Yesterday's Gone: Season One Part 1

YESTERDAY'S GONE : SEASON ONE.

by Sean Platt & David Wright.

To You, the reader.

Thank you for joining us on this ride.

EPISODE ONE.

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!"

G.o.d, 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, The Walking Dead, 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 publis.h.i.+ng, 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.

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.

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 h.e.l.l of a ride and giving you some "ARGGGHH!" moments that will make you throw your eReader across the room.

Or just slam it down gently into your pillow.

SEASON TWO.

Yesterday's Gone is returning in January 2012 with a new season. And we're stepping up our game!

What's the the biggest difference between serialized TV shows and serialized books? Besides the whole picture and sound thing?

TV shows air every week. making it far easier to keep up with the running storylines.

To that end, we're releasing new episodes of Season Two every week!

Let us know how we're doing. Leave a review wherever you bought the book. If you want to keep up with Yesterday's Gone and be the first to get sneak peeks at next season and know when the new season is available, stop by http://SerializedFiction.com/be-a-goner and join our free The Goners Newsletter.

If you have any comments or questions, or just want to say hi, email us: Email David at [email protected] or Sean at We'd love to hear from you!

One last thing. We spent many hours writing Yesterday's Gone. And many more editing. And re-editing. We also hired an editor to catch yet more typos. However, given our budget and time constraints (along with the inevitable last minute changes), we're sure you'll find some we missed. We hope they are minor and infrequent and none of them break the story for you. If you find any errors, and have a few minutes, please email us and let us know so we can make corrections in future editions.

Thank you for reading, David W. Wright * * * *

BRENT FOSTER.

Sat.u.r.day.

October 15, 2011.

morning.

New York City.

On the day everything changed, Brent Foster's biggest concern was getting an hour to himself. But h.e.l.l 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 s.h.i.+tty 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 pa.s.sed 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 s.p.a.ced 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 h.e.l.l?

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 h.e.l.l?

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. "h.e.l.lO?! ANYONE?!"

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

Impossible. There's no way that n.o.body's home. No f.u.c.king 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 f.u.c.k?"

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.