Yesterday's Gone: Season One Part 13

"It's Will, now and forever. And no, I don't have a car. But I do have something better." Will smiled and jerked his thumb toward a helicopter just sitting there in the middle of the sand.

First, though, they'd dine on some food. Not lobster tacos, to Luca's disappointment, but rather some peanut b.u.t.ter sandwiches and water from the nearby gas station.

Dog Vader chowed down on people food because Luca wasn't sure if Dog Vader was supposed to eat dog food or not. And he didn't want to insult him.

Luca thought about telling Will about Dog Vader's Indian side and his mind talking, but decided to keep it secret for now. For one, it was his special secret. For two, he didn't want Will to think he was crazy.

BORICIO WOLFE.

October 16, 2011 New Orleans, Louisiana Boricio wasn't looking for anything in particular when he happened upon a living room packed full of s.h.i.t he didn't understand. He had spent the day seeing how rich folks lived, specifically on the waterfront. He found himself in a fancy eight-bedroom, six-bathroom, two-story house with three boat slips, two of them occupied, in Gulfport, Mississippi.

He'd already been through four or five of the houses on the stretch, and sure as s.h.i.t, rich f.u.c.kers knew how to live: Alcohol, clothes, guns, jewelry, lots of pills, pounds of weed, loads of money, and plenty of food. What surprised him were some of the fetishes these homeowners seemed to engage in. One house had a secret room devoted to s.e.x toys. A wheel on a wall, bondage gear, and a wall full of s.e.x devices that looked almost like weapons.

They look at me like I'm some degenerate; these people are sicker than me! They just hide their dark side under s.h.i.t tons of money and f.u.c.kin' Armani.

The stuff in the secret room was strange, but not as weird as the s.h.i.t in the house he was in now. Like the other houses, the mansion was practically hermetically sealed. So he blew in the gla.s.s from the front door with a shotgun. He had a backpack filled with sh.e.l.ls and sorta enjoyed the noise.

The foyer was the usual look-at-me, fancy-pants bulls.h.i.t with too much white s.p.a.ce. Past the foyer into the living room, though, that's where the walls were practically painted in the strangest s.h.i.t Boricio had ever seen, rich people or no.

The living room was ma.s.sive, with all the posh furniture pushed to one side. Eight bedrolls sat in a large circle in the middle of the floor. Each bedroll had a large bank of pillows, several bottles of water, and a medium-sized red bucket. The buckets contained what looked and smelled like vomit. The vomit was black, and every bucket was filled with the same s.h.i.t that was on the walls.

The air was thick, and smelled alien to Boricio.

The f.u.c.k is that s.h.i.t in the air? Smells like some sorta back bayou black-a.s.s water from one of them fake-a.s.s shamans who likes to f.u.c.k with the tourists. Difference is, back alley s.h.i.t smells fake; this black-magic s.n.a.t.c.h right here smells like the real deal. Yessiree, some weird a.s.s s.h.i.t went down in this room.

Two buckets had been kicked to the side. Scabs of black vomit crusted the lacquered hardwood floor. Rich people were willing to pay a chunky hunk of fat cash for thrills you couldn't score in a back alley, but the bad trips that had happened in the living room had practically scarred the air.

A red and white bedroll was in the center of the circle, with wooden instruments, spirit sticks burned to a nub, and a large two-liter jug of what looked like sludge. It had been filled to the top, as evidenced by the thick coat of green and brown the bottle wore at its lip, but now it was mostly empty. A shot gla.s.s on the floor shared the ghost of whatever had been inside.

Well f.u.c.k me four times on a Friday if that ain't some million-dollar mind f.u.c.k right there. Giddy-up. I might as well make myself nice and cozy. The world is over and there's some liquid f.u.c.king juju just waiting to get swallowed.

Boricio picked up the two-liter jug and shot gla.s.s, then went upstairs, found the master bedroom and lay on the bed. He had no idea on the dosage, so he filled the gla.s.s to the top, put it to his lips, held his breath, and spilled the entire psychedelic mess down his throat.

For a few moments, he didn't feel anything. He wondered if it wasn't some sort of drug in the jars but rather some perverted, sick-a.s.s rich, weirdo bodily-fluid-ingesting ceremony.

Something moved in his guts.

Seconds later, without warning, Boricio lost it all. Vomit spewed from his mouth like an unholy sprinkler. The sudden acid in his nostrils made him wince. It was liquid death and smelled the part.

Boricio lay face down on the Egyptian cotton as the toxic stew leaked from his mouth and marred the ivory-colored rug. He noticed it in a detached, almost whimsical way. He smiled, moving to touch the stuff, but his hand felt weird, as if he was directing someone else's body from a distance. He started to laugh as his fingers opened and closed on his cue - a bottomless, retching chainsaw of a guffaw. Whatever he puked up, he was glad it was gone.

He felt so much lighter, so much stronger, so much better.

And besides, only once the blackness was gone could Boricio see all the colors around him. They bled and expanded and spun around, dancing in his mind and threatening to smother him in an endless torrent of mile-long thoughts.

It wasn't like drugs he'd used before. Those drugs made you feel things that weren't there. This s.h.i.t made you realize the things that were right in front of you but you were usually unable to see.

He was normally able to control himself no matter what he was on. Sure, he might get higher, lower, but he never really let go of the steering wheel.

Something bad was happening here, though. He could feel it in the back of his skull, threatening to take the wheel and kick him right out the pa.s.senger door.

He snarled, had to fight.

Thoughts overwhelmed him, too many to sort, voices, images, and a million colors, f.u.c.k, the colors, as the world seemed to spin and cave in on him.

He could feel the end coming, might've died right there.

What's the point in going on? Just let go of it all.

He wanted to wake so he could stand and run, but whatever universe he drank was crawling up through his body and infecting every corner of his mind. And as it raced through his memories and dreams, it forced him to watch what it saw, forcing him to witness the darkest s.h.i.t inside him.

Hate, rage, violence, murder, rape, robbing, maiming, and all the perverted s.h.i.t he'd ever done or thought to do. This thing inside dragged it all into the light - a bright light as big as f.u.c.king Christmas.

This is you. You are all of this.

But no one tells Boricio what to do, not even other parts of Boricio.

So he battled his way through a thick haze of muddy time, swimming through an angry abyss of forever. He ran, not even sure if he were really running or if it were only in his head. Yet, he kept at it. Just as he got far enough away, and was about to get back in the driver's seat of his brain, he slipped, fell on his back, and slid down a steep hill of wet gra.s.s. Wet, b.l.o.o.d.y gra.s.s.

As he tumbled out of control, he could hear the sound of water rushing below, and knew he was about to slide right off a cliff and into the rapids.

Before he could roll right off the edge of the abyss, he jammed an elbow into the ground hard, causing his body to flip over and break momentum, stopping just at the edge of the cliff.

Below was a river, flowing fast and full of corpses.

Boricio had seen some f.u.c.ked-up s.h.i.t, even made a few artistic displays himself, but he'd never been anything so soul bleaching as that. Whatever was inside him had won. His head swam, the colors came back and Boricio fell.

When he woke, he was back in the house, his liquid nightmare covering the white room like spilled ink in snow. He smiled.

Yeah, that was some scary s.h.i.t, but h.e.l.l if it wasn't the near side of fan-f.u.c.king-tastic too. Like the trippiest movie ever, no ticket required.

Boricio spent the next day taking tiny swigs from what was left of a second two-liter bottle of slop while tearing down the highway. He remembered the colors, but none of the hundreds of miles of distance, the full tank of gas, or the two bodies that somehow found their way into his trunk.

The one with the nose ring looked like she would've been a ferris wheel and a funnel cake full of fun. Looked like a screamer, and sorta mean. But it doesn't look like I took much time, what with that hole in the middle of her forehead.

Whatever was inside the green/brown sludge wasn't near as powerful on the second day. Or maybe Boricio was getting stronger or building resistance. The trips were definitely shorter and time wasn't so f.u.c.king tangled. Plus they ended with something a h.e.l.luva lot less f.u.c.ked-up than a river full of bodies. Boricio stopped at a hotel, made himself at home in the best suite he could find, and decided to get another ticket to the Magical Mystery Tour.

This time, he found himself at an abandoned gas station with an old man with crazy hair standing next to a kid. This weird dog was there too. While neither the old man nor the boy could see Boricio, as he wasn't really there, the dog stared right at him, growling.

"Evil!" the dog said.

What the f.u.c.k?!

Boricio opened his eyes, his head swimming with the strongest sense of deja vu he'd ever felt.

This is some weird a.s.s third-eye s.h.i.t, that's what it is. Ain't nothing to prove it, but I know it just the same. s.h.i.t I'm seeing in my head is somehow real, s.h.i.t I could see now maybe, if I was in the right place.

Boricio was agitated that he had just a swallow of the liquid magic, but he took it in one gulp and spent the next several hours hovering just above reality.

I'm not alone.

Something on this planet wants me gone.

When the world is dying, even the hunters get hunted.

Boricio smiled.

He'd always been a hunter, but the world had always deprived him of a challenge. Sure, he kept on the move because he sure as f.u.c.k wasn't ever gonna get caught. But he'd be lying if he said the kills had the same joy they once did, the same sweet taste. It was still nice, but a bit like f.u.c.king the same redhead in the back of the same Impala for five years running. Only so long could you keep getting it up for the f.u.c.k.

There weren't many like him in the world. There couldn't be. Only room for a few kings in the world. And now, it seemed, even fewer to challenge him.

October 17 8:14 p.m.

Somewhere in Alabama Boricio flew by the "Welcome to Alabama" sign going 106 [mph]. The highway was dead, had been for a while. No people, no cars. No billboards, no buildings. Just streets going dark as the world turned out the lights.

Vanished people were enough what-the-f.u.c.k already, vanished cars were just plain beer-battered bulls.h.i.t. When the seven hors.e.m.e.n first started galloping a couple days back, abandoned cars were everywhere. Boricio even saw several with their engines still running. But now, it seemed the cars weren't nearly as plentiful.

Boricio sneered and stepped on the gas, frustrated that his own thoughts were a brew of confusion. He was feeling paranoid, like the springs of some trap had been sprung, and its claws were about to close on him. He was kinda glad that the liquid was gone. As good as the trips were, the ride down was a b.i.t.c.h.

Signs of civilization were shifting, if not disappearing entirely, and Boricio was starting to worry that he'd run out of gas right out there in the middle of the big empty. The radio was still mostly silent, except for the single station broadcasting the occasional static punctuated by the even rarer "Boricio."

The needle was dancing just above the red when Borico saw the impossible - a dull red Ford F150 pulled to the side of the road. An attractive, slightly heavy woman with a sheer sky-blue tee shirt and denim skirt was waving at Boricio as he slowed to a stop behind the open tailgate.

Fry me a fresh tortilla full of f.u.c.k yeah; are those her nipples pokin' through? Day-um, they must be the size of a quarter and the G.o.dd.a.m.n thumb holding it!

Boricio licked his lips and stepped from the late-model Honda Civic he had no memory of getting.

"Boy am I glad to see you," the woman said, relief coating her dusty face. She smelled like a perfume this waitress he once f.u.c.ked used to wear. Couldn't remember the name of it, or the waitress, though.

"Likewise, Ma'am. Been out here long? Need help? What can I do? I'm about on empty myself. You outta gas?" Boricio smiled behind his friendly rat-a-tat-tat.

"I have close to a full tank. But the truck started rattling about 15 miles back and I got worried. Don't know what I'd do if it flat out quit on me out here."

"Yeah, you don't wanna be stuck out here alone. Not with them creepers out there."

"The creepers?" Splotches of white bled through the blotches of red on her face.

"Yeah, the creepers. They must be what up and replaced the people" Boricio tipped his head forward and then looked down. Ignorant yokel was one of his favorite masks. Seemed people liked believing that one, and Boricio liked to make it easy when appropriate.

"What do they look like?"

"Well, that I don't know," Boricio scratched his head. "I haven't actually seen them. But I know they're there." It was true, he hadn't actually seen them, so much as sensed them in one of his many trips.

The woman was scared, her eyes moving rapidly. Her voice rose an octave and fresh sweat beaded her forehead. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were heavy, covered in sweat and full against the tee. Boricio felt himself getting stiff, but he couldn't rush it. This one had to last.

"You seen anyone else?" Boricio took a step back and leaned against the side of the Honda.

"Not since," the woman choked, then fell to her knees and started to cry.

Boricio didn't like this at all. No fun if they didn't fight.

"Now, now," Boricio knelt to one knee and put a hand on her back. "Everything's gonna be okay; you'll see." Boricio moved in closer. "I've got a plan. Come with me. Everything will be okay."

"What's your name?"

"Emil, Emil Branson." Boricio held out his hand and the woman took it.

"Do you know where anyone else is?" she asked. He could tell she wanted a yes, to know he knew where others were. No problem there. He'd give her what she wanted, then take what was his.

"Sure do! Just heard a distress call on the CB. Small group, not more than 20 miles from here. Was racing to get there just as fast as this car'll fly, until I happened on you."

The woman met Boricio's eyes. And that's when he saw it. That ever-so-slight shift in the woman's eyes. The same shift so many of his victims saw just before the end. He didn't hear the person behind him until the last second.

Christ.

"I'm sorry," she said.

He felt the impact in the back of his skull and blacked out before he hit the ground.

EDWARD KEENAN.

October 15, 2011 early morning Somewhere in Ohio Ed put the gun in his pants as soon as he saw that the only person in the abandoned car was an obviously unarmed and pregnant teenager. She was skinny (save for the belly) and on the mousy side, with long auburn hair covering most of her face. When she finally looked up, he did a double take. The girl was nearly the spitting image, though a younger version, of his daughter, Jade.

"Are you okay?" he asked through the closed window. He didn't want to spook her by opening the door.

She was crying and mouthing something he couldn't hear through the rain which was drenching him.

"I'm going to open the door, okay?"

She nodded her head yes and he opened the front door, rather than the back, then leaned inside the car. The first thing he noticed was the purse on the floor in the front pa.s.senger seat. Then he saw keys dangling from the ignition, not much of a surprise considering the car was still running.

"Are you okay?" he asked again.

She shook her head no, wiping tears from her face. "They're gone."

"Who's gone?" he asked.

"My parents. They d... disappeared."