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

too close for him to peek his head up. On the other side of the street, he heard a patter of 20 or so footsteps. Ryan finally risked a peak and saw Blue Jacket jogging north, likely looking to flank him from behind.  
    He could hear Red Jacket’s footsteps approaching, maybe two cars ahead. They’re getting closer. Ryan squeezed under the truck, praying he’d fit. Somehow, he did, just barely.
    He held his breath. It was game over if either of the Jackets knew where he was.  
    “Hey Marine?” Red Jacket called, “You’re not calling your mommy to cry, are ya?”  
    Ryan wanted to yell any one of the seven smart answers in his head, but swallowed every one. He heard Blue Jacket a second before he saw him coming from behind. There was no way to get a shot off, though. Blue Jacket retreated a step, suddenly unsure, as though he felt Ryan was near even though he couldn't see him.  
    If Blue Jacket retreated completely, Ryan would lose his chance. He glanced back and saw that Red Jacket had crossed the street, putting a bit more distance between them. That gave him the opening he needed to strike. Ryan slid his rifle up, took careful aim at Blue Jacket’s gut, and squeezed the trigger.  
      The bullet’s scream was punctuated with one from Blue Jacket as he fell to the ground. As he fell, Ryan took a second shot, this one zeroed in on the man’s face. Direct hit.
    Ryan rolled free from under the truck, then raced around the side and searched for Red Jacket, who had vanished from sight.  
    Or not.
    Red Jacket popped up at Ryan’s 2 o’clock and fired, but missed.
    Ryan returned fire, hitting Red Jacket in the shoulder, a few inches from where Ryan was aiming. Red Jacket dropped his gun, screaming in agony, and fell to the ground behind an ancient powder blue Honda.
    Ryan raced across the street to finish Red Jacket off once and for all.  
    As he reached the curb, he landed awkwardly, twisting his ankle, and fell hard to the ground.
    “Fuck!” Ryan cried out, as Red Jacket stood up, cackling like a hyena. The man’s injury couldn’t of been too bad. Judging from the small amount of blood, Ryan figured he must’ve grazed the man, who then overplayed his injury to lure Ryan over.
    Ryan struggled to locate his rifle, which ejected from his grasp in the tumble. Where? Where? There! He wormed a foot to his left, retrieved the rifle, and flipped onto his back in one fluid motion. He already knew he was down to his last round No second chances. No misses.
    He instantly found his target a dozen yards away and took aim.
    Red Jacket’s smiling eyes went from fuck you to fuck me . He looked down, searching for his pistol. Not seeing it, he glared at Ryan, then ducked between the cars and ran off, disappearing into a maze of alleys.
    Great.  
    Ryan picked himself up gingerly, dusted himself off, then limped toward the apartment building, calling for Carmine and unsure of what awaited him inside.  

    * * * *

8 - BRENT FOSTER: PART 2

    Black Island, New York
    Black Island Research Facility
    March 22, 2011
    5:01 p.m.

    The phone rang again, the third time in 10 minutes. Brent didn’t bother to answer.
    If it were Guardsmen on the other end, they’d simply come to his dorm and get him. So it had to be Jane. And the last thing he needed to do right now was deal with distractions. He needed to keep his head clear, a task impossible enough with the world missing, but now; it felt hopeless. The scenes he saw the other night, along with his adulterous guilt, presented a near fatal distraction from what he needed to concentrate on most: a solid plan to save Gina and Ben.
    The phone blared again only to fall silent after the sixth ring.
    Sitting at the table in his room, doubling as desk and dining area, Brent used a black rolling ball pen to sketch the new areas of the facility’s map into his small black journal, one of few items he owned, which he got from the commissary a month earlier. As he drew, ideas for an escape plan began to root in his head. The toughest part would be gaining access to Level Six. There was no way he’d be able to pass the security devices. Hacking into complex computer systems might work in the movies. But in reality, most people could barely remember their banking security questions, let alone crack passwords or infiltrate complicated firewalls.
    He’d have to be resourceful. And ruthless. He knew what that meant...
    A hostage.
    He’d need to force whoever was in charge to provide