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

Michael, his first and only friend outside of Jane, and the person who vouched for him to get the position as Guardsman, had been killed the day before. Right now Keenan was his closest thing to a friend in the Guard, and the only thing allowing him access to see Gina and Ben. If he pissed Keenan off, his access, as limited as it was, would be severed. He’d be left alone, topside, wondering every moment what was happening to his family.  
    “I’m sorry,” he said to Keenan.
    “I’ll see what I can do,” Keenan said. “But I can’t make any promises.”
    “Thank you,” Brent said, unable to move his eyes from the viewing window.

    **

    Later in the day, a stranger came to see Brent while he was sitting on his bed typing a report into his laptop about everything that happened in the city the day before..
    “Hello, Mr. Foster. My name is Sullivan,” a fresh-faced young man with wire-framed glasses said. “I’d like you to come with me. I think it’s time the two of us had a talk.”
    Brent looked Mr. Sullivan over, then closed his laptop, stood, and shook his hand.
    “It’s nice to meet you,” Brent said, nervous, then gestured toward the door. “After you.”
    Sullivan was silent the entire trip to the elevator. Brent stayed a step behind him, observing and absorbing everything from the length of his step to the thread count of his jacket. He had the gait of someone important, and the confident shoulders of someone in charge, but he wasn’t a decision maker. He had the calm walk, but not the decisive step. Mr. Sullivan, Brent was sure, was the guy brought in to make sure things stayed calm; no rocking boats, and, most importantly, no one stepping out of line.
    They took the elevator to Level Five, the administrative wing, another area Brent had never been to, even during his initial interview.
    “This way, please,” Sullivan said, guiding Brent along yet another sterile corridor that looked like so many of the others he’d been in.  
    They took a few more turns, Brent taking mental notes of the layout, just in case he ever needed to return. He did this constantly whenever he was brought new places in the facility. When he returned to his room in the evening, he’d draw maps, then study them, committing everything to memory, in case he was ever lost and needed to navigate his way out. Or, needed to break into a place he wasn’t allowed. Though his family had only been imprisoned for one night, part of him was already preparing for the possibility of arranging an escape, even if the notion of breaking into, let alone out of , the facility seemed impossible.
    Sullivan led Brent to a dead end where he stopped, pivoted to face a door on the left, then placed his hand on a pad beside it. The door whooshed open.  
    Sullivan’s office was small and sparsely furnished. A chair, a wooden desk, and a zen rock garden on the corner of his desk. Opposite the desk was a leather chair where Brent was offered a seat.
    Sullivan sat behind the desk, opened a drawer, and slid out a tablet computer, which he placed in front of him on the desk. He left the screen black.  
    “Captain Keenan said you wanted to see me?” Sullivan began, not unfriendly.
    “Are you in charge?”  
    “No, but let’s just say I have every ear that matters. And, before you say you don’t wish to speak to me, let me say that I am as close as anyone gets to those in charge. So, I urge you to share your concerns. Or,” Sullivan smiled, “forever hold your peace.”
    Sullivan’s voice was crisp, well-educated and slightly foreign, though Brent couldn’t place the accent. Perhaps from the United Kingdom.  
    “I want to know what’s going to be done with my family.”
    “You mean the infected that we picked up yesterday?”
    “Yes,” Brent replied, stifling a burst of loathing. “They’re my wife and son.”
    “I’m sorry,” Sullivan said, never breaking eye contact. “I understand how difficult this must be for you.”
    I doubt it.
    “I want to know what’s going to happen to them.”
    Sullivan paused, as if trying to decide how much he would share. “Do you know why Black Island Research Facility is here?”
    “Just what you all told me when I arrived: a facility designed to monitor threats to the country and to proactively act against them when they arise, whatever that means.”
    “Good memory. Yes, that’s the short-and-sweet version; the story we tell to the politicians who fund us, and the