THE POST-APOCALYPTIC SERIALIZED THRILLER YESTERDAY’S GONE CONTINUES WITH THE NEXT EXCITING EPISODE!!

On October 15, everyone in the world vanished.

Well, almost everyone.

Some were left behind, attempting to piece together what happened, find their loved ones, and survive.

BUT THEY ARE NOT ALONE

Something is stalking them. Mysterious and deadly creatures unlike anything they’ve ever seen. Creatures that hunt in packs, and are determined to destroy . . . or change . . . humanity. Are they demons, undead, or something from somewhere they can’t even imagine?

THEY CAN BE INFECTED

Those who survive a creature’s attack but are bitten, will wish they were dead. Bites lead to infection and infection turns people into deadly zombie-like husks of their former selves.

THEY HAVE BEEN INFILTRATED

One of the survivors has been taken over by a dark force. He hides within the shadows of friendship, working from within their ranks to carpet the planet in an era of darkness by exploiting the qualities that make them human.

NOBODY IS SAFE

The survivors must find a way to fend off the growing threat. But how can they know what’s right when they have no idea what’s wrong? Are they safer fighting alone, or should they turn to what’s left of the government, harbored at the Black Island Research Facility and holding a few mysteries of its own?

• What happened to the world?
• Who will survive?
• Who will be next to die?
• Are their loved ones lost forever?

ANSWERS WILL BE REVEALED
SIDES WILL BE CHOSEN
NOTHING WILL EVER BE THE SAME AFTER YESTERDAY’S GONE SEASON TWO!

Yesterday’s Gone Season Two kicks off with Episode 7, beginning five months after the stunning cliffhanger from Season One.

Look for a new thrilling episode each Tuesday for the next six weeks, starting January 10, 2012, culminating in one of the biggest WTF Cliffhanger Endings EVER!!

PRAISE FOR SEASON ONE OF YESTERDAY’S GONE

Yesterday’s Gone: Episode One was Amazon’s NUMBER ONE FREE HORROR eBook for the first week of November 2011.

These are some of the comments from readers of Season One.

5/5 STARS: “Epic”
5/5 STARS: “If you took Stephen King’s ‘The Stand’, the television show ‘Lost’, and the movie ‘Die Hard’ and mixed them all together, this book would be the result.”
5/5 STARS: “A New High-Standard for Serialized Fiction That is Not to be Missed”
5/5 STARS: “I’m a GONER for sure!”
5/5 STARS: “A new fan of Cliffhanger books”
5/5 STARS: “Hooked On Fiction Once Again — Yesterday’s Gone delivers!”
5/5 STARS: “I want more!”
5/5 STARS: “Wow! Way TOO addicting!”
5/5 STARS: “I am in withdrawal already…”
5/5 STARS: “Wow what a story!!”
5/5 STARS: “Completely Un-put-down-able!”
5/5 STARS: “Will Jan 2012 hurry up and get here!”

THE WAIT IS OVER! SEASON TWO IS HERE!

On sale at Amazon for .99 for a limited time only!

OTHER BOOKS IN THE YESTERDAY’S GONE SERIES:

Yesterday’s Gone: Episode 1
Yesterday’s Gone: Episode 2
Yesterday’s Gone: Episode 3
Yesterday’s Gone: Episode 4
Yesterday’s Gone: Episode 5
Yesterday’s Gone: Episode 6
Yesterday’s Gone: Season One (including Episodes 1-6)

Do you have a question (or two) for Sean Platt or David Wright regarding the series or our writing processes?

Ask it below or email us at collectiveinkwellmedia (at) gmail (dot)com and we might include your question (and name, unless you don’t want your name mentioned) and our responses in a special Author’s Conversation in the back of Yesterday’s Gone Episode Seven.

We’re closing the questions off on Friday January 6 at 6 p.m. EST. So ask it before then if you want it included.

We look forward to hearing from you!

In typical serialized fiction format, we’re presenting Episode One in serialized format. A new chapter every M,W,F, all month long!

If you’re new to the site, you’ll want to start at Part One, check it out here.

BORICIO WOLFE

Saturday

October 15, 2011

1:17 a.m.

New Orleans, Louisiana

There were no explosions. No crashing concrete, crackling electricity, or menacing reverb to blanket the city. No screams. Just that hollow pause that sits in the seconds between ignition and detonation.

Except this one came and never left.

Boricio woke a second after It started, wide awake even though he’d been tangled in a fat thick of sleep — the kind you get after a night spent doing all the things he’d just finished doing. He wasn’t sure how he knew the end had begun. He just knew.

His feet hit the floor and felt colder than they should have. That didn’t bother him. At least not like the air. Stale. Though he could still smell the restaurant below, there were no sounds. And there were always fucking sounds.

This is some beer-battered bullshit.

Boricio looked around the loft — nothing out of place, at least not that he could put his finger on. Just the smell that didn’t smell right and the crazy feeling of empty that seemed to swallow the entire apartment like the fat lips on a French Quarter whore.

And the crazy as a cat on crack dream.

Boricio looked outside. Sky wasn’t right.

He opened the window, and yup, same beer-battered bullshit outside, but stronger. He didn’t bother to shut the window, heading outside and grabbing a beer from the fridge on the way out instead. The fridge was still cold, though it’d gone as dark as the always-blinking alarm. Boricio stepped into the hallway and grabbed the time from the beat-to-shit clock with the three missing Romans — 2:17 am.

Fuck that.

Boricio hit the bottom stair and opened the door. He could smell the beer-battered bullshit before it was halfway open. Yup, the restaurant was dead. The restaurant hadn’t been empty once in the four months he lived upstairs, but Boricio could see through the glass: No cooks, no customers, no servers. He walked outside into the night.

And on the corner, Lucy was gone, which was equally weird. Lucy was never gone. Fucking mystery when she slept; stood on the corner day in, day out, except if cops were on the beat or she was filling the mayonnaise jar. Even then, she was only gone for five to nine minutes at a time. Lucy had a way of taking guys into the room and giving them more than they expected in less than a quarter of the time.

Like his apartment, the motel across the street was dark. But the humming light from the restaurant’s sign (which was lit) illuminated the split crack of Room #112. Boricio crossed the street, then opened the door the rest of the way to a whole mess of what-the-fuck?

The room was neat. Ready for the next 5–9 minutes neat anyway. And the air was so cold, it wasn’t like Lucy had stepped out so much as she’d never even been there. Boricio had smelled that room most days ending in Y for four months straight and it had never smelled like that.

The motel room was dead. Just like the alley. And the stairwell. And his fucking apartment. And just like that, the restaurant sign went dark, the humming ceased, leaving everything quiet. Like no animals or insects quiet. The kinda quiet you sometimes got right before a hurricane, but even quieter.

A flirt’s worth of fear fluttered through Boricio’s body. It almost made him smile; it’d been so long since he’d felt it, but his beading temple kept the grimace fixed. Boricio stepped back into the alley, drawing a deep breath and inhaling a perfumed gust from the Mississippi.

The river.

Fuck yeah, that’s where he’d go. Something had happened and he’d missed it. People were evacuating and would have to meet in one place. The river made sense. Besides, if it really was the end of the world, the Mississippi would look him in the eye and tell him the truth.

Boricio crossed the street, hopped in his 10-year-old, 2-ton Ford, then gunned the engine and tore into the street with a roar thundering over dead earth. He was only a half mile from the river but didn’t even make it a block before braking hard enough to burn his nostrils with the scent of burned rubber.

FUCK.

Maybe the world had been shingled in shit and maybe it hadn’t, but a sudden memory from his previous night’s adventure filled Boricio’s brain with a planet and a half’s worth of fuck this!

The world had disappeared. The thought of her disappearing, despite the neat slit that ran beneath her chin from ear to ear, was about as much as Boricio could take. He flipped the pickup in a U and sent it flying toward the Village de L’Est where that little bitch Brianna had kept her tidy apartment, at least until he’d made her breathing impossible.

He’d see if the body was still there. If so, he’d deal with it.

Him, too.

**

Boricio coated the back of his hand with brow sweat and pushed the pickup harder. Less than a mile to go.

Fucking bitch. I wanted to wait until Christmas. She was my present. And if it wasn’t for that ancient fuck, or the punk ass with the pink glasses, I would’ve. Still, she’d been yummier’n a Hurricane and a heap of hot wings. Didn’t even scream. Not once. Just wheezed at the end a little, like a dying vacuum cleaner.

Boricio broke into a cracked laugh at the memory.

Punk ass with the sunglasses, though, he cried like a stuck pig. Would’ve died fast no matter, but the squealing made it easy. She was worth savoring every second. Too bad about the rush. Happy fucking Halloween.

Now I need something new for Christmas.

Boricio rounded the corner at Dauphine and killed the engine at the second curb so he could walk the rest of the way. Like always. Just in case. From a block back, he knew everything he needed to, but kept on going anyway. The old man, same fucker who had been sitting on the stoop since early September when Boricio first started scoping the place, was gone. He’d been half the reason Boricio had to hurry his Christmas, and now he wasn’t even around to celebrate the end of the world.

The door to the apartment was unlocked just as he left it. He could almost smell her as he crossed the apartment toward the bathroom where his first surprise was waiting. Boricio had left precisely one body in the bathtub with all its limbs in place. He’d even left the head on since an extra body was all the cops needed to open-and-shut his ritual into an easy-to-swallow murder-suicide.

The punk ass dude had bled out, coating the tub in a thick mottle of red, but his body was gone and the gallons of blood looked like they’d been replaced with fresh water.

The fuck is this?

And she was missing too.

The bed was rumpled from where she’d been taking her final nap, but the buckets of blood that were beneath her when Boricio closed the door three hours earlier, now looked suspiciously like bleach stains. Same for the drops leading from bed to bathroom. The white against the brown of the hard wood was clear, even with only one light working.

Someone turned the world inside-fucking-out…

Boricio tore through the apartment, trying to pull sense from the impossible. He wasn’t worried about getting caught at all. It hadn’t happened in 20 years and sure as shit wasn’t about to happen an hour into the Apocalypse, but he wasn’t a guy to flip a bitch on Answer Road.

After 15 minutes, Boricio couldn’t find a single thing, except for the panty drawer he’d rifled through 73 times before.

Those aren’t her panties. Ain’t a single pair in that drawer was ever worn.

Thing about beer-battered bullshit is it doesn’t taste different until you spit it out, so Boricio threw a final scowl around the room, then headed for the door, pausing at the threshold. He could swear he felt faster, stronger. And not just like he usually did after a good kill and a great night’s sleep.

Like a few lines of coke gone permanent. Must be the adrenaline. Feels good. Could get used to this shit in a hurry.

Boricio bounded down the stairs and kicked the door with a giggle. Maybe it was the end of the world, and maybe that shit wasn’t too bad. Humanity was mostly made of assholes anyway, and that was scientific fucking fact.

Boricio was practically skipping across the street, but broke into a full run when he saw the police cruiser sitting in the ghost lot of a usually hopping Circle K.

The meek don’t inherit shit. Earth belongs to the wolves.

* * * *

TO BE CONTINUED…

Can’t wait to read the whole book? Get Yesterday’s Gone: Episode One instantly for only .99 downloaded in seconds to your Amazon Kindle.

Or…

Get all six episodes of Yesterday’s Gone: Season One right here for only $4.99.

In typical serialized fiction format, we’re presenting Episode One in serialized format. A new chapter every M,W,F, all month long!

If you missed Part One, check it out here.

Part Two is here.

Part Three is here.

Part Four is here.

LUCA HARDING

Saturday

October 15, 2011

morning

Las Orillas, California

Luca’s skin was burning. He opened his eyes and put an end to the dream where Mommy was making eggs on his arms.

But he was still too hot. The sun outside was brighter than it was supposed to be. It looked like the last day of school, but it was already a week before Halloween. Light poured through the window like Daddy was hosing it down with sunlight like he did with water sometimes when he washed the car.

Luca never slept past six but it definitely felt later than that. Dad got up at 5:30, even when he wasn’t working. Luca had been no more than a half hour behind him for all but one of his eight years.

I don’t like the feeling in my arms. Tingly bad and burny. I want to scratch them but maybe it’s like the bites that Mommy says I shouldn’t scratch because it always makes it worse. The itchy hot burny will probably go away if I ignore it.

His Cars alarm clock wasn’t working and the screen on the computer was black. The house sounded like when mommy went across the street to talk to Mrs. Susan, only quieter. Luca went to the closet and peeled off his Lego pajamas, replaced them with jeans and his favorite Star Wars T-shirt, then went to the window and stared at the rainbow.

It was brighter than usual. Most rainbows looked like they were already erasing. But this rainbow looked like someone just plugged it in.

The sun was past the start of the rainbow, so it was maybe as late as eight. Mom was gone, he could tell. But he couldn’t hear his dad either, even though it was his day off. Anna should be up, but he couldn’t hear her either. And he could always hear his sister.

Luca left the bedroom and looked around the house, even though he knew he’d find no one. “Mom, Dad, Anna?” Luca waited for an answer, counting to 10 as he always did when Mom said to wait.

After 10 seconds of less than nothing, Luca opened the door to a blanket of heat. The air felt like hot sand and made his hot burny feel worse. Something moved at the corner of his eyes. He turned to see his cat, Lucky, leap to the front porch where it settled a stare on Luca and licked it paws. The cat looked somehow different than it did the day before. Luca would swear. But he didn’t know how.

Inside out. Yeah, the cat feels sorta inside out. It looks normal, but feels like someone made all its thoughts go on the outside.

Luca crossed the street to Mrs. Susan’s house, put his nose to the window, and saw exactly what he expected. Since Mom didn’t like him on Mrs. Susan’s side of the street unless he was visiting Mrs. Susan, he went back home.

Instead of going back in the house, Luca decided to walk to the mailbox under the stop sign all the way at the corner. That’s where Mr. Hassell lived. Mr. Hassell probably didn’t know everything about the entire world, but he knew a lot of things about people on Oregon Avenue. That’s probably why he was always talking about it.

Mr. Hassell’s empty house was the farthest Luca had ever walked alone. Mr. Hassel wasn’t on his porch like usual, so he rounded the corner and kept going, all the way around the block. When he got back to his own number at 314 Oregon, he sat on the stoop and looked at the rainbow.

I should go to Coach Michael’s. Mommy and Daddy said he’s safe. And he is driving close. We even walked there two times before, like that time last June. His house will be easy to find because the rainbow is pointing right at it.

The rainbow was pointing toward the coach’s house, but it wasn’t the big bright one Luca saw when he first woke. This smaller rainbow was brighter, and sat just beneath its big brother, spilling sideways instead of south.

Luca went back in the house and filled his Star Wars backpack with two granola bars, a banana, and two bottles of Smartwater from his mom’s side of the refrigerator. The house was getting warmer, a lot warmer, but it was still cooler than it was outside.

Luca started walking toward the rainbow. He made it six blocks before he felt the headache start to hammer his skull. At least he thought it was a headache. The ouchy tingle sure seemed like the stuff mommy was always talking about.

**

It was easy to keep from getting lost with the rainbow showing him where to go. Luca passed all the places where no one was anymore on the way to his coach’s house. But the only things home at the corner of Appian and Monrovia were the coach’s collection of vintage cars.

Luca looked in the window. The lights were on, like most of the houses for the last few blocks. A purr at his feet pulled Luca’s attention to Champion, the coach’s cat, rubbing itself on his ankle.

Champion felt weird just like Lucky had. Comparing the two led Luca to realize that besides Lucky and Champion, he hadn’t seen a single animal since waking. Which was weird since some dog in the neighborhood was always barking.

All Luca wanted was someone to explain what was happening. Like his dad always did. In simple sentences that would be easy to understand. But no one was around, and after following the rainbow 17 blocks to the coach’s house and not seeing anyone, Luca felt the sad spiders start to crawl inside him. His mom could usually get them to leave with tickles, or the promise of a salami sandwich. But his mom wasn’t there to make him a sandwich any more than his dad was standing by with an explanation.

Luca leaned against the door, slid to his bottom, put his face in his palm and cried. He tried rubbing the headache from his head but the headache said no. A dog cried out from somewhere in the distance. Luca was glad to hear it.

He felt a sudden icy chill beneath his burning skin, but shrugged it off and stood.

Luca looked around the neighborhood. White spots were everywhere, but he looked past them to get a good look at the brand new rainbow. It was telling him to listen to the trees. And though Luca was old enough to know that trees couldn’t talk, they did seem to be whispering something or other.

Trees aren’t supposed to talk, but they keep telling me to follow the wind. And the wind won’t stop talking about the water. I think they like the place we go each summer, the beach in Mexico where the man makes the lobster tacos.

Mexico it was. And it made perfect sense. His parents were probably there at the small house already – that’s what the rainbow said. And rainbows were too colorful to lie.

Luca didn’t know how to drive, but he did know a car was better than walking. He would’ve gone back to his house, but his dad’s truck was way too big and his mom’s car was a stick shift she’d had since her 20s. He definitely didn’t think he could drive that.

One of the cars in Coach’s collection was a red Porsche that looked like a bathtub. Luca had ridden in it before. It was parked on the street and he needed it, so Coach Michael would understand if he took it. His mom said that in emergencies, like when you’re bleeding or vomiting, there were special rules. Luca wasn’t bleeding or vomiting, but he was definitely having the biggest emergency of his life.

Luca looked but couldn’t find any keys. They weren’t in any of the cars, even though people in movies found them tucked inside the thing you use to keep the sun from getting in your eyes. Then, he tried Coach’s door and was surprised to find it unlocked. He went inside and called for Coach, but nobody answered. Luca started searching for the keys.

He looked for over an hour, until his skin was burning and head pounding enough to make him stop. He was about to walk back home when he heard a meow coming from the kitchen. He went to the kitchen where Champion sat beside the cooking island, patting his paws against the wood.

Luca walked straight to the drawer above Champion’s head, slid it open, and removed a small, rectangular cobalt blue box with three keys inside. He removed the middle key, because it was the one that worked in the small Porsche that looked like a bathtub. Luca knew it, just as he knew what was in the box as soon as the cat told him.

**

Even though they were supposed to have sticks in the middle like his mom’s car, the coach’s Porsche didn’t. That was because it was a model car for grown-ups. And it wasn’t as old as it looked. Coach said it was a replica. It had a Volkswagen engine and an auto something transmission. He said that even though it was all sizzle and no steak, he loved driving it just the same.

Luca opened the door, sat behind the wheel, turned the engine, and scooted down until his foot was on the brake. He put the car in drive and moved his foot to the gas. The Porsche lurched forward and threw Luca against the seat. He had to scurry down to hit the brake before the car rolled too far.

He tried a few versions of the same thing several times before realizing that though he was big enough to ride in the Porsche, he wasn’t yet tall enough to drive it.

He returned to the house and ran upstairs to Matthew’s room. Matthew had more Legos than anyone Luca knew. He pulled the largest bucket from Lego Island, the one with all the odds and ends and oversized pieces. For five minutes, he didn’t think about burny skin or white spots in the sky or rainbows. For five minutes, he did nothing but stack legos, wearing a rare smile for that morning, on a face that usually looked naked without one.

Once he had created two neat cubes about 15 bricks high, Luca went to Matthew’s closet and grabbed a pair of shoes, size 12, same as him. He used duct tape from the garage to tape the two cubes to the bottom of Matthew’s shoes. He put them on and smiled.

Luca climbed into the car and drove toward the end of the smaller rainbow at a comfortable 20 mph. He was a robot, with super cool handmade ninja robot feet.

**

He drove slow but exactly where the rainbow told him, winding down the hill until he hit a mostly empty Pacific Coast Highway where he made a left. Luca wove through the occasionally idle traffic as if playing a slowed down PS3 game with his daddy.

He had driven for three hours and 41 miles when he noticed the animals. At first, it was just a cat or two, then three. The math got harder as he drove, and by the third hour Luca was noticing all sorts of animals trotting along both sides of the highway.

Like animals that aren’t really animals anymore.

BAM!!!

Luca was lost in thought when he smashed the back of a pitch-black truck dead on the highway. Luca hadn’t seen a car for two miles, just long enough to send his attention elsewhere.

The empty hood of the bathtub crinkled like paper and threw Luca back hard against his seat and out cold on impact. The last thing he sensed as he slipped into darkness was the fire, not on his skin, but starting in the back of the car.

* * * *

TO BE CONTINUED… Click here to go to Part 6.

Can’t wait to read the whole book? Get Yesterday’s Gone: Episode One instantly for only .99 downloaded in seconds to your Amazon Kindle.

Or…

Get all six episodes of Yesterday’s Gone: Season One right here for only $4.99.

In typical serialized fiction format, we’re presenting Episode One in serialized format. A new chapter every M,W,F, all month long!

If you missed Part One, check it out here.

Part Two is here.

Part Three is here.

EDWARD KEENAN

Saturday

October 15, 2011

2:18 a.m.

The first thing Edward Keenan felt was rain, cold and splashing his face, snapping him from the darkness and into the bright light beaming through a thick canopy of trees.

The next thing he felt was pain — everywhere, as if his entire body had been thrown from a building and slammed against every awning on the way down and then picked up again and thrown off the building once more to hit the awnings he missed the first go round. A high-pitched whistle pierced his throbbing eardrums. He reached up to cover his ears, before realizing his wrists were still bound together by plasticuffs.

Ed stood clumsily, pain shooting through his legs, back, and arms, then glanced around. A faint, flickering glow broke through the tree line. He made his way forward tentatively, stumbling several times, but managing to stay upright.

As he got closer to the glow, he could hear the crackle of fire. Could smell the fuel. And there, as he pressed into the clearing, he saw the mangled, fiery wreckage of Flight 519.

Ed raced forward, searching for any sign of survivors. The plane was split in half, swallowed by billowing smoke and a quick-spreading curtain of flame.

Suitcases, clothing, papers, chunks of the plane, and other debris littered the field, with some of the smaller scraps sailing low in the sky. From what he could see of the cabin, nobody survived other than himself. Yet, there weren’t any bodies. He looked back into the woods, wondering if perhaps all the passengers had been ejected from their seats as he had. Perhaps some, but not all of them.

Where the hell is everyone?

The last thing he remembered was his escort, Agent Grant, telling him to shut the fuck up. They’d be in Washington soon enough. Ed decided to take a nap, but didn’t think he’d actually fall asleep. He must have. Next thing he knew, he was on the ground.

He was torn — go back into the woods and search for survivors, or run as far and fast as he fucking could. Last thing he wanted was to run into Grant — assuming Grant was alive.

He took a chance. “Hello?!” he called.

As he stood at the edge of the woods, another high-pitched sound sailed over the drone in his ears, sounding as if the sky was ripping to shreds above him. He instinctively ducked, glancing up as another airplane shot by maybe 10 stories from the forest floor, on a sharp dive, soaring past the tree line before disappearing into a deafening explosion just out of sight.

Christ on a cross. What’s happening?

Ed raced toward the crashed plane as fast as he could, pain shooting through his atrophied legs. He stumbled into the woods, but stopped short when he reached a partition of flames where a large, unidentifiable chunk of the plane had set the surrounding trees on fire.

There’s no way anyone survived that.

He retreated, away from both crash sites, following a winding path that led uphill, where he spotted power poles and lines leading toward civilization, he hoped.

“Happy 44^th birthday,” he said to himself as he slipped into the black of night.

**

Despite being in top physical shape, Ed was exhausted by the time he reached the first row of homes. Falling out of the sky will do that to you.

Two-story faux New England architecture lined either side of the street, barely illuminated by the half-concealed moon. Was one of those new gated communities in the suburbs, designed to look nice, but they were usually shit quality with tiny lots. As he stepped onto the first street, he realized not a single light was on. Not a streetlight, nor a light in any of the windows of the 20 or so homes on the street.

A blackout?

Ed rolled his neck, sighed, and headed toward the closest house, a neatly manicured, two-story home with a large double door and windows on either side. Judging from the moon’s position, he figured it was around 3:00 a.m. Not a great time to be knocking on doors, especially when you’re bloody and in handcuffs. But options were scarce — he had to find a phone and contact Jade. No doubt news of the crashed plane would’ve already reached her.

Perhaps, though, it was best that he not contact her. Maybe she’s better off this way, thinking I’m dead.

The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. He should just disappear. It was what he did best. He had a safehouse in Florida that nobody knew about. He’d just fall off the radar. Again. And this time he knew better than to trust the agents he used to work with. Maybe the plane crash was the best thing that could have happened. Nobody would be looking for him. Not hard, anyway. This was his chance at a fresh start.

Ed would live like a ghost. No relationships, no friends — just live out his life until someone found him or he died of old age. As much as he’d love to hear his daughter’s voice one more time, to let her know he was alive, he knew he’d lose what might be a golden opportunity to finally make things right. She was a big girl; she’d get over his “death.”

But he still needed to get to a phone to contact Xavier, the only person left (other than his daughter) he could truly trust. Xavier would help him get out of town.

He knocked on the first door, lightly at first. No response. Raindrops grew larger and started to fall faster, but he was mostly sheltered under the gable roof. He knocked again, louder, watching through the window into the dark house for any sign of movement or light.

Nothing.

He knocked a third time, this time with authority, like the law.

Still nothing.

Ed glanced around at the house across the street to see if he’d attracted any attention. All the windows were dark, showing no movement.

On the ground, Ed spotted a garden with large decorative rocks. He grabbed one, gripped it tightly on the end, and tapped it hard against the window to the right of the doorknob. The glass crashed loudly, and Ed glanced around to see if anyone had taken notice.

Nothing, still.

Crackerjack gated community security, hard at work.

Ed smashed a large swath of glass away; he’d need plenty of room to reach inside the doorway with his hands bound. He swept the last shards of glass from the frame until he had room to safely reach in and twist the locks. He opened the door and rushed inside, closing the door behind him.

“Hello?” he called out, wishing he’d thought to bring the rock. “This is Officer Grant. Anybody here?”

Nothing.

He knew, from years of experience, that he was alone in the house. Houses harbored a specific brand of quiet when empty. A still you could sense immediately. This house wasn’t only silent, it was dead. No electricity meant no humming fans, electronics, air conditioning, or any other heartbeats of the average home. Sounds you didn’t even notice until their voices were taken away.

Ed made his way toward the kitchen scanning outlets for any sign of plug-in lights. Finding nothing, he rifled through drawers until he found a flashlight heavy with batteries. To his relief, they weren’t dead, and the light was bright. He waved the spotlight around the kitchen, finding the phone. A fucking cordless, meaning it wouldn’t work with the power out.

He tried it anyway, just in case.

Nothing.

Fuck, doesn’t anyone use regular phones anymore?

He clicked the light off, thinking about his next step, then headed back upstairs, light on. Two doors were on either side of the hall, and a large, double door was at the end, which he assumed would take him to the master bedroom.

The first two rooms weren’t bedrooms at all — one was a converted office. The second was a monument to clutter, tons of boxes leaving little room to walk. Finally, he reached the double doors, drew a deep breath, and pushed one of the doors open, training his light on the king-sized bed.

Unmade, nobody in it.

He figured whoever lived here was out of town, maybe on vacation. But something reflected back as he swept his light over the nightstand — a glass of ice water. As he moved closer, he saw beads of sweat, a small pool of water around the glass, and the last remnants of ice floating.

His heart stopped as he spun the light around toward the bathroom door, which was shut.

Had they heard him and ducked inside?

Ed squinted his eyes, searching for any signs of movement. He was too old for this shit. And not at all ready to die at the hands of some yuppie with a Beretta playing Die Hard.

He considered turning around and leaving, but something rooted him in place.

The house was empty. He could feel it. And he was never wrong about these things. Yeah, the loss of power might have been screwing with his instincts, but he didn’t think that was the case. Whoever was here was gone.

He clicked off the light and began to creep toward the closed bathroom door. A closet was to his left, but it was open, and he could see it was empty. If anyone was with him, they were likely in the bathroom.

He was nearly five steps away when he rolled his neck again, then spoke.

“Hello? This is officer Grant. We’re investigating a break-in at your neighbor’s house and we saw your front door was wide open. You okay?”

Nothing.

He turned on his light again.

“I’m coming into the bathroom now. My partner is in the hallway, checking out your other rooms. Do NOT shoot me. I repeat, do NOT shoot.”

He twisted the knob, pushed open the door, and thrust his light into the bathroom.

Nothing.

He caught his reflection in the mirror, dirty, banged up, bloody, and a huge knot sticking out from his closely-cropped dome. He laughed grimly at the reflection, then checked the closet for clean clothes. He would be stuck with his dark trousers, but he grabbed a black tee from the closet which he’d put on as soon as he got the cuffs off. The shirt looked like it would be tight on his muscular build, and a bit short, but it would have to do.

Ed returned to the bed and felt the sheets. They weren’t warm — whoever had been sleeping in them had been gone at least a few minutes before he’d entered the house. He grabbed the glass, picked it up, cool to the touch. He took a long drink, the water soaking his dry throat. He chewed the remnants of ice, placed the glass down, and opened both nightstands, hoping to find a gun. No luck.

Ed moved from room to room, searching the house for anybody. At last, he reached the door leading to the two-car garage. If anyone was here, this was the last place they could be hiding, unless they sneaked into an attic or something. He did the police routine another time, with the same lack of response, then opened the door. Clutter filled one side of the garage, though more neatly arranged, and all of it boxed. The other half of the garage housed an SUV.

He flashed his light to make sure the vehicle was empty, then doubled back to the kitchen, found a pegboard with keys and an automatic car lock, alarm attached. He glanced at the fridge, where a photo in a magnetic frame showed a middle-aged guy, a middle-aged woman, and a 20-year-old girl wearing an Ohio State sweater. He pocketed the keys, headed back to the garage and was relieved to see a workbench on the far wall with a large red Craftsmen toolbox beside it.

Thank God some people still do shit themselves.

He found a hacksaw, fastened the blade on a C-clamp, then proceeded to saw his restraints away. Once he had the middle part cut, he found some bolt cutters, sheared the bracelets the rest of the way, and massaged the red from his wrists. He slipped on the tee shirt, which fit him better than he thought it would, and balled up the shirt he’d been wearing and tossed it in the SUV.

Ed went to the fridge. Stuff was still cold. He inhaled a Coke, then grabbed a box of cookies from the pantry and threw them on the passenger seat of the SUV as he climbed in the driver’s side. He turned on the radio to a static assault and hit the scan button, watching the digital display race through the FM spectrum without slowing.

All the stations are down?

Something was very wrong.

Ed hit the garage door opener before remembering it ran on electricity. He hopped out of the SUV and flashed the light at the ceiling, finding the motor for the garage door opener. A red cord dangled from the center. He yanked it, disengaging the opener, opened the door manually, got back in the SUV, and backed out of the driveway.

He figured he had maybe two hours until the state was crawling with feds.

* * * *

TO BE CONTINUED… Click here to go to Part 5

Can’t wait to read the whole book? Get Yesterday’s Gone: Episode One instantly for only .99 downloaded in seconds to your Amazon Kindle.

Or…

Get all six episodes of Yesterday’s Gone: Season One right here for only $4.99.

In typical serialized fiction format, we’re presenting Episode One in serialized format. A new chapter every M,W,F, all month long!

If you missed Part One, check it out here.

Part Two is here.

CHARLIE WILKENS

Saturday

October 15, 2011

morning

Jacksonville, Florida

Charlie Wilkens wasn’t upset when he woke to find an empty world. In fact, it was the best damned thing that had happened in his 17 years on the planet.

He was frightened at first, of course, when he woke to find his house empty, both cars in the driveway, and no sign of his mother or asstard step-dad, Bob. But when he went door-to-door and discovered his entire block was as empty as his house, he was a few planets past the moon.

As he tottered down the street on his 12 speed, he stopped to knock at each house, considering its occupants and the offenses they’d committed against him over the years. He knocked on the bully Eddie Houghton’s house, remembering the time the fat red head made Charlie eat dirt in front of his classmates in sixth grade.

Good riddance.

He stopped at Josie Robinson’s house, a girl he had a crush on since kindergarten, and who had been his friend until last year, before she started hanging out with Shayanne Wolfe and the rest of the cheerleaders in the Bitch Clique. It was bad enough that she’d shunned him, but at one point, she called him “pizza face” in front of half the lunchroom. It was all he could do to keep from crying.

Bye-bye, Josie.

Then there was that asshole, Mr. Lawrence at the end of the block. A short, creepy dude who once hired Charlie to go door to door and hand out flyers for his painting business. Mr. Lawrence had promised Charlie $40 for the job. But after Charlie spent the entire weekend canvassing the neighborhood with the ads, Mr. Lawrence claimed someone saw him dumping a box of the flyers in a dumpster at the Quick Stop (which was bullshit). So he refused to pay Charlie.

Sayonara, asshole.

Charlie laughed as he raced to the next block and repeated the process, growing more giddy with every empty house.

“Goodbye, assholes! Fuckers! Motherfuckers!” he shouted from the top of his lungs. It was an amazing release, even if no one was around to hear him.

For too many years, he’d had to bottle his emotions and take shit from everybody. He’d been the world’s doormat for most of his life, through no fault of his own. He just happened to be a bit geekier, a bit paler, and had a few more zits than everyone else in his class. If he didn’t have the zits, got tan instead of turned pink in the sun, and his hair was straight instead of a curly blond mop, maybe people would have seen him a bit differently.

All he wanted to do was get through adolescence under the radar. But ever since middle school, it was as if he had some sort of homing signal which seemed particularly honed to attract unwanted attention. And when you stood out, the wolves licked their chops.

Growing up a momma’s boy had made him soft.

He spent the first 11 years of his life practicing ways to make his mother happy. She’d been depressed since his father died, so it was his mission to bring her smile back. He’d put on puppet shows, tell her jokes, and would even go to painting classes with her on weekends. While most kids avoided their parents, Charlie was best friends with his mom.

But having no father figure in his life had made him meek and a magnet for the aggro assholes wanting to vent their frustrations and call him momma’s boy, faggot, and anything else their tiny intellects could muster.

He might have been able to cope, if it weren’t for Bob.

Charlie’s mom met Bob four years back. They began dating immediately. Dating turned into an impromptu wedding. Everything was good for a few months. That’s when Bob dropped the mask and let his drunken, violent colors bleed into Charlie’s world. In a land of bullies, Bob was their king. And there was nothing Charlie could do. And nothing his mother would do.

And for that, he was glad she was gone.

Smell ya later, Mommy.

**

Charlie rode around a while longer until he circled back to Josie’s. He knocked again. When nobody answered, he tried the doorknob. To his surprise, it was unlocked.

Hot damn!

He opened the door and stepped inside “Hello? Josie? Are you here?”

When nobody answered, he closed the door.

The house was cool, despite the loss of power. And it was well lit by all the large windows and open blinds. He hadn’t been in Josie’s house in three years, but it was as nice as ever. Her mother was in real estate, made good money, and routinely indulged in her premium tastes.

Josie’s dad had left her mother a few years earlier, but the a-hole was an investment banker, so the monthly checks were fat.

Despite her family’s wealth, money didn’t seem to affect Josie all that much. In fact, she seemed embarrassed by her mother’s extravagance, which was probably the thing Charlie liked most about her, other than how she was cuter than an anime character. She didn’t act like the other rich kids in the school, and had never treated him like the poor kid he was.

Well, at least until she started hanging out with the Bitch Clique.

Charlie trudged up the stairs to Josie’s room, and opened the door.

She had redecorated since he’d last seen it. She used to be obsessed with stuffed penguins, which once lined her shelves, closet, and even her bed. Now, her room was more adult with pinks, blues, and the sort of furniture his mom circled in the catalogue but never bought. No childish stuff anywhere, save for one lone penguin standing guard at the foot of her unmade bed. His name was Percy, Josie had once told Charlie. That was something else he’d liked about her. She wasn’t afraid to be goofy, one of her most endearing qualities, actually.

Charlie sat by the headboard and picked up her pillow. He lifted it to his nose and took a deep breath. It was soft, fluffy, and smelled just as he remembered her.

He closed his eyes and sent his mind to a time when they were sitting on the floor in the room. They were both 12, and she’d asked Charlie to give her a neck massage. It wasn’t sexual of course, he’d barely even thought about sex at that age. And she wasn’t that kind of girl. But sitting behind her, with her long hair spilled in his face and his hands on her shoulders, along with a glimpse down her shirt, gave him a raging erection.

When she lifted her shirt, and asked him to rub her back, he was painfully erect. Then, to his utter horror, he ejaculated in his pants, and had to make an excuse to rush home.

So, technically, Josie was his first, and only sexual experience with another person, even if she never knew.

Thinking about Josie as he sat on her bed, he was hard again.

He began to look around her room and found a photo album she’d made. He thumbed through the book and saw pictures of her, taken recently at the beach. Her lips were full, her skin the color of honey, and her breasts practically falling out of the pink bikini. He was rock hard.

He went to her dresser and thumbed through her drawers, investigating her underwear, surprised to find such lacy numbers. He wondered if her mother knew what Josie was wearing under her skirts. In the mirror, he caught a glimpse of the expandable hamper in the corner, pink, of course.

Charlie retrieved a pair of pink silky panties from the top and smelled them. The faint scent of piss and perfume made him wince, then smile. He closed his eyes, imagining the prettiest of her pink that he’d never see, then went to her bed, dropped his pants, wrapped her underwear around his staff and started stroking.

He lasted three seconds longer than he had when he’d given her a back massage.

Charlie caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, denim snaked around his ankles and wiping himself with her underwear. Shame flushed his face. He threw the panties into the hamper and yanked up his pants, then glared at himself in the mirror, angry at his lack of self control. Josie was right to shun him — maybe some part of her had sensed his perverted thoughts. Maybe she’d only become a bitch to him because he was such a creepy geek.

The thought depressed him and he went downstairs to her fridge. Rich people always had good food.

He grabbed a piece of birthday cake. It was half gone, but enough remained for Charlie to imagine the “Happy Birthday Mom!” scrawled across the top. It had a chocolate ganache frosting, at least he thought that’s what it was called, and it tasted better than delicious. Maybe even the best cake he’d ever had. He was about to grab a glass of milk, when he thought better. Though the contents of the fridge were still cold, the milk (even thought it was soy milk, whatever the hell that was) might’ve already started to spoil. The last thing he wanted to do was get sick, especially if no doctors were left in the town, or hell, maybe the world!

Instead, he found himself eyeing a four pack of red wine coolers.

He’d never drank before. As a child, he’d never had the urge. And Bob was a living poster for why NOT to drink. But he knew a lot of the kids in school did drink. Mostly the dumb jocks, cheerleaders, and the “Fiesta Crowd,” as they were called. Charlie considered them all about as smart as a hot dog and didn’t want to be anything like them, even if that meant being a pizza faced geek, but they did seem to enjoy their lives. His life, on the other hand, was a constant broadcast of misery.

It didn’t take long to do the math. Charlie grabbed the four pack, locked the front door (just in case), and headed back to Josie’s room.

He decided there were worse places to hang out at the end of the world. He sure as hell wasn’t going to go back home to his shitty little house.

**

Three bottles in, Charlie wondered what all the fuss was about. He didn’t feel all that different. If anything, he felt worse. His head was hurting, and he was feeling sad.

He decided to take a nap. He slid off his jeans and shoes and laid down in Josie’s bed, nestling his head into the cool, perfumed pillow.

Josie was so beautiful. Why did she have to be such a bitch?

Charlie began to think about where the world had gone. Or rather, where all the people had gone. Whether this was a localized thing or if maybe people were missing in India, too. He’d thought about it earlier, of course, when he realized something was wrong. But now, a bit tipsy, he found himself sinking deeper into the thought.

He decided that though he hated most of the world, or at least the people he’d met, he didn’t want to see everybody gone. He’d be awfully lonely. In fact, he was lonely now. Hell, he’d even be happy to see Josie, even if she were mean to him.

Charlie cried himself to sleep. Fortunately, he faded fast.

**

A loud knocking downstairs woke Charlie from his sleep.

“Charlie? Are you in there?!” a man’s voice.

What the fuck?

Charlie leaped from the bed, nervous, looking around until he found his jeans and shoes.

Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.

He was busted. This had all been a dream; he sleepwalked and broke into Josie’s house. The police were outside!

His heart raced as someone shouted his name again. The voice was deep, angry, and familiar. He ducked low on his way to the curtains, then slid them aside just an inch to peek at who was outside. It was the devil himself — Bob.

* * * *

TO BE CONTINUED….

Can’t wait to read the whole book? Get Yesterday’s Gone: Episode One instantly for only .99 downloaded in seconds to your Amazon Kindle.

Or…

Get all six episodes of Yesterday’s Gone: Season One right here for only $4.99.

In typical serialized fiction format, we’re presenting Episode One in serialized format. A new chapter every M,W,F, all month long!

If you missed Part One, check it out here.

MARY OLSON

Saturday

October 15, 2011

morning

Warson Woods, Missouri

Mary woke up sticky.

Another dream about Ryan, the sixth one in the last two weeks. Weird. She probably hadn’t thought of him for a month before that. Or longer. Though she couldn’t help but picture her ex from time to time since their daughter was his spitting image — well, a cuter, girly version, anyway.

Mary turned over and buried her face in the pillow. She hated dreaming about him, and really hated when they were sex dreams.

He’d never stop being inside her, but he hadn’t actually been there in three years. They’d been divorced for two, but once she found out about Natalie Farmer, the bitch that was 10 years too young and as perky as a sitcom schoolgirl, she couldn’t touch him without a shudder.

She hated him for the innocence he stole and the lives he abused. But a large part of her could never forget the way he made her feel — the way he made her laugh, the way that, for no reason at all, he used to slip behind her and whisper treasures in her ear. The way he truly seemed to love her and their daughter, Paola. And the way he always reassured her that everything would be okay, even if he only did so in her dreams.

Mary rarely slept past seven. During the week, Paola had to be at school by nine and they usually left by eight because Paola liked to go early. Unlike most 12 year olds, Paola would wake early even on the weekends. Sometimes, Paola would join Mary for some early morning yoga before Mary worked a few hours on the greeting cards that paid for the $1.1 million house high on a hill in Warson Woods, just outside St. Louis – no thanks to Ryan.

A million dollars bought a palace in Warson Woods, the kind of house Mary liked most, even though it made her feel guilty all the time. Her cousin lived outside L.A. He said nothing was for less than $350,000 unless you were willing to settle for bullet holes.

It was probably thinking about bullet holes that made Mary realize how quiet the house was. More than usual. She sat up in bed. More than quiet – eerie. The trees were swaying, but that was it. No birds chirping. No dogs barking. And no lawnmowers. In Warson Woods, people loved lawns like children, and spoiled them the same, either themselves or through their teams of landscapers. Mary started calling lawnmowers the “Missouri Symphony” the second week she moved in. To not hear lawnmowers on a Saturday morning made her briefly question whether she’d slept straight through to Monday.

Mary left the bed and padded toward the stairs. She needed coffee. That would help the oddness fade. The hallway was dark. Mary flicked a light but nothing happened. She sighed and kept walking. One million for a house, fine, but everything should work.

She would have a hard enough time this morning without light, but being without caffeine might make it impossible. So she wasn’t happy when her new Keurig wouldn’t work either. Maybe there was an outage in the neighborhood? A sudden chill iced her insides. It wasn’t logical, but it came from the place that keeps its eyes peeled for the stuff logical doesn’t.

“Paola?”

Paola didn’t answer, but the Keurig rumbled to life and started warming its water as the hall light came on and the air conditioner cycled on. She would’ve called for Paola a second time, but she didn’t have to. Paola called for her instead. “Mom!!!” Mom sounded like a war cry rattling from the throat of a warrior who knew she was about to die.

Mary was at the foot of the stairs in less than a second and all the way to the top in two after that. She flew through Paola’s open door. Her daughter was screaming at something out of view.

It was gone before Mary got there, but it had left Paola a vibrating mess. Mary tried to soothe her, but Paola pushed her away. “It’s okay, Honey.” Mary pulled her closer. Paola surrendered and Mary’s hands fell in a familiar pattern behind her daughter’s head.

“What was it?” Mary asked.

“I don’t know,” Paola shook her head. “I don’t know the words.”

“Try.”

“It was like,” Paola fell into a second fit of sobs. Mary continued to pet her. “It was like …” more sobbing, then, “It was like Daddy.”

“What? What do you mean, it was like your father?”

Paola shook her head. Her cheeks burned. “It was Daddy. He was in my room but he wasn’t. It was just him, but not all of him.”

“Your father was here?!” Mary could feel her white face making Paola’s redder.

“No.” Paola started to say something, then closed her mouth. A long three seconds passed, then, “It was like if a ghost was there without the ghost. Daddy, but not Daddy.”

“How do you know it was a ghost, or your father, if you couldn’t see anything?”

Paola just stared at her mother. “I’d know daddy anywhere.”

Her face cracked and she started to cry again as the power went off again.

**

It seemed to take longer than normal for Mary to calm Paola’s whimpers down to heavy breathing. Right when inhales and exhales were starting to meet, Paola broke the rhythm.

“Why is it so quiet?”

Mary had almost forgotten. “I’m not sure, honey. The power’s out and everything feels…”

“Wrong,” Paola finished.

“Yeah, wrong.” Mary stood and held out her hand for Paola. She was almost as tall as her mom, and would likely tower over her in another year or two. Paola followed her mom downstairs and into the kitchen. The coffee machine had died before it could produce enough for a cup. Frustrated, Mary went to the fridge and grabbed a Diet Coke for herself and poured some OJ for her daughter.

When they finished, Mary looked out the front window.

“Let’s go look outside.”

They walked the neighborhood that had gone from posh to ghost town overnight.

They peered through windows and into cars, and crossed well-manicured yards, starting at Mrs. Parker’s house on the corner, because she was the first to move into the sub-division and had made it family business to know everything about everyone every day since. She wasn’t home.

After two empty streets, they rounded the hill and hit the hiking trail, thinking there might be a neighborhood gathering they didn’t know about. The trails were empty, too. Odd for the weekend, when the housewives and retirees were usually out en masse.

They followed the trail, then rounded the avenue back to their street. They were surprised, and thrilled, to see someone standing in front of their house. It was their neighbor, Jimmy – Jim, as he’d been introducing himself since 8th grade, even though no one would listen. He was a head too tall for his age. That, along with his long dark hair that he let hang in his eyes, made him look a bit older than his 16 years. Any advantage he had in looking older was usurped by his immaturity. While he was generally a good kid, as far as Mary knew, he got into frequent trouble for skateboarding in the shopping center, trespassing at the pool after hours, skipping school, and the stuff that unfocussed kids generally did to pass away the time.

“What’d you find out Mrs. Olson?”

“Nothing,” Mary shook her head. “Do you know what’s going on?”

“Other than the entire world going POOF!?” Jimmy made jazz hands, “I’ve no idea. I woke up, my mom and dad were AWOL. So were both my brothers. I figured they were fu … messing with me, but I can’t figure out the angle, plus there’d be no way they’d get the whole neighborhood to play the reindeer games.”

Jimmy seemed oddly unfazed by events.

Mary was about to ask him if the electricity was working in his house when her neighbor from the other side John, appeared in the distance. He was walking fast, directly toward them. Mary closed her mouth mid-sentence, Jimmy and Paola turned to see why.

“Thank God!” John was running toward them.

“What’s going on?” All three asked, hard to tell who was first.

“No idea. Jenny’s gone. No note. Nothing. She doesn’t even go downstairs without kissing me goodbye.”

It was true. With any other couple it would’ve been disgusting. But John and Jenny were probably the two nicest people alive. And so adorable and doting, it was almost creepy.

No one had a chance to console John, or consider Jenny, before a smoke-colored Audi appeared on the drive coming toward them. It was Desmond Armstrong, the neighbor from across the street. The Audi’s engine died but Desmond stayed inside. They could see him through the tinted windows, sitting and staring into space. It was an endless minute with no one knowing what to do. Finally, the door opened and Desmond put his boot on the grass.

“There’s no other way to say it,” Desmond shook his head. “The world is dead.”

* * * *

TO BE CONTINUED….  (go to Part 3)

Can’t wait to read the whole book? Get Yesterday’s Gone: Episode One instantly for only .99 downloaded in seconds to your Amazon Kindle.

Or…

Get all six episodes of Yesterday’s Gone: Season One right here for only $4.99.

In typical serialized fiction format, we’re presenting Episode One in serialized format. A new chapter every M,W,F, all month long!

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

 When I was a child in 1979, there was a TV show on NBC called Cliffhangers. Each week, they’d bring you three 20 minute segments of ongoing serials. One story was a horror tale about a vampire, the other was a sci-fi/western hybrid, and the last one, a mystery. I don’t remember much of the stories. But I do remember how excited I got each week when the show was about to come on.

And how frustrated I got at the end of each segment when the announcer would tell you that the adventure would be continued next week.

“Arggghh!”

God, how I loved being teased and tormented by that show.

Of course, the network had the last laugh when after just 10 episodes, they cancelled Cliffhangers — before they finished the stories!

The ultimate, “ARGGGHH,” but not a good one.

THE GOOD “ARGGGHH”

Anyway, we’ve all had those “Arggghh!” moments when our favorite shows leave us hanging another week to see what happened. Or, in the case of a season ending cliffhanger, we’d have to wait a whole summer!

“ARRRRGGGGHHHH!!”

I love shows like these. My writing partner, Sean, loves shows like these.

I’m guessing you love shows like these.

Whether we’re entrenched in The Wire, Battlestar Galactica, LOST, X-Files, Game of Thrones, Dexter, Deadwood, Mad Men, or any of the other great shows on TV, there’s nothing better than episodic TV and the cliffhanger.

In 1996, Stephen King released The Green Mile as six chap books, each of them around 100 pages, the first five ending with cliffhangers. He released one a month until he told the entire story.

While writers have been doing serialized fiction forever, and I’d read a few serialized stories in magazines (and comic books), this was my first experience with serialized storytelling in book form.

King had me hooked from book one.

I remember going to the bookstore the minute it opened on the release date of each new book. Then I raced home to devour the book. As a writer, I loved the concept.

SERIALIZED FICTION

Sean and I attempted to release our vampire thriller Available Darkness as serialized web fiction a couple of years ago, posting chapters weekly on our blog. We drew a few readers, but most people emailed us saying the same thing:

“I hate reading on the web. When are you gonna come out with a book?”

This was also the exact moment that our business was taking off and we were drowning in work. Putting a book out was not gonna happen. So we reluctantly put Available Darkness on hold until we could finish it properly and release it as a book.

And then last year, eBooks and Print On Demand took off. Suddenly people were reading on Kindles and iPads in record numbers.

That’s when we knew we had to finish Available Darkness and get it out to the few loyal people we left hanging. (Released August 9, yay!)

But in this era of indie publishing, we also saw another opportunity. To get back to what we really wanted to do — write serialized fiction and get it to you. As a writer, there’s no more awesome feeling than creating something that people get wrapped up in and can’t wait for the next installment.

And unlike 1996, you don’t have to drive to a bookstore to get the next copy. Instant downloads from Amazon at a low price.

THE PLAN

We’ve got a few stories we’re working on in the background. Our plan is to release a new episode of Yesterday’s Gone every three weeks (updated from our original once a month plan) until the first season is over. Each book will be 100 pages or so (just like The Green Mile, that seemed like a good size) and each series will be six books.

And then we’ll either release season one of our next title like HBO rotates its hit shows, or go straight into season two of Yesterday’s Gone, depending on how things go and where we’re at with our other books.

I’m not sure how many other writers are out there doing serialized eBooks. But I think the time has never been better for this type of fiction.

And we’re looking forward to taking you on one hell of a ride and giving you some “ARGGGHH!” moments that will make you throw your Kindle across the room.

Or just slam it down gently into your pillow.

Let us know how we’re doing. Leave a review at Amazon or stop by http://SerializedFiction.com and drop us a line.

 Thank you for reading,

David W. Wright

* * * *

BRENT FOSTER

Saturday

October 15, 2011

morning

New York City

On the day everything changed, Brent Foster’s biggest concern was getting an hour to himself. But hell if he wouldn’t have settled for 15 minutes.

His head was pounding when he woke, as if he’d spent the night partying rather than staying late at the paper. Fortunately, it was his day off. He glanced at the alarm clock and saw that the blue numbers were black. The fan he used to drown out the sounds of his neighbors and traffic was off too. The power must’ve gone out.

Great.

Judging from the morning sun coming through the opening in the curtains, he figured it was probably 9 a.m. And since he couldn’t hear the sounds of his rambunctious three year old at play, Gina must’ve taken Ben for a walk or play date at the park.

He smiled. He loved when he had the apartment to himself. Moments alone were so rare these days. He worked under constant deadlines in the newsroom, still always hustling and bustling, even with the layoffs. Then, at home, his son was usually awake and in need of some daddy time.

“He just wants to spend time with you,” his wife would say, tugging at Brent’s threadbare guilt strings. “You’re always working.”

Brent wasn’t completely antisocial, even if Gina might argue otherwise; he just needed time to decompress when he woke and when he got home. He was just wired that way. If he didn’t get time, he grew moody and anxious. And he was short with Ben, which carried the rough consequence of feeling shitty for hours, one hour for every second he was uncool to Ben. The last thing he wanted to be was like his own dad, yet some days, he was headed there with a full tank of gas and a brick on the pedal.

He was in a better mood when he could start the day alone. Today, it seemed, would start just right.

Brent walked into the living room, popped open the fridge, off but still cold. He grabbed a bottle of water and took a deep swig as his eyes scanned the counter for a note from his wife. She always left a note when she went somewhere. But, apparently, not today. Brent took another swig of water and headed down the hall to his son’s room. The door was closed; big blue wooden letters spelled BEN on the door. Brent peered inside. The bed was unmade, curtains drawn, even though Gina always opened them when Ben first woke. Both pairs of Ben’s sneakers were sitting on top of his blue wooden toy box that doubled as a bench.

Brent was confused. Gina wouldn’t take Ben from the apartment without shoes.

He went back into his room, fished the cellphone from his pants, and glanced at the time. 10:20 a.m. Later than he thought.

He dialed Gina’s cell and put the phone to his ear.

No sound on the other line.

Phones are down, too?

Brent dialed again, same result.

Mrs. Goldman.

They had to be at the apartment across the hall, Mrs. Goldman’s. Her husband had passed away a few months earlier. Gina had started bringing Ben over to keep her company. She loved Ben and he loved eating her cookies — a perfect match.

Brent slipped on some sweatpants, then headed across the hall and knocked on the door. The lights in the hall were out, save for four emergency lights spaced every five doors along the ceiling.

Mrs. Goldman always took forever to answer the door. Brent suspected she was going deaf, even though she had a keen ear for neighborhood gossip. He knocked louder. Still, no answer.

Mrs. Goldman never went anywhere. Ever. Her only other family was her worthless son, Peter, who never visited. The few times Gina had invited her to the store or for a nice afternoon lunch, Mrs. Goldman declined. She didn’t care much for the city. Was only there because her husband loved it. Now he was gone, and she was happy to spend her days watching TV, reading her mysteries, and playing bridge with some of the other ladies twice a week.

“Mrs. Goldman,” Brent called, “Are you there?”

Nothing.

Weird.

Brent didn’t know the other neighbors on his floor, but Gina had recently become friends with a young mother a few doors down. Maybe they went there, Brent figured. He walked toward the end of the hall, but couldn’t remember if the woman lived in number 437 or 439.

He tried knocking on 437 first.

No answer.

He tried a couple more times, then went to 439.

No response.

What the hell?

People were always home, or at least it seemed that way. Brent was never able to sleep in because his neighbors were loud and the walls were thin. He’d wanted to move somewhere quieter for years, somewhere with neighbors who actually left the building every now and then. Brent turned and tried the door across the hall, 440.

No response.

What the hell?

Brent turned around and headed up the hallway, stopping to knock at each door along the way.

One, two, and then five more doors. Nothing. He continued down the hall, his heart thudding, knocks turning to pounding at each door.

By the time he reached the end of the hallway, he was hot and sweaty, yelling. “HELLO?! ANYONE?!”

Nothing but black silence. The darkened hall seemed to constrict as his mind started racing.

Impossible. There’s no way that nobody’s home. No fucking way. Unless . . .

Terrorists.

The word bubbled to the surface as an answer to a question he’d not yet had the courage to ask. They were in New York, so it wasn’t implausible. He raced back to his apartment, door still open, went to the windows and pulled the curtains aside, then looked down on the city streets. The empty city streets.

Brent was speechless, his heart on pause, eyes swimming in and out of focus.

“What the fuck?”

It didn’t add up. If there were an attack, there would be bodies. If there was an evacuation, surely his wife would’ve woken him. Unless maybe it happened while she was out and unable to get back.

That thought died on the vine when he spotted Gina’s purse and keys on the kitchen table, right where she put them every night before bed, ready for the next morning.

He looked back down. No people. No cars on the street. Well, none that were moving, anyway. Brent could see a handful that were either in the middle of the street, or had crashed into the cars parked on the opposite side of the street. He could see exhaust from some of the cars, their lights still on.

It was as if everyone on his block just simultaneously vanished. Everyone except Brent.

He went to Ben’s room again to get a look from his son’s window, which had a slightly better angle at the cross street. Something sharp stung his foot. He cursed as he stumbled, glancing at the carpet to see a small blue train.

Stanley Train, Ben’s favorite toy, which he carried with him everywhere, including to bed. It was there, just sitting on the floor. Brent bent and picked it up. Its wide eyes and eternally giant smile stared back at him. Wherever his little boy was, he was without his favorite toy.

He set the train on Ben’s pillow and returned to his room. He got dressed, then grabbed his keys, wallet, and phone. He shoved everything in his jeans, then went to the kitchen, found the notepad and a pen and left a note for Gina.

“Where did you go? Went outside to look for you. Knocked on doors at our neighbors, nobody’s home. I’ll be back at 1 p.m. If you come home, wait for me.

Love,

Brent”

Halfway through the front door, Brent thought of something, then went back to his son’s room, grabbed Stanley Train from the pillow and put it in his pocket.

**

Brent took the stairs down to the next floor, and started knocking on those doors, despite not knowing anyone on this floor.

At the sixth door without any response, he worked up the courage to try a doorknob. Locked.

Halfway down the hall, he got an idea. He found the fire alarm and pulled it. The alarm blared; a banshee shriek amid the quiet. Brent covered his ears, watching the hall, waiting for people to flee.

Not a single door opened.

“Fuck it,” Brent said, and went to apartment 310, tried the knob. It was locked. He backed up a bit, kicked at a spot right below the doorknob and was surprised at how easily the door burst open. Why even have locks?

“Hello?!” he shouted.

No response.

The apartment was as vacant as his own. Pictures on the wall showed a Puerto Rican family of four. Parents with two twin boys, about 10 years old. He was about to leave the apartment, but movement grabbed him. Something just beyond the sheer curtains covering the living room window. He moved closer and saw the slinky silhouette of a cat sunning on the windowsill. How it could relax with the alarm blaring was beyond Brent, but then again, so were most things feline.

He went to the curtain, pulled it aside, and saw the white long-haired cat stretched out, face nuzzled against the warm windowsill. As he reached out to pet the cat, it started to roll over to show its belly. As it turned, Brent jumped back.

The cat’s face had no eyes or mouth.

Brent fell back two steps, letting the curtain fall into place, his heart racing, half expecting the monstrosity to jump on him or worse. He stared at the curtains, dread creeping up his spine.

What the hell is that?

He watched the cat’s silhouette as it laid back down. He worked up the courage to pull the curtain aside again to make sure he’d seen what he thought he’d seen. The cat’s face was turned down, so he had to reach out, hesitantly, again and pet its head to get it to look back up at him. As his fingers touched the cat’s fur, he felt a slight shock, like static electricity. The cat didn’t seem to notice the shock. It began purring in response to the touch, then lifted its chin to meet Brent.

Only this time, the cat had eyes, wide blue ones, and a mouth.

Brent shook his head, feeling stupid. He continued to pet the cat’s head as the alarm kept ringing.

“You deaf, kitty?” Brent asked.

No response. Which was a good thing, or Brent might have just jumped right out the window.

He glanced out at the street below to see if tenants were pouring from the building’s lower floors because of the fire alarm. If so, he didn’t see anyone.

As the curtain drifted back into place, he saw movement on the street below.

He snatched the curtain aside again, and glanced down at the apartment building across the street. A man in a dark sweater, baseball cap, and pants emerged from beneath the green awning and onto the street, looking around. He was too far away to get a good look at, particularly under a baseball cap, but something about his gait suggested he was nervous.

Brent jumped up, excited, and began smacking the window, yelling, “HEY! HEY!”

The cat leaped down and scurried out of sight.

The man on the street didn’t seem to hear Brent. He was walking north along the street, sticking to the sidewalk. Brent stopped trying to get his attention. While the man did glance over at the building a couple of times, likely drawn by the sound of the siren, his attention was mostly on something further down the road that Brent couldn’t see.

Brent watched, waiting to see where the man would go.

He seemed to be looking for someone. The man pulled a pair of binoculars out of his jacket and scanned the street in both directions. Then, he raised his binoculars up toward Brent. Brent waved frantically. For a moment, the man paused, and Brent was certain that he’d seen him. But he put the binoculars down and turned quickly to the north side of the street as if he’d heard or seen something.

The man lifted the binoculars to his eyes and focused to get a better look at whatever had his attention.

Brent turned, pushing his face against the window, struggling to see whatever the man was now staring at, but the angle was marred. He looked back down at the man, only to see him running as fast as he could in the opposite direction, and back into the apartment building he’d come from.

Brent pressed his face against the window again, struggling to see what scared the hell out of the guy. Whatever it was, he couldn’t see it.

Hide, a voice in Brent’s head said. Hide now.

It’s coming.

* * * *

TO BE CONTINUED… (click here to read Part 2 of Yesterday’s Gone: Episode One)

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Originally, we scheduled it for August 15, the week after our first co-authored novel Available Darkness releases (It’s out now, too!)

However, we were so excited to get this story started, we said screw it, and hit publish early.

So far, reaction has been great!

Feedback so far has been mostly angry that:

a) We left readers hanging. Which is the whole idea of cliffhanger serialized fiction!

b) We’re making people wait too long for Episode Two. Which is just awesome that readers have taken to the characters so quickly.

We’re fast at work on Episode Two. And here’s some good news – we’re not gonna make you wait a month to see it. Stay tuned for more details!