Yesterday's Gone: Season One Part 6

"At first, nothing. Turned on the TV, but there was nothing on. Not a single station."

"You mean the TV was dead?"

"No, it was working, but all the channels were blue, except the ones with snow. Oh, and one channel that was showing some old show from the 50's. Might've been Leave it to Beaver, but I'm not sure. Didn't leave it on long enough to find out."

"What'd you do after the TV wasn't working?" Boricio looked at the motorist with kind eyes, waiting to kill.

"Went outside to see what I could see, you know? And I could just feel it, the whole neighborhood gone. And sure enough, it was like someone had shaken the city and dumped the people out. So I changed my clothes, grabbed my keys and started heading north."

"Why north?"

"Got some family here, brother and his kids, wanted to check on them. But my truck was near empty, hadn't ga.s.sed it in a week, and the gas stations I ran into are all down. No power, no people."

f.u.c.k. No gas. That was gonna be a BIG time, beer-battered bulls.h.i.t of a problem. Good thing the cruiser was still three-quarters full.

"Well, you're welcome to ride along with me," Boricio jerked his thumb at the cruiser. "I can drop you off at your brothers, if you like. Anything else you can think of before I check in with dispatch? Anything that might help us figure what this is all about?"

The motorist looked far off, half swallowing what he didn't want to say. Boricio put a rea.s.suring hand on his shoulder.

"It's okay, you're not alone. Tell me anything you think dispatch might wanna know, and don't worry if you think it sounds weird." Boricio smiled as wide as he could. "This is the season of weird after all."

The motorist returned the smile and swallowed again. "Okay, you know that church up the road? The big one with that sign that says, "The Perfect Place For Imperfect People?"

Boricio felt a bristle at the back of his neck. "Yeah?"

"Well, it was still there, but it wasn't. Know what I mean?"

Boricio wished he didn't, but he mostly did. "No, not sure I do."

"I could see it like it was there, and I felt like if I got out of the pickup I'd be able to feel it beneath my fingers, but it was gone, just like my girlfriend and everyone else in the city."

"Well, that is weird. I'll report that to dispatch."

It's official. This f.u.c.ker has gone from worthless to boring.

"You ready to ride?"

"You bet!"

Boricio stuck out his hand. "Sorry I've not introduced myself yet. Must've left my manners back with the chaos. I'm Officer Thompson. Good to meet you."

The motorist took Boricio's hand. "Jim. Jim Silva. Good to meet you too. Thanks for your help."

"My pleasure."

Jim Silva had exactly two seconds to notice the officer's face move from pa.s.sive to predator before he felt the grip on his hand tighten.

"Hey, Jim?"

"Yeah?" Jim asked, confused by the tight grip on his hand, but too p.u.s.s.y to do anything about it.

"I'm not a cop, Jim."

"Huh?"

"No, I'm a hunter. I hunt people like you, Jim. Hunt 'em and kill 'em."

Jim's eyes widened as he tried to pull back his hand. Boricio locked his grip tighter. He loved the look in his victims' eyes in that moment when they first realized they were with a psychopath. It made him erect, even though he was no queer.

Boricio grabbed Jim by the back of his head, twisted him around, and thrust forward.

Silva's nose smashed into the top of the cruiser and rained a fountain of blood. He would've screamed if sudden knuckles hadn't beaten the possibility from his throat. Boricio released Jim on two unsteady feet, then let him wobble a few seconds before kicking them from under him with a maniacal laugh.

Another second and Boricio was on top of his new friend, Jim, banging his head on the asphalt like a stick on a snare drum. Jim heaved a few quivering shudders, already dying but a good stretch from dead. Boricio pulled the .45 from his belt, put it to the motorist's temple, then shook his head and put it back.

Bullets are better than money now.

He raised his boot above the motorist's head and Silva's final whimper was silenced with a squish and a new stain on the highway's old asphalt.

Adios dips.h.i.t.

Boricio climbed back in the cruiser and floored the gas.

Boricio wondered if he'd killed his friend Jim too quickly. Sure, it felt good, but he'd never killed two days in a row. Maybe he should've added the crisp-clothed c.o.c.ksucker to the stash of Ding-Dongs in the trunk and saved him for later. Would be a shame to not have anything else for a while, which was probably how it would be.

He was relieved to find another breather, though; to know he wasn't alone on the big blue marble, yet. That meant it was only a matter of time before he'd have someone else to play with. And hopefully the next time it'd be something he could f.u.c.k.

Boricio ran his hand along the sudden bulge beneath his denim. The hard-on made him think of p.u.s.s.y for sale, which sent his thoughts to his favorite strip club, Plan B, which made him realize their billboard had gone missing too.

Why the f.u.c.k didn't I notice that?

For some reason, that bothered Boricio more than just about anything else. He loved that f.u.c.king billboard, and looked forward to it even if he wasn't gonna stop. s.h.i.t was obviously wrong with the world, but s.h.i.t was wrong with him too if he didn't even notice his favorite p.u.s.s.y parade was up and running AWOL.

Boricio pulled off the road at a Love's Travel Stop. If he couldn't get gas, then he'd get a fully-ga.s.sed car. The lot was lit like Christmas, but none of the pumps were working. Boricio traded his cruiser for a full tank and an empty Prius, then went inside and emptied the register of cash, just in case, before heading back to his brand new ride.

The door was halfway open when Boricio heard a m.u.f.fled, "Help!"

The cry was female, causing the bulge in his jeans to resurface. It sounded like it came from the back of the store, maybe from the bathroom, but after 15 minutes of frustrating search and two more cries, Boricio gave up looking.

I'll be f.u.c.ked if I start hearing things, too. If the world is f.u.c.ked to pieces, fine. That's them. But if I'm hearing voices, well baby, that's all me.

Boricio flew back onto the highway and started fiddling with the stations, thinking maybe they'd be better than the ones in the police cruiser. For the first 15 minutes or so, they weren't, but then a crackle of static on 90.7 reversed the trend.

90.7 was the New Orleans "Original Local Jazz and Heritage Station," but if jazz was what was being broadcast, Boricio couldn't hear it through the hazy wall of static punctuated by the occasional beep or m.u.f.fled word. And though he couldn't make anything out, the sound was still better than the eerie nothing outside. Besides, it was sorta fun trying to hear what he could, like trying to watch p.o.r.n on a scrambled channel.

Boricio kept driving while the sky outside darkened. Daylight hadn't hit, though it had to be morning. But the gloom in the clouds looked less than normal and mostly like a bruise.

A loud POP! on the radio was followed by the word "Boricio," which despite its clarity, he knew he must've imagined. The world could disappear, sure, but some s.h.i.t just wasn't possible.

Like the strength in his shoulders, it didn't make sense. Boricio felt like he could ditch the Prius and run the rest of the day, though he hadn't eaten since early yesterday and wasn't hungry enough to bother with any of the c.r.a.p food piled in his trunk, even though he'd taken the time to move it from the cruiser to the Prius.

He was in mid-daydream, imagining pitting his new strength against some 250-pound p.u.s.s.y (the fat ones always liked to fight) when the broadcast from 90.7 suddenly jumped in volume. Boricio heard his name again, no doubt, followed by another 20 minutes of mostly silence seasoned with the m.u.f.fled versions of the words gone, absent, defunct, dead, and buried, all crackling through the speakers.

Only one word repeated though, several times, in fact.

Extinct.

CHARLIE WILKENS.

"You in there, Charlie?" Bob shouted, rattling the door with his knuckles.

Charlie's head was still hurting, but Bob's sudden appearance had startled him to readiness.

The whole town ups and leaves and this a.s.shole is still here? The end of the world and it's me and Bob? Fu-uck me.

Bob caught a glimpse of Charlie peering through the curtains, so there was no point in hiding. He grabbed the empties and tossed them in Josie's closet, then headed downstairs and opened the front door.

"What the h.e.l.l happened?" Bob asked, pushing his way into the house without invitation. "Where's your mother?"

"I dunno, I woke up and you and mom were gone, then I went around the neighborhood and everyone else is too."

"Your mom's gone?"

"Yeah," Charlie said, noticing that Bob looked genuinely concerned. "Where were you? I thought you were gone too."

That's when Charlie noticed Bob was wearing his greasy work shirt and cap, with 'Sal's Towing' in ugly cursive letters.

"I had to cover someone's shift last night. I was bringing a car to the impound and I must've nodded off waiting for the a.s.shole to fill out the paperwork. Next thing I know, I woke up and everyone is gone."

"It's not just our neighborhood, then?"

"Dude," Bob said, his eyes wide and nervous, "it's the whole f.u.c.king world. Or at least everything I've seen for 50 miles on the highway."

Charlie stared, digesting the news.

"Why are you here? Anyone home?"

"No, I came looking for my friend Josie, and saw her door was open. So I came inside to see if she was here."

"So you broke into her house?" Bob said, his face showing a shadow of the a.s.shole Bob hid beneath the surface.

"The door was open," Charlie explained. "I came in to see if anyone was here, maybe hurt or something."

Bob stared at him, likely trying to decide if he'd be a total f.u.c.king hard a.s.s like he usually was or if he'd let it go on the count of it being the end of the world and all. He turned and headed out the door, "Come on; let's go home. Your bike's in the truck already."

Charlie wanted to protest, but knew he didn't have a choice. He was, by all accounts, Bob's b.i.t.c.h again. He walked like a dog behind him.

"So what are we gonna do?" Charlie asked, sitting on the couch opposite Bob, who was in His Chair - the chair n.o.body else in the house dared to sit in - drinking his fifth Nati Light.

"f.u.c.k if I know," Bob said, his voice slightly slurred. "Wait for someone, the Army, The Marines, f.u.c.king X-Files, I dunno. If you ask me, it's the G.o.dd.a.m.ned Rapture. G.o.d came and took the good folks to heaven so us degenerates could rot."

"Don't you think if it was the Rapture, there'd be a lot more people here than vanished?"

Bob stared at Charlie for a moment, as if trying to figure out how he felt about Charlie's response.

"s.h.i.t, boy, that's the funniest d.a.m.ned thing you ever said."

Charlie glanced at the ground and shrugged.

"You ain't so bad," Bob said. "You should talk more instead of always staying up there in that room of yours."

Yeah, maybe I would if you didn't always call me dumba.s.s or r.e.t.a.r.d, or slap me around.

"How old are you now?"

Charlie squirmed a bit, not sure where this was going. "Almost 18."

"Well, h.e.l.l, 'almost 18' is old enough for a beer. s.h.i.t, I was drinkin' when I was 13. Of course, times were different back then. Go get me another beer and get yourself one too."

"You sure? I don't think mom would want me . . ."

"Your mom ain't here, now is she? She's probably up there in heaven and seeing as you and me are still here, means we're probably goin' to h.e.l.l. So we may as well have some good times till then, eh?"

"I guess."

Charlie went to the fridge and grabbed the last two cans of beer, then returned to the living room and handed them both to Bob, just in case Bob was testing him.

"Here, crack it open," Bob said, throwing it to Charlie.

Charlie pulled back the tab and beer sprayed all over his face and shirt. He let out a yelp before running into the kitchen so his beer could overflow into the sink. As Charlie cleaned himself, Bob was in the living room laughing his a.s.s off.

"G.o.dd.a.m.n, you are funny, boy."

Charlie glanced at the beer, still about 70 percent full, then lowered the can into the sink, quietly spilling all but 10 percent or so down the drain. He returned to the living room taking a sip of the beer as he entered. The beer tasted disgusting. Like s.h.i.t's s.h.i.t, if s.h.i.t could s.h.i.t. Nowhere near as sweet as the wine coolers he'd downed at Josie's. He made an awful face and Bob laughed again.