Yesterday's Gone: Season One by Sean Platt, David Wright Page B

darting up for a moment, accessing memory. “Brent Foster who writes for the Tribune ?”
    Great, the moment he’d always hoped would never happen. Some wacko with a gun recognizing him as a reporter. Hope he’s a fan.
    “Yes,” Brent said, reluctantly, bracing for reaction.
    The guy lowered the gun and a broad smile crossed his face.
    “Stanley Byrd, but you can call me Stan. I’m a big fan of your work, sir.” the guy said, putting the gun awkwardly in a jacket that was about 20 years out of fashion.
    Brent let go of his own gun and shook Stan’s clammy hand.
    “What have you heard? Did you see anything?”
    “Nothing,” Brent said, “I woke up and my wife and son were gone. And apparently the whole damned apartment building and everyone on the streets is gone , too.”
    “Yeah, the whole city is gone, but not just the city.” Stan said with the certainty of someone who took such things in stride.  
    “What do you mean?”  
    “Come, come, I want to introduce you to some people,” Stan said, turning and heading down the hall. “I can’t believe you’re here. I read that story you did on the blind jazz guy who plays in the subways to put his son through college. Goddamn, that was beautiful stuff.”
    “Thanks,” Brent said, following, hand in his jacket. Just in case.
    Stan brought him to the last apartment in the hallway, knocked three times, paused, then knocked twice, paused again, then two more quick knocks.
    Bolts, several of them by the sounds of it, unbolted and the door opened. A bald, buffed, stone-faced Hispanic in a tight black tee greeted them, arms drowning in ink. He nodded and let them in.
    All charm, this one.
    Sitting on a sofa even older than Stan’s clothes, was a blonde haired woman in her early 40’s or so. She reminded Brent of a doctor or scientist, and he was rarely wrong when judging people by appearance. Stan was nuts, muscles was angry, and the lady, well, she was probably the brains of the bunch.
    Muscles locked the door and Stan introduced everyone.
    “Everyone, this is Brent Foster, from the Tribune. Brent, this is Luis Torres, who lives five floors up. And this is Melora Mitchell, who lives in your building, actually.”
    Luis nodded. Melora stood up and reached out to shake Brent’s hand. Her hand was cold, thin. She retreated quickly — or perhaps Brent was just imagining things — as if she were aware of Brent’s judgment of her hand’s temperature.
    “Have a seat, Brent,” Stan said.
    Brent took a seat in one of two recliners across from the couch. Stan took the other, while Luis stood up, arms crossed.
    “We didn’t think we’d find another,” Melora said. “How long have you been having the dream?”
    Brent didn’t have a chance to ask what she was talking about.
    “Where were you at 2:15 a.m.?” Stan asked. It seemed as if he were waiting for a specific response to the time.
    “In bed. Why?”
    “What do you remember?”
    “Nothing. I went to bed dog-ass tired, woke up this morning with a headache, and the world was gone. Why are you asking me about that time?”
    “Because that’s when The Collapse first started.”
    “What do you mean, Collapse?” Brent asked, glancing now at Melora to see if she were also buying into Stan’s weirdo speak. Her face was all business.
    “At 2:15 a.m. Eastern Standard Time, nearly 99.9% of the population of the planet vanished. Gone, poof, into the unknown.”
    “What are you talking about?” Brent asked, now glancing at Luis, also stone-faced.
    “We’re calling it The Collapse. And we’ve known it was going to happen for years.”
    Brent stayed silent. He was certain his expression was louder than words, anyway.
    “The four of us have been dreaming of this day and hour since we were children. We found one another five years ago on some message boards, and started researching this thing, trying to prepare. We even came up with a name for ourselves,” Stan said with a laugh, “We call ourselves the