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

Mary a half-minute to grab her rifle from the floor. Luca slammed the door shut a nano-second before the bleaker slammed the weight of its body against the door, clicking and shrieking. The door burst in and the creature lunged towards the opening.
    One bullet.
    Mary aimed and pulled the trigger but missed.
    She cried out as the creature stepped into the room with the children. With her child.
    “No!” she screamed, jumping up.
    Just then Desmond appeared with two of the black outfitted men, all armed.  
    The three men raised their weapons in unison, took careful aim, then fired into the room. The creature fell to the floor with a thud as Mary screamed out, “Paola!”
    Mary stood up and ran into the room as Paola ran into her arms and buried her head in her mother's chest, sobbing. Luca wrapped his arms around Desmond's waist. “Sorry I couldn't help,” he said.
    "You don't need to be sorry for a thing,” Desmond said, then put his hand on the back of Luca's head.
    “What happened?” Mary asked Desmond.
    He shook his head. “You don't even want to see what's outside. If these men hadn't shown up when they had, we'd all be dead.”
    “Who are they?”
    “Don't know yet, but there are a lot of them. Six cars and more than a dozen men, at least. And it looks like another car was coming when we came inside.”
    “I think Scott might be dead,” Mary said, trying not to cry as she gestured to the boy laying on the floor. She knelt next to him, feeling for a pulse and shook her head. Blood soaked the floor beneath him. Even if they managed to start his heart, there was no way to replace the lost blood.
    The sound of several sets of heavy footsteps echoed into the living room, then fell quiet. Seconds later, footsteps creaked up the stairs. Two tall men stepped into the hallway and in front of Paola’s room. The taller of the two — a near giant with a broad face and crooked nose — studied the room, then nodded his head. He approached one of the two men with Desmond — a tiny soldier with a thick Brillo of chestnut hair — and said, “Looks like we lost Rutu and Sal.”
    The soldier shook his head. “They’ll be missed,” he said.
    Desmond looked down to Scott. "We're down one, too."
    Without a word, Luca knelt by Scott.  
    Mary started towards Luca, but Desmond squeezed her hand, pulling her back.  
    “Let him try,” he said.  
    Luca sat down on the floor, legs crossed, and closed his eyes, going to a place in his head no one understood.  
    The hallway settled into a lingering silence, most of them likely believing that they were witnessing one child mourning another.  
    Desmond waved a hand to the new people to indicate that everything was fine. The morning light poured through the window as if Luca were drawing it in and turning up its volume until it obscured him, and Scott, in its brightness. The air crackled with electricity, making the slightest of hums. This was the second time Mary had seen Luca work his magic, yet it seemed no less amazing than when he’d saved her daughter.
    When he finally stood, Luca was a full foot closer to the ceiling.
    Luca’s hair, cut by Mary just three days before, fell in wild tufts to the base of his neck. A thin line of stubble lined his upper lip and the base of his chin. His baggy pajamas were now long shorts, straining their seams. No one could say when his shirt had fallen to the floor, but Luca was bare chested. Strong, tight muscles replaced the soft flesh of moments ago. Luca faced the onlookers, embarrassed, then walked slowly to Desmond, slipping his arm awkwardly around his waist.  
    Scott stood, still bloody, but only on the outside. “Wow,” was all he managed to say.
    The front door slammed downstairs, sending a roll of thunder through the awkward silence. There was no pause, just a single set of footsteps from the front door to the stairs, ending with a face in the hallway that made Desmond and Mary gasp in unison.  
    “Hello,” John said, “It’s been much, much too long.”  

    * * * *

2 - BRENT FOSTER

    Manhattan, New York
    March 20

    Manhattan was surreal from the interior of a chopper.  
    All the intricate plumbing systems man had set into place to keep the island dry had surrendered within days. With nobody left to keep nature at bay, much of the city looked as if it were a Venetian waterway. Except Venice had boats. Manhattan was riddled with floating bodies and the rotting remains of humans and animals. The only living