Yesterdays Gone: SEASON TWO (THE POST-APOCALYPTIC SERIAL THRILLER) (Yesterday's Gone) by Sean Platt, David Wright Page B
Authors: Sean Platt, David Wright
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pushed through the door, held open by Michael’s corpse-turned-doorstop.
Brent screamed as he fired into the alien, tearing its head to ribbons. Brent finished loading another clip as he reached Michael and ducked down to grab full clips from the man’s belt, all the while trying to avoid looking at what was left of his body. Smoke poured through the hall just ahead of him; one of the men must’ve accidentally thrown a smoke grenade.
More screams and flashing lights echoed off the walls through smoke as Brent stepped into the hall, coughing as he aimed his rifle into the cloud of darkness, trying to make sense of the movement. It was impossible to grasp the scene; there was simply too much smoke, too many bodies moving, and too many gun lights dancing all over the place. Brent sank into the corner of the hallway, fear an electric current surging through his entire body, as he lifted his gun and held it shakily in front of him, waiting for anything to move toward him and hoping not to accidentally shoot another human.
Bodies continued to hit the ground until the gunshots finally fell silent.
Lights littered the ground, at least five of them, as the smoke began to dissipate.
Is everyone dead?
Brent’s heart pounded in his chest as he strained to hear anything other than the ringing in his ears from the gunfire. His light shook up and down as his hand refused to stay steady, casting a shaky light beam through the smoke.
Something moved ahead. He blinked his eyes and held the gun tighter, only to have it shake more dramatically, afraid to speak or even breathe.
“Identify yourself,” a man’s voice said as a shadow moved through the smoke, light aimed waist-high, scanning the hallway.
“Brent Foster,” he said, his voice shaky as his hands.
“Anyone else?” the man said, stepping through and into view. It was Captain Keenan, brow sweaty with a streak of blood across his left cheek, likely someone else’s.
“Anyone else alive?” Keenan repeated.
Nobody answered.
“Jesus Christ,” Keenan sighed.
Both radios crackled to life. “Beta Team, do you read?”
“Beta One,” Keenan said, “We have massive casualties. Send someone from Delta Team in to help. Beta One out.”
“How many casualties? Do we need the medic? Alpha One out.”
“Almost everyone,” Keenan said. “No medics are necessary. Beta One out.”
As the smoke cleared, Keenan flashed his light across the hall to reveal the fallen comrades and alien corpses littering the narrow passage; blood, both red and black, smeared the walls, floors, and ceilings. There were at least six of the creatures from what Brent could see.
“Looks like a nest,” Brent stammered.
“Or an ambush,” Keenan countered as he located the Guardsman he was looking for and retrieved the black backpack from his body. “Come on; help me get these elevator doors open so we can see what the hell was worth killing all our men for.”
Keenan dug inside the bag, brought out a pry bar, and slid it between the elevator doors at the center. Ed held his rifle in one hand and turned back to Brent, “I’m gonna stick this in and pull, which will trigger the pneumatic release and open the doors, either partially or all the way. But we won’t be able to close them again. So be ready to fire, but only if they come at us. We want to take these things alive if we can. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.” Brent said, trying to sound more confident than he felt.
Keenan applied all his force to the pry bar, opening the doors about 60 percent. Keenan trained his light inside on the two infected bodies, face down in the darkness, seemingly asleep. Hopefully, asleep.
Brent thought of Joe and how dangerous he’d become once infected. How inhuman. Though he was sad Luis was dead, he was glad he didn’t have to watch his friend devolve into a zombie-like creature.
“Friendly coming through,” a man announced from the stairwell as he and a second Guardsman from the
Brent screamed as he fired into the alien, tearing its head to ribbons. Brent finished loading another clip as he reached Michael and ducked down to grab full clips from the man’s belt, all the while trying to avoid looking at what was left of his body. Smoke poured through the hall just ahead of him; one of the men must’ve accidentally thrown a smoke grenade.
More screams and flashing lights echoed off the walls through smoke as Brent stepped into the hall, coughing as he aimed his rifle into the cloud of darkness, trying to make sense of the movement. It was impossible to grasp the scene; there was simply too much smoke, too many bodies moving, and too many gun lights dancing all over the place. Brent sank into the corner of the hallway, fear an electric current surging through his entire body, as he lifted his gun and held it shakily in front of him, waiting for anything to move toward him and hoping not to accidentally shoot another human.
Bodies continued to hit the ground until the gunshots finally fell silent.
Lights littered the ground, at least five of them, as the smoke began to dissipate.
Is everyone dead?
Brent’s heart pounded in his chest as he strained to hear anything other than the ringing in his ears from the gunfire. His light shook up and down as his hand refused to stay steady, casting a shaky light beam through the smoke.
Something moved ahead. He blinked his eyes and held the gun tighter, only to have it shake more dramatically, afraid to speak or even breathe.
“Identify yourself,” a man’s voice said as a shadow moved through the smoke, light aimed waist-high, scanning the hallway.
“Brent Foster,” he said, his voice shaky as his hands.
“Anyone else?” the man said, stepping through and into view. It was Captain Keenan, brow sweaty with a streak of blood across his left cheek, likely someone else’s.
“Anyone else alive?” Keenan repeated.
Nobody answered.
“Jesus Christ,” Keenan sighed.
Both radios crackled to life. “Beta Team, do you read?”
“Beta One,” Keenan said, “We have massive casualties. Send someone from Delta Team in to help. Beta One out.”
“How many casualties? Do we need the medic? Alpha One out.”
“Almost everyone,” Keenan said. “No medics are necessary. Beta One out.”
As the smoke cleared, Keenan flashed his light across the hall to reveal the fallen comrades and alien corpses littering the narrow passage; blood, both red and black, smeared the walls, floors, and ceilings. There were at least six of the creatures from what Brent could see.
“Looks like a nest,” Brent stammered.
“Or an ambush,” Keenan countered as he located the Guardsman he was looking for and retrieved the black backpack from his body. “Come on; help me get these elevator doors open so we can see what the hell was worth killing all our men for.”
Keenan dug inside the bag, brought out a pry bar, and slid it between the elevator doors at the center. Ed held his rifle in one hand and turned back to Brent, “I’m gonna stick this in and pull, which will trigger the pneumatic release and open the doors, either partially or all the way. But we won’t be able to close them again. So be ready to fire, but only if they come at us. We want to take these things alive if we can. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.” Brent said, trying to sound more confident than he felt.
Keenan applied all his force to the pry bar, opening the doors about 60 percent. Keenan trained his light inside on the two infected bodies, face down in the darkness, seemingly asleep. Hopefully, asleep.
Brent thought of Joe and how dangerous he’d become once infected. How inhuman. Though he was sad Luis was dead, he was glad he didn’t have to watch his friend devolve into a zombie-like creature.
“Friendly coming through,” a man announced from the stairwell as he and a second Guardsman from the
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