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

too early to tell if this was the end of forever or the beginning of a global reboot, but either way, if the survivors didn’t document it, who would?  
    Desmond would give anything to have pictures of the first month: their flight from Warson Woods, the wreckage of the storms that looked as if the world had stacked an entire city into a pile, the bodies in the river, and their time at the Drury; the frantic search for John, the horrific, ghostly flight from the Inn, and every rancid minute stumbling through the following month until everything finally fell into place in their newfound home.
    Pictures were evidence, and evidence was data. Data made decisions easier to make. Data could help you swallow the stuff your instinct begged you not to.  
    Stuffing the duffels was horrible. Worse this time than the last. Was this how it would be forever? Always running, never stopping, hanging their hats until the horizon lined with the undead . . . or whatever they were.
    Desmond shuddered. In five months he’d grown accustomed to much of the new world, but the bleakers still made him feel every bit as sick as they had on first sight. Most of the new world was still a mystery, but the bleakers were a mystery that wanted to kill you while they rotted in front of your face.  
    What were they?
    Are their numbers growing?
    Were they once people?  
    Was it possible for he, and the others, to become bleakers, too?
    Desmond couldn't help but feel that if he’d taken pictures back at the Drury, he’d have more answers now. And how hard would it have been to find a quality camera in an empty inn? But the truth was, answers weren’t why he started taking pictures.
    It was Mary.  
    First it was just pictures of she and Paola together, then he added pictures of their surroundings, the compound, the surrounding woods. Once he felt his old groove, the groove that had filled his old hard drive with 100 gigs of gorgeous photos, Desmond moved the lens into the bedroom.  
    At first, Mary was shy. But not for long. The curve of her breasts; the slightly wide hips that made her self-conscious, but made her look like a real woman to Desmond. Her neatly trimmed pubic hair. Desmond found it extra sexy, looking as neat as it did at the end of the world.  
    Desmond connected with Mary the way he’d always wanted to, but never could, connect with a woman. The way he imagined it could be. The way he saw his Uncle Jeremy connect with his Aunt Hazel, his mom’s sister.  
    Part of the problem had always been Desmond. He figured if a woman was into him, at least part of it had to be for the money. Most of him knew it was ridiculous – he was reasonably smart, handsome, and funny – but the rest of him couldn’t help the uncharacteristic self doubt.  
    But at the end of the world, money didn’t matter, which meant his guard was dropped where it belonged. His relationship with Mary had been born in an instant, three weeks away from the Drury, smack in the middle of a hard snow without any food and little hope for survival. Their mouths met before either knew what was happening. It was over in minutes, maybe seconds. But it was only the beginning.  
    When the snow thawed, so had something frozen inside Desmond. Mary, too. It was plain to see. She didn’t try to hide it, not even in front of Paola, who clearly didn’t care for the coupling.  
    Paola was nice enough to Desmond; she might have even loved him. But that didn’t mean she wanted him with her mom. Not that Desmond blamed her. Her father, Ryan, deserved the loyalty. But he was gone, like 99 percent of the world. Desmond could tell that Paola wanted to get over it, wanted it to be okay, but her real feelings were obvious in the way she answered Desmond’s questions too slowly, or too quickly, or rejected his ideas with numb indifference.  

    Mary opened the door. “Luca will be down in five,” she said. “Everything ready?”
    “Yeah,” Desmond nodded. “I was just coming to get our Everyday Bag.” He held the leather duffel up for her approval. “Come on, I’ll walk you downstairs. Luca can meet us.”  
    Mary raised her eyebrows, but Desmond insisted.  
    “You can’t treat him like he’s eight. He may not be mentally caught up with his body, there’s no way to account for the missing experience, but the chemistry is there. The boy’s brain has changed. He’s at the tail end of adolescence. And we all need to be aware of it.” Desmond drew a breath before