Yesterday's Gone: Season One Part 46

His heart sped up as he searched the night for her.

He stepped past the head bleaker and the rest crowded the empty s.p.a.ce behind him, as though sending him off and wis.h.i.+ng him well.

"John!" Same voice, more urgent.

He crossed the edge of the parking lot, jogged across the street, then broke into a full run on the other side, heading into the nearby woods. Though he knew he was dreaming, a large part of him didn't care. He might never see her again in the waking world. But, if he could see her in his dreams, that would at least be something. The worst thing he could imagine would be to forget her completely. The sound of her voice, the look in her eyes when she looked at him, the way her nose crinkled when she smiled.

"John!"

He saw Jenny, standing beside a slender tree, wearing the matte silver dress he loved, the one that made her look like an Ann Taylor princess.

He approached his wife, tears filling his eyes. "I'm so sorry," he said.

Jenny was silent.

"Please, please, please forgive me," he said. "I never meant to hurt you."

Her lips didn't move.

Her silence pained him. Though John knew it was a dream, cold indifference was a coffin of discomfort.

"Please," he begged, "Answer me."

John reached out to touch her face, but recoiled in terror as it started to s.h.i.+ft, starting with her eyes, which went hollow. Her face reshaped itself into a breathing image of agony. His wife was gone, and in her place was the burned hide of a corpse. Its cracked skin was crimson and black, its eyes ebony and large and almost circular in shape, like a snake's. The bones beneath the thin flesh of its face rolled like ocean waves beneath the surface as it tried the faces of people from John's neighborhood, starting with Mary, and then Paola, Desmond, and Jimmy, moving on to everyone from the Franklin kid to the old man who spent his evenings calling out for his dog, "Miley."

John took a step back, confused. How did it know how to make all those faces? It was as if the monster was running through John's mental Rolodex.

The beast's face softened, then relaxed into the familiar creamy cheeks with a rosy glow John had loved since the second he first saw her.

Perhaps, John thought, all that darkness was simply his feeling about their fight manifesting in some monstrous shape.

Jenny smiled at him.

She was back.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"It's okay," she said in that familiar voice that greeted him every morning, holding her arms open. "Everything will be okay."

John's heart melted and broke all at the same time. Happy that she'd found the heart to forgive him, but then sad in the realization that this was surely just a dream. And when he woke, the world would continue to decay without her.

"You don't have to go back," she said.

"What?"

"You can wake up now. And be with me."

"What do you mean?" John asked. "If I wake up, I'll be back in the hotel."

"No," Jenny said, "That is the dream. This is a dream. But in reality, I'm at home, in bed, waiting for you to wake up. Right now."

John's head was pounding in confusion, trying to make sense of what she was saying. It didn't seem right. Everything that had happened the past few days, that was reality... he thought. But the more he considered events, the less sense that world made. A world where everyone vanished, where bodies floated down rivers, and monsters attacked you. A world where a little boy comes and saves the day but ages in the process. Maybe that was the dream world.

"How do I wake up?" he asked.

"Just let me in."

"What?"

"Just open your mind. Open your heart, and let me in."

"How do I do that?" he asked, now crying and more confused than ever. His head felt like it was in a vice, being squeezed tighter and tighter. He was so afraid to make the wrong choice and risk losing her forever.

"That headache you're feeling right now... that's your dream self trying to stay in the dream." Jenny said. "Don't let your fear keep you from waking. Reality is waiting. You just need to let go. Come to me, John."

She held her arms open.

Tears streamed down his face. But they weren't just tears of love or joy at being reunited with Jenny. Something else was there which he couldn't quite place.

"Just let go," she whispered as he fell into her embrace and kissed his cheek.

She brought her lips to his, then reached her hands up his back, and found the back of his head. Her fingers swept through his hair in that way he loved, swirling and ma.s.saging, and then... tightening.

What the?

Her fingers began to dig into his skull, feeling like several bits drilling through his flesh and bone. He tried to scream, but couldn't. Nor could he move.

And that's when he recognized the true source of his tears - the realization that he was about to die.

MARY OLSON.

October 18 Dawn Belle Springs, Missouri Mary woke feeling happy.

She couldn't wait to smell the fresh air of the open road. She was sick of the hotel and sick of the waiting. It wasn't that she didn't understand John's urgency; she wanted to leave every bit as much as he did. But she wasn't willing to put her daughter in danger or leave before everyone was ready. And she trusted Desmond's judgment completely, Will's, too, even though she met him just the day before.

The last few days had been long, but the sun was breaking, and in an hour they would be on the road to whatever was next. Desmond had stayed up all night on guard and finalizing plans with Will. Desmond had to be exhausted, but he kept going like he thrived on exhaustion.

"I was just thinking of you," she said as Desmond approached.

"Have you seen John?" he asked, minus his characteristic smile.

Mary shook her head. "No, why?"

Because I can't find him anywhere, and he was in bad shape last night. I'm trying not to worry, but I'd be a liar if I said I wasn't.

"I imagine you've checked his room?"

"Yeah, I went through all the rooms on the first floor, but didn't see a thing. Mind helping? I don't want to tell the others because I don't want anyone to worry."

"Of course, what can I do?"

"I'm hoping he crashed in one of the upper rooms, trying to get as far away from the rest of us as possible. I'll start on the top floor if you start on the second. We can meet in the middle. Sound good?"

Mary nodded. Desmond handed her a gun.

"Do you know how to use this?"

"I think so," she said.

"Good," Desmond said, "Just shoot or scream, and I'll come running."

She took the stairs to the second floor, stepped off, then started opening doors. The first three rooms were empty, but Mary opened the door of the fourth and saw John lying motionless in bed.

Her heart nearly stopped when she saw him.

He was face down, motionless, his bare feet caked with dirt, as were the ankles of his jeans.

"John," she said tentatively. For a sick moment, she was certain he was dead.

Then John rolled over, sat up, and opened his eyes.

They stared at one another for 10 full seconds of silence, and Mary felt a vacuum of recognition as if he had no idea who she was. Gooseb.u.mps p.r.i.c.kled her skin.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

"Never been better." he smiled, all teeth. "Today's the first day of the rest of my life."

TO BE CONTINUED...

EPISODE SIX.

JOHN.

John saw from behind a thick stew of growing fascination and utter disgust.

Who are these foul, repugnant creatures, and why are they so...unstable?

Their minds were all so disparate, yet each seemed to ignore their true selves so they could fade into the background of collective humanity. Empty echoes of obsolete originals, mocking distinction by granting themselves individual names, and walking through life as if they had free will; like they were snowflakes rather than seeds.

It stared at Mary, one of the humans and the mother of the girl Paola, whose mind and body had been too immature to occupy. The exploration was entertaining, but she wasn't a suitable host: too soft where it mattered. Of course, the human called John was also soft mentally, still swimming in the primordial ooze of self-discovery.

It didn't concern itself with such self exploration. Not when so much was out there to ingest, absorb, and a.s.similate. It found its purpose, and first suitable sh.e.l.l. This sh.e.l.l was good enough, with access to everything It needed to grow: the dark light of the planet's spreading disease, and the collective memory from her most repellent species.

It would be John, at least until its strength expanded enough to make t.i.tles pointless.

John rubbed its temples. The sh.e.l.l's memories were occasionally painful. It was different with the girl; she hadn't been carrying nearly as many, and the ones she had, were wrapped in a sort of delicate innocence. The sh.e.l.l's memories were different. Even the best of them bled with a darker edge, as though the simple act of living had marred all purity and sewed misery into even the most joyous memories. And while the girl's feelings were sweet, they were too sweet. Sickly sweet. John preferred the dusk of depression. The sh.e.l.l's emotions were murky and though it pretended to be strong, it was weak. Weaker than the child had been. That weakness coupled with a desire to cling to his own darkness is what made it so easy for It to summon John out of the hotel and to infiltrate.

"John, it's time to go."

It was the woman, Mary, still standing in the doorway after waking him. She was eager to leave, and was hurrying everyone along, even though it had been she who caused them all to stay behind in the first place, at least according to the sharp memory in the sh.e.l.l's bank. But that was the thing about these human's memories: constant prejudice made them impossible to trust.

The rat dog snarled.

Growl....Growl....Growl....

John looked at the filthy four-legged rat with two narrowed slits of brewing hate, then turned his attention to the woman.

"You sure everything's okay?" she repeated.

"Yes," John nodded. "I'm ready to go, too. It's been a long few days."

He got out of bed and followed Mary downstairs and into the lobby where all the others were standing around. John sorted through the memories he'd collected from both John and Paola, so he could relate to each of the humans in an appropriate manner.

The dangerous one, Desmond, was speaking with the man-child, Jimmy. Both wore the loathsome look of concern, making them look even more like the weak, pathetic creatures they were. They were discussing him, or at least the sh.e.l.l that was once the man John, their conversation a miserable blend of worry and disquiet. John wished his sh.e.l.l wasn't so limited. It could not hear thoughts, nor could it even hear the wide spectrum of sounds that It could normally hear in its native form. John wondered how humans had gotten as far as they had with such limitations.

The dangerous one nodded, slapped the man-child on the shoulder, then headed toward the lobby doors. The man-child headed toward John.

John's sh.e.l.l was suddenly hot. Scorching. It looked at the sh.e.l.l's limbs but they weren't burning, weren't even red, even though they felt like they were on fire. It wondered if this was a normal condition humans all shared or if it was some sort of limitation to inhabiting their sh.e.l.ls. Whatever the case, John was not pleased with yet another limitation. But It would have to continue inhabiting this sh.e.l.l, or another, if it were going to fulfill its destiny.

"Sorry about last night," the man-child said to John. "I was out of line."

John filed through a sliding bank of the sh.e.l.l's possible responses.

f.u.c.k you, and the horse you rode in on.

You're just a kid; you don't know anything.