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

scared, clinging to a mother who no longer recognized him in the chamber on Level Six. It was all Brent could do not to disappear down the rabbit hole of thought that would surely reduce him to tears. He smiled and said, “Sure, I’ll read Stanley Train Saves The Day .”
    As he read the book aloud, one he’d read to Ben countless times before, he thought back to the many nights he stayed up with Ben, rocking him to sleep, reading to him, and the last time he’d simply laid next to him in bed as his son’s breath rose and fell like a sleeping angel beside him.  
    Brent started to cough, trying to hold back the tears, and excused himself to go into the kitchen to get a drink.  
    Instead of water, he chose a bottle of beer from Jane’s fridge. It tasted like shit, but it would help. Despite his best efforts, his eyes were still full of water.
    Jane appeared behind him, “Are you okay?” she whispered. Her eyes were concerned, but also scared, he thought. She probably didn’t want the mistake of the other night to ruin their friendship. Or perhaps, she liked him a lot more than she’d let on earlier, and was afraid of rejection.
    He wanted to tell her the truth — that his family was still alive. She deserved to know. But he also wanted to tell her because he needed someone who could advise him, someone who might help him from making the biggest mistake of his life. But Sullivan had warned him not to tell a soul. And while he trusted Jane as much as almost anyone he’d ever known, and certainly as much as anyone he knew now, he didn’t want to put her at risk. Nor did he want to make her feel guilty about what had happened between them.  
    For now, he had to keep the secret.
    “I can’t talk about it,” he said, “It’s not about us, though. Something at work.”
    He took another few sips, returned Jane’s thin smile, the headed back to the couch to finish the tale of the brave train who saved the day.

    **

    After Emily went to bed, Brent said he had to leave, saying that tomorrow promised to be a long day. The goodbye was as awkward as a high school first date; he didn’t know whether to hug her, kiss her, or leave her with a peck on the cheek. Prior to the other night, they usually hugged their farewell for the evening, as you would with any good friend or family member. Brent went with the hug, which felt deep, and lingered longer than expected, each holding onto the embrace as if it might be their last together.

    **

    Brent stopped by the dining hall to get another beer, which he popped open and sipped on his way to the elevator. He’d finish the beer, hit the sack, and pray he’d be able to sleep without dreams of Gina and Ben tormenting him. As the elevator descended, he found himself thinking back on dinner, laughing with Emily, reading to her, then hugging Jane goodbye. He was torn between the world he couldn’t give up on and the world he couldn’t allow himself to have.
    As long as there was hope that he could save his family, he had to try. Even if that meant risking his life, or happiness with another.
    The elevator door slid open and he began walking to his room, beer in hand, tumbling the plan again in his head. There was something there; he could feel it as if it were just beneath the ice, ready for discovery if only he struck the right center. He was inches from the missing ingredient that would make the plan come together perfectly. Perhaps another half hour scribbling in his journal would help put some plan into shape.
    He fumbled in his pocket, found the keycard, and slid it into the door’s handle. The door clicked open and he stumbled into the dark.  
    Only it wasn’t dark. A dim light over his dining table was on. Beneath it, sat Keenan, reading Brent’s journal.
    “So, who you gonna infect?” Keenan said, accusing eyes looking up from the pages.
    The beer bottle smashed against the ground, shattering before Brent even realized he’d dropped it.
    Brent stumbled back, and slipped, falling to the ground in the beer.
    Keenan was up in seconds, lightning-quick for a guy in his 40s.  
    “Don’t move,” Keenan said, training his gun on Brent before Brent could even consider his next move.
    Keenan reached down with his left hand, patting Brent down, then offered the hand to help him up.
    “We need to talk,” Keenan said simply.
    “...”
    “Mr. Foster, we need to talk, now.” Keenan repeated with added mettle, hand still extended.
    Brent remained frozen on the