Yesterdays Gone: SEASON TWO (THE POST-APOCALYPTIC SERIAL THRILLER) (Yesterday's Gone) (20 page)

“Well, he must think there’s some way you two can sneak off if he’s asking, right? Maybe he’s in with the guards or something and has a plan?”

“You think?”

“He must have something in mind if he asked,” Paola said.

Discussion quickly dimmed, and Paola was soon sound asleep and dreaming of Luca. Again.

* * * *

5 - BORICIO WOLFE

Dunn, Georgia

March 22

3:20 a.m.

Boricio slipped from the house and into the garage, quietly, but with just a fraction of his usual bounce. He didn’t want anyone waking, but fuck them and the Apocalypse that made this shit a reality show if they wanted to stop him. Boricio eased the unfinished Z8 from the garage, quietly drove out and to the edge of the compound, then down a winding half mile where he finally pressed the pedal as far as it would go.
 

Hunting time.
 

It had been too long since he’d seen a fucker’s head roll for the grease and grins of it. Sure, they’d taken care of the bikers nice and proper, but that was business. And there wasn’t no pussy worth taking; well, not without causing a scene. Hopefully, a hunt would give him a nice store of pink meat. Given the slim pickings of late, Boricio was starting to worry he might never see another woman worth fucking. But the warehouse gave him hope that there were more out there, hiding and waiting to be found.

If he didn’t get off soon, he might not be able to restrain himself from the pussy back home.

Watching Callie pirouette across the house in those tiny shorts, looking like the cover of
Low Rider
, transformed the hangout into the hard-on hotel. Ain’t no way he was gonna be around that another 10 minutes without wanting to slam the Tampon Tunnel with the Boricio Express. And once the Borico Express was booked, you could bet the ball sack and both balls in it that shit arrived on schedule.
 

Callie would like the Boricio Express just fine; the problem was that cock blocker, Charlie.
 

Boricio fucked like he cooked: better, spicier, and with thicker broth than any mother fucker within a 400 mile radius. Callie might not like it at first because it wasn’t her idea. But if he forced her to start sucking at sundown, she’d be lapping up fourths by sunrise and panting for fifths – you could bet your ball sack and both balls in it. And it shouldn't fucking matter. Wasn’t like Charlie was squirting his danglers in her dithers anyway. Chucky Cheese Dick had his feelings, sure, but that wasn’t what kept Boricio’s buttons in a row. This was about keeping, and maintaining, control of his team.

It was a dog-eat-dog world, and there ain’t nothing a dog likes better than a heaping helping of pussy, whiskers or no. But pussy was hard to come by at the end of the world. And Boricio was a big dog; he’d bite the face off any other dog to keep his pussy in a high pile. But that was the same sorta shit that Bobby Big Boy had done to Charlie, and Boricio didn’t want to schedule a rerun of that particular show. Boricio was smart enough to be the big dog who kept his puppies on patrol. Sometimes that meant letting the dogs feel like they had some power, and leaving things be.

Despite his occasional temper tantrums, Charlie had proven himself capable of playing for Team Boricio when he took care of that shit-pile stepfather of his. The kid was grinning like a drunk Mexican when he called Boricio in to see his handiwork. A thing of beauty what he’d done to Bob. Boricio hadn't done anything even approaching Charlie’s level of artistry until his 21st kill.

It was a bitch restaurant reviewer who pissed him off. Took one bite of his best dish and declared it DOA without even swallowing. It was the last review she ever wrote. Boricio wouldn’t have cared about the review itself. Fuck her. His shit was creme’ de la fuck-yeah and he knew it. But she up and decided it wasn’t worth her muffin before the spoon hit the fat of her mouth. Boricio found the first part of the review funny, laughing out loud at her dumb fuckery, but then he hit the last line: “The owners of L'aigle Noir must pay handsomely for the lines that circle the block. And at $20 a plate, they can afford it.”

Fuck. Her.

Boricio waited six weeks. When he finally caught her, he made sure she swallowed. Four times in two hours. The bonus three were interest for her not taking a legitimate bite of his Chiliquelles de la Noche. It had been a long night with Miss Bitch Reviewer, but sweet enough to make the sudden move two states over worth it. It was the first time Boricio had ever gotten creative with his kills. And dammit, what was an artist such as himself without creativity?

Charlie, however, was like some kinda idiot savant when it came to creative killing, though. His first work was a goddamned masterpiece!
 

Boricio didn’t know everything that had gone down in the room. And Charlie had refused to answer any questions, simply letting the work speak for itself. Boricio had no idea why Dumbfuck Charlie wouldn’t want to talk about it; the fuck he knew whether the rookie was ashamed or perhaps frightened by what he’d done. If Boricio had demonstrated half the artistry the kid had on his first kill, he would’ve had the shit printed on a tee-shirt and wore the fucker threadbare. Boy had a gift. Made Boricio proud, a feeling he wasn’t sure he’d ever felt for another before.
 

Charlie had called Boricio into the room and shut the door so only Boricio would see what he’d done. He led him to the bed where Bob’s hands and feet were tied to the black wrought iron bed posts. The man’s arms and legs had been splayed apart as far as possible so he formed a giant X. The lower half of his nude body was covered beneath a blood-soaked down comforter.

Boricio walked around the bed, not touching a thing, admiring the boy’s handiwork like an artist surveying the work of his protege. Charlie watched the entire time, eyes on Boricio, as if waiting for a critique.

Bob’s eyes were wide open in a permanent shocked expression, which made Boricio smile.
Didn’t see this coming, did ya, Bob?
Bob’s cheeks had been sliced open and hung like bloody fatty flaps over the sides of his face. On the right cheek, Charlie had used a nail-gun he’d found in the room to shoot a nail into the man’s face. Since there was only one nail, Boricio figured the boy was simply experimenting and hadn’t liked the result. The man’s mouth was dark purple, puffy, and bloody, like ole’ Charlie had spent a fat hour hitting or cutting him in the same goddamn spot. He looked like a losing boxer at the end of the fight with a mouth full of gauze to soak up the blood.

Across Bobby’s chest were more wounds with flesh peeled back, most probably given to Bob while he was still begging. His nipple had been cut off. Long wounds stretched from the man’s wrists to his armpits where Charlie had cut him several times. Blood soaked the bed beneath him. Two pens had been jabbed into each of the man’s ribcages and left there.

Boricio looked at the comforter and up to Charlie, “May I?”

“Yes,” Charlie said.

Boricio pulled the covers off Bob and beheld Charlie’s masterstroke, the thing of beauty that assured Boricio that Charlie was a certifiably in-the-closet 48-karat crazy ass motherfucker.
 

A pulpy stump sat in the middle of Bob’s bloodied pubic forest where his cock had been.
 

Boricio looked up at Charlie and applauded, “Bravo, sir!”

Charlie looked like he was either about to burst out laughing or crying; Boricio wasn’t sure which. His face looked queasy.
 

“Where did you . . .” Boricio had started to ask, then realized the reason that Bob’s mouth was so puffy. “Oh. Wow. You made him eat his dick! That is . . .” Boricio said, pretending to wipe tears of joy from his eyes, “
That,
my boy,
is a thing of fucking beauty!”

And then Charlie went and did something that shocked even Boricio; he sprayed his masterpiece with lighter fluid, lit a match, and set the fucker on fire.
 

“Don’t you want to show the others?” Boricio had asked. “This is something to brag about!”

“No,” Charlie said, “You’re the only one who will know what I did here.”

The way Charlie had said it was weird, and Boricio still hadn’t figured out why the boy had shown him and nobody else. But he’d certainly earned himself a roster spot, and a top slot at that, on Team Boricio. If that meant Boricio would have to lay off Callie, then that’s just what he’d have to do, for now, at least.
 

But he would need to fuck something. And soon.

**

Boricio had driven about 10 miles when he saw the impossible. The sudden shock caused the Z8 to suddenly fishtail. He quickly regained control, with a little help from some precision German engineering, then slapped the windshield and screamed, “That’s some beer battered bullshit!”. He threw the BMW into reverse and tore back to where he’d seen the ghost.
 

But she was gone.
 

The woman.

The Christmas gift he’d killed on October 14, and the very fucking one he saw at The Prophet’s compound less than a week later. She was standing on the side of the road as if waiting for someone to pick her up. If it wasn’t her, then the end of the world had just shit a Montezuma’s Revenge worth of crazy on his face.
 

Fuck.
 

Boricio didn’t like driving in the dark down Crazy Road.
 

But he kept driving, turning down every street and into every nearby neighborhood, searching for a trace of the woman or some clue to prove he wasn’t going loco. Sick of the shit in his head, Boricio turned on the CD player to The Mummy’s, a band Adam liked – catchy swamp rock with every song hosting a double entendre.
 

A half hour later, Boricio was bobbing his head back and forth and mouthing the words in an attempt to stay awake. He’d been feeling tired a lot lately. He wasn’t sure if he was getting bored from the changes to his lifestyle or if he was coming down with something. He rarely got sick, so the idea of catching something now didn’t bother him too much. But there was only so much you could do when you were feeling dead-ass tired.
 

He pulled to the side of the road, killed the engine and stepped from the BMW, feeling like he’d walked right off the map.
 

Boricio had no idea when he’d lost the highway; maybe it was a mile back, maybe it was ten. He had no idea where he was, and with the pitch black surrounding him, no clue how to figure it out. The GPS wasn’t working, and there weren't any maps in the glovebox. Boricio had been back and forth across the country, from Timbuktu to Fuck Your Mother, and his sense of direction was usually dead on. But right now he was a toddler in the mall and all the mommies were looking identical below the waist.

Boricio got back in the Z8 and leaned back to catch some shut eye.

He slept for a few minutes, maybe, when the shriek of a monster woke him.
 
Life burst back into his eyes has his hand shot for his gun on pure reflex. But the threat was nowhere to be seen. He wasn’t sure if the monster was in his dreams or nearby, but he was too damned tired to stick around and find out. He revved the engine, then roared onto the road, swinging a left at the first crossroads. He had nearly a full tank of gas and would just drive until he figured out where he was or found sunlight, when it would be easier to find his way back.
 

Daylight apparently wasn’t too far off since Boricio crashed into it head first about an hour later, alongside an uncomfortably loud wave of deja vu that ended in a row of houses that reminded him an awful lot of the ritzy-titsy homes up in Gulfport, Mississippi.

Boricio pulled the Z8 into a perfectly bricked horseshoe drive, and smiled. His smile grew bigger when he stepped inside the unlocked house.
 

The two-story house was posh, with eight-bedrooms, six-bathrooms, and three boat slips, two occupied. Same as most of the other rich houses Boricio had seen, this one was flush with alcohol, clothes, guns, jewelry, lots of pills, pounds of weed, loads of money, and shelves lined with food.
 

The living room was massive, with a pile of rich bitchy furniture pushed to one side. Eight bedrolls sat in a circle, each with a large bank of pillows, several bottles of water, and a medium-sized red bucket. The buckets had what looked and smelled like vomit. The air was thick, sour and weirdly familiar.
 

Two buckets lay on their side with scabs of black vomit crusting the lacquered hardwood floor. A red and white bedroll was in the center with wooden instruments, spirit sticks burned to a nub, and a large two-liter jug of sludge, filled to the top, with an empty shot glass sitting beside it on the floor. Boricio picked up the two-liter jug and shot glass, then went upstairs, found the master bedroom and fell into the plush oversized bed. He filled the glass to the top, put it to his lips, then spilled the entire psychedelic mess down his throat.

For a few moments, he felt nothing. Then something moved in his guts.

Seconds later, vomit spewed from his mouth and Boricio fell over, face down on the Egyptian cotton. He smiled. He felt lighter, stronger, better. He turned over, looking up where the ceiling had been. It was replaced by colors: swirling, spinning, dancing across his mind. But the colors weren’t alone. They came loaded with memories, unpleasant ones, which started as whispers but were growing louder by the second, mixing into a chaotic mix of sound and visuals that threatened to swallow him whole.