pete call Stink, came out of Viktor’s room, walked up to Ryan and slid a needle into his neck before Ryan even noticed what was happening. Ryan felt a few seconds of familiar euphoria, then his eyes rolled to the back of his head and his face fell flat on the cream colored shag carpet.  

    **

    Ryan opened his eyes to darkness. He had no idea how long he’d been out, only that his head was pounding and the room was pitch black. He heard a whistle-like thunder outside, then a deafening crash that shook the walls.
    “Anyone here?” Ryan cried, voice hoarse. “Someone wanna tell me what the fuck that was?”
    He stood up, groggy, then fell to the ground again.
    More darkness.
    When he woke again, it was morning.
    He made his way to the hallway, down the stairs, and out the unlocked front door. The sky outside was a weird shade of purple, and smoke billowed from three different directions.
    What the hell?
    He had to get out of there. Now.
    Ryan thanked Christ there were keys in the Mercedes. He figured stealing Viktor’s car was a one-way ticket to the graveyard, no doubt about it. But then again, Ryan figured that ticket was already punched. Best to get to Mexico, Canada, or anywhere else where they had good, long distance and cheap plastic surgery. First, he’d have to get Mary and Paola to come with him. They were sitting targets as long as Viktor was alive.
    He pulled away from Viktor’s estate, shuddering at the plumes of smoke and vaguely remembering the sound of explosions in the night.
    I’m free now. None of that matters.
    Ryan kept driving, and didn’t stop for 212 miles. He was well into daylight before his mind surfaced the shocking reality: the roads were void of motion and vacant cars littered the asphalt.
    The world had died; he was alone.

    * * * *

8 - DESMOND ARMSTRONG

    Desmond filled a duffel bag with the things that mattered most, finishing with an 8 gig memory card. While he used to love taking photos, he’d nearly forgotten cameras existed until about six weeks earlier and felt ridiculous for having waited as long as he had. It was still