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

bullshit wholesale. He and John may not have gotten along before, but Desmond figured him for a sharp guy, and was surprised by his clear lack of judgment of basic human nature. Then again, if John had lost his grip on sanity, then maybe that would explain the weird vibe he was giving off.
    And if there’s any place to lose one’s sanity, it’s back at The Loony Farm.
      If John needed to clutch the Bible to get him through the night, who was Desmond to scoff? You didn’t tell an alcoholic that the 12 steps were bullshit, if it was working for them. It was a matter of belief. John needed to believe, too. He had lost Jenny, and the rest of the world. He didn’t have the strength to survive without something. That’s gotta be it; it’s his crutch. And Desmond wasn’t the kind of guy to kick away one’s crutch, even if he didn’t see a need for it. He was a guy, however, that would fight back if you tried to push your crutch on him.
    Yet, that’s exactly what Desmond was having to do at The Sanctuary; sit on his hands and bite his tongue while playing out the role he’d been cast into. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep a smile on his face before he snapped and spoke out. If it were just him, Desmond would have maybe followed John to The Sanctuary, then left about five seconds after the so-called “Prophet” started passing out the Kool-aid.
    But Desmond wasn’t alone. He had a new family; Mary and Paola and Luca and Will, plus Linc and Scott. And while he could’t tell what was going on in the back of Will’s mind, the rest of the group obviously felt safe, at least safer than they had. If they didn’t mind the heaping bullshits of dogma, not to mention the prison-like rules, so be it. He would eat shit and smile when he swallowed, at least a little while longer, or until a better opportunity came along.  
    “Up here,” John called. Desmond re-calibrated his senses, turned and saw John pointing toward the wide and tall opening of a cave. A dozen paces later Desmond was standing beside John, looking into the darkness.  
    “Think they went inside?” Desmond asked.
    John shrugged. “No way of knowing. Can’t think of a reason not to go inside and look. Can you?”  
    John glared at Desmond, almost accusingly. Desmond shook his head and stepped past John, into the permanent night of the cave. Desmond wanted to mend fences, so he played along. While John seemed a bit wacky, he didn’t seem like a threat. John wasn’t the most masculine of men, and his prowess with a gun seemed ineffectual enough that if he went postal, Desmond would be able to protect himself with little difficulty.
      “I’ve got the light,” John said, flicking his Coleman flashlight to life and stepping in front of Desmond. He bounced the beam around the cave’s interior, highlighting the dingy gray of the rocky walls, plastered in damp moss and a wretched scent. Something slick squished beneath their feet, maybe molding leaves blown in from outside. But probably not, Desmond figured. It felt 20 degrees colder inside the cave than a step outside, and it seemed to grow colder with each echoing step.
    “How deep do you think it goes?” Desmond asked.
    John stopped.  
    “Not sure,” John said, kneeling and shining his light into a wide fissure. “See that?” Desmond didn’t, so he kneeled, too. John kneeled another few inches forward lowering the light’s path to something Desmond couldn’t see.
    Desmond said, “I don’t . . .”
    John’s flashlight went dark and the pair was plunged into darkness.
    Something moved behind them. Something that sounded large.
    Desmond threw his hand in front of him to feel for John, but it fell through air. He stood, swallowing panic.  
    “JOHN!”  
    His call echoed and caromed across the walls of the cave and came back to mock him. Desmond called again, but heard nothing as he reached out, moving forward.
    He pulled his pistol from his waistband and slipped his itchy finger over the trigger as he stepped forward, trying to retrace his path back to the mouth of the cave.
    Something moved again, this time closer.
    “John!” he cried out.
    His cry was answered by the sound of clicking, echoing against the cave walls.

    * * * *

EDWARD KEENAN: PART 1

    Black Island, New York
    March 22, 2011
    8: 58 p.m.

    “What?! What do you mean we’re the ones who vanished?” Brent asked, his eyes staring at Ed as if he’d just told him the moon wasn’t real.
    “What were