Yesterday's Gone: Season One

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    If you have any comments or questions, or just want to say hi, email us :  
    Email David at [email protected]  
    or Sean at [email protected]
    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

    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,