Yesterday's Gone: Season One Part 43

"Anything I can do for you, boss?" John said.

"No need for that," Desmond said, then sat on Jimmy's empty barstool and reached across the bar for an empty gla.s.s. He studied the row of bottles, then grabbed a short, stout flagon of Tres Campaneros and poured himself a shot. "Any chance there's something I can do to help you, or even better, a chance you'll let me?"

"Any chance you can turn back time, bring back the dead, or h.e.l.l, recover your common sense long enough to stop listening to an old hippie and lead us out of this deathtrap?"

Desmond sighed. "We're doing the right thing by waiting until tomorrow," he said. "I know this is hard on you, and I know it's hard to stop thinking about Jenny. I didn't lose anyone, not like that at least, and I'm not so callous as to say everything will be fine. But I can offer the cliche 'it's better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all,' because I believe it. Everyone in here is suffering, John. Jimmy lost his family, Paola lost her father, h.e.l.l, Mary almost lost Paola. Your grief doesn't run deeper than theirs, and you need to help us all out by letting your best self surface. You're one of the nicest, most caring people I've met. Please," he added, "we need you."

Desmond swallowed his shot.

John's body started to quiver. "It's not that easy, and believe me, you don't understand."

"Then help me understand. I'm here for you. Whatever you need."

John suddenly shattered. Through cracked sobs he started spewing: "Jenny and I never fought. And I mean never. Twice in seven years. The fight we had the other night was only our third one, but it was the worst one of all."

John wiped his eyes, caught his breath, then completely unraveled.

"We never argue, never even raise our voices in anger. We talk about everything, so we never have any pent-up bulls.h.i.+t that sabotages most people. We're lucky; most couples don't manage to get what we had in a lifetime." John started to choke, and for a moment, he felt like he was going to lose his liquor in chunks.

He drew a deep breath then said, "But that night, everything went to h.e.l.l."

"What happened?"

"It started small. Jenny had a G.o.d-awful day at work. Her boss was riding her a.s.s all afternoon, her a.s.sistant didn't show because morning sickness turned into all-day sickness, and Jenny dropped the ball on some big report she'd been working on for two weeks. She hated her job, and a lot of this was the same old s.h.i.+t, so it would've been fine, but she got a flat on the way home and that just amplified everything."

John took a moment to breathe, then continued. "She called Auto Club, but it turns out that somehow, I'd let our members.h.i.+p lapse. She tried to call me, but my cell phone was off, so she ended up stuck in the rain for over an hour."

John wiped his eyes.

"Soon as I walked through the door, she launched right in, yelling at me for the first time since she saw me answer my ex-girlfriend back on my Facebook wall two years ago, which was Fight Number Two, in case you're keeping score. So, I asked her why she was so hysterical. She said I didn't pay the Auto Club bill and that I obviously didn't care about her safety. I told her that was ridiculous and she said not to call her ridiculous. I told her I wasn't calling her ridiculous, but that saying I didn't care about her safety was ridiculous. I asked her what happened, and she told me about the flat tire. So I asked her how long it had been since she took the car in for service. Definitely the wrong thing to say."

The tears had stopped and John found control of his voice. "Things went from bad to worse. For some stupid reason, I told her she was acting just like her mother, even called her Mrs. Rasmussen. She was standing behind the kitchen bar when I said it, and she threw a bottle of ketchup. It sailed behind me and skidded across the floor. It was plastic, so it didn't break, and I laughed, but that just seemed to make her madder."

John took another drink, then continued. "We spent the next two hours fighting, saying some horrible, horrible things. Things we'd never said before. She told me that I wasn't a real man because I didn't know how to do the things that real men knew how to do. And as the Man of the House, I should've looked after the car and made sure it was always serviced and the Auto Club dues paid." John swallowed. "So, I told her maybe she ought to service her man a bit more often, but it didn't really matter anyway, because she f.u.c.ked like a corpse."

"Ouch," Desmond said, taking another shot for himself.

Though he was no longer crying, John felt utterly defeated. "And that was pretty much that. She left the room and I made myself comfortable on the couch. When I woke the next morning, she was gone. So was everyone else."

"I'm so sorry," Desmond said. He remained still, waiting to see if John was through.

"No, I'm sorry," John said. "I shouldn't be putting this on everyone else. I should have buried it already. You've been right from the beginning - I'm not serving anyone, including myself."

"We understand," Desmond said putting a hand on John's shoulder.

Though John would've shrugged off Desmond's friendly touch just moments ago, now that they'd had this moment, John found Desmond comforting. He could see why Desmond had become the de facto leader of the group.

"You're grieving," Desmond said, "and your circ.u.mstances are making mourning that much harder. Go to bed; sleep it off. You'll feel like a new man in the morning, and if not, I'm here for you. Anytime."

John smiled back. "Thanks Desmond, for everything. I'll pull myself together, I promise."

They shook hands, then John turned and headed toward his room, both comforted and embarra.s.sed that Desmond had seen him so vulnerable.

BORICIO WOLFE.

October 18 Evening Somewhere in Alabama Boricio opened the cellar door to the cool dark of a late Alabama evening. Free, at last.

Like Moe said, the compound had a farm and silo, and what looked like a communications building, and a large hangar. The cellar they'd been in was beneath a large three-story home, smack in the middle of two others that looked just like it. And another building Moe hadn't mentioned was there - long, shotgun style, beside the three houses. Additionally, a high brick wall neatly circled the compound.

"This way." Boricio motioned toward the steady roar of a generator rumbling from behind the house. Team Boricio followed.

The escapees huddled in the shadows behind the house. Between night's shadows and the loud hum from the generator, they were almost invisible.

"What do we do now?" Adam whispered.

Boricio hadn't a f.u.c.king clue, and that made him want to break teeth. Too many things he didn't know; too many things could go wrong.

"I'm thinking that house over there's our best bet," he said, pointing toward the one at the far end of the row, near the front gate, which was the only house with its windows lit. "I'm guessing that's where the rabble sleeps," he said, nodding toward the longer building. "That means whatever's in these houses is mucho importante. The lights are all on over yonder at 1313 Mockingbird Lane, so I'm guessing that's where the king is probably holding court."

"All the windows are barred." That was either Manny or Jack whispering. Boricio couldn't tell over the generator, and wouldn't have cared anyway.

"So we get close and wait," Boricio said. "We'll see something. And when we see something worth seeing, we'll do what needs doing. We a.s.sume this place is a Rambo factory, you can be sure as a Friday night f.u.c.k in the a.s.s, these s.h.i.+t heels'll be shooting to kill. But that doesn't mean you can go popping off and thinking you're gonna see sunrise. Shoot when you know it's right, maybe a second before. But never pull the trigger just to pull it, and always use your nose. And don't think too much."

"What do I do?" Manny asked. "Shoot 'em with my d.i.c.k?"

"I'm sure that's a miniature f.u.c.king weapon," Boricio laughed. "If you hadn't been such a throbbing c.o.c.k, I wouldn't have had to put you on time out. Just stay out of the way and if you can get a gun from one of the guards, take it and use it... but not on me."

Boricio called clear and they crept to the house at the end, then into another tangle of shadows until they hit the brick wall flush with hiding places in bushes that lined the inside of the wall.

"Stay here," Boricio whispered. "I'm gonna check out a few things."

"Wait!" Adam said.

Boricio turned.

"Take this." Adam handed Boricio his Colt.

"Thanks, kid," Boricio said, handing Adam the bat. He put the .45 in his pants, then dropped to the dirt and slithered along the wall so he could get a better look at the main house.

The house wasn't ornate, but was far nicer then Boricio would have expected. Wood was new, the paint fresh, and the fixtures weren't from the local hardware store. Iron bars secured the windows.

Boricio couldn't see inside since most of the windows were dark or the curtains were drawn tight. But he had a perfect view of the front porch about 15 yards off, just behind a wall of underbrush. The three men talking on the steps put the odds of Boricio escaping via the main gate, which was closed and about 40 yards away, highly unlikely.

Just past the three men, through the only open and lit window of the front of the house, Boricio saw the big-nippled b.i.t.c.h sitting down. It appeared as if she were furiously scribbling something at a desk.

Everywhere else was dark.

The men on the porch would be easy to kill, but it was impossible to know how many more were inside, or how quickly they could sound the alarm. Might be better to say f.u.c.k it and slowly head for the exit.

Boricio crawled back to the side of the house to get Team Boricio, but stopped short a few feet away.

His men were standing, hands in the air, as one of the survivalist f.u.c.ks pointed an a.s.sault rifle at them.

Boricio stayed low and inched forward, shrouded behind the drapes of evening black. He could hear commotion coming from the rear of the house, faint but growing louder.

They found the bodies.

s.h.i.+t, meet fan.

A loud bark from the mouth behind the rifle: "Where's the other one?"

Boricio inched forward, his footfalls disguised by the generator's racket.

"We have no idea," Charlie said. "He left us behind. He's a no good son of a b.i.t.c.h and we're glad he's gone."

Good kid.

Boricio shot from the dark and into the survivalist f.u.c.k's chest, pulling the rifle from his grip then shattering his jaw with its b.u.t.t in a single fluid motion. Once the survivalist f.u.c.k started screaming, Boricio figured the p.u.s.s.y was already out of the bag, so he relieved the rifle of a few of its bullets, then tossed the .45 back to Adam. "Alright cowboy, let's go kill us some injuns," he said.

Adam handed his bat to Manny.

Just then the trio of survivalist f.u.c.ks who'd been milling on the porch rounded the corner, guns drawn.

Boricio yelled, "Duck!" as the first gunman fired a shot. Adam didn't need the warning. He was on the ground and firing at the soldier, though every one of his shots found nothing but air.

Only thing keeping us alive is night. This place gets lit and we're deader than the f.u.c.king radio star. Need to get close. If we can't smell the battle, we're losing it.

Boricio roared, then flew at the trio.

He knocked the rifle from the lead man's hands, kicked it behind him, then spun to his backside. Boricio put the Colt to the top of the survivalist's head and pulled the trigger.

One down. Two to go.

The two remaining survivalists had moved past Boricio, chasing down his men and emptying their guns into the dark, too scattered to realize they were one man down. Boricio pointed at the second survivalist f.u.c.k, about 10 feet away, and pulled the trigger. Like most hunters, Boricio's night vision was second to none. The f.u.c.ker fell 10 feet from his buddy in the dirt. Boricio took out the third man with two shots.

As his team raced forward, a shot rang out and Boricio saw Jack's head burst like a melon. "Let's go!" Boricio shouted at the three remaining members of Team Boricio. "NOW!"

Another two survivalist f.u.c.ks rounded the corner from the rear of the house and Boricio fired a pair of shots. One sank right into the first man's forehead, and he went down. The other went into his buddy's shoulder. Would've been cool as a $100 cream pie if Team Boricio could help him with the slack. But 10 bullets left three guns, and only two found their mark. Fortunately, one landed square in the injured guard's face.

A spotlight lit the top of the first house, dressing a sniper in light. Boricio swiveled to the side as a hollow crack flew through the air, followed by a splatter of dirt beside him.

"Follow me!" Boricio crouched and ran, behind the building and out of sight, but not out of the sniper's range. Adam and Charlie followed close. Manny too, but not close enough. Another hollow crack thundered in the air and Manny fell to the ground. Adam grabbed his bat, and ran to Boricio, out of breath, sweaty and panicked, just like Charlie.

f.u.c.k! We're surrounded and about to get a bullet bukake straight to the face. Least it looks like I still got the two best apples in the barrel, for what that's worth.

"Alright, listen up," Boricio said as they ducked behind the brush against the wall. The spotlight swept overhead, then back, searching for them as men shouted at one another from the front yard. "Them a.s.sholes are dead because they were supposed to be. You're supposed to stay alive. All three of us. Now we need to get from here to there." Boricio pointed at the hanger about 50 yards away, in the back of the compound. "We can do it, but we have to keep going and can't stop for nothing. Got it?"

They nodded.

"These f.u.c.kers are multiplying by the minute and if we're not out of here yesterday, we're gonna be the meat in the middle of a dead f.u.c.ker sandwich. So just keep running. Night's on our side. They'll s.h.i.+ne that light on you, but you zig and zag every time they do. Do NOT run in a straight line. Run like you're the craziest Forest Gump mother f.u.c.ker to ever put on a pair of Nikes. Don't stop for nothing and wait for my lead."

Another dozen footsteps slapped the dirt from the rear of the house. A few seconds, and they'd be surrounded. Boricio peeked out at the three survivalist f.u.c.ks who must've lost all common sense when everything else in the world went adios since they had their guns drawn but were standing right out in the open, facing the front yard instead of the back.

"Cover my back!" Boricio yelled, then flew into the open, splitting five bullets between three survivalists and dropping them all.

Boricio was about to tell the boys to go, but something grabbed his attention like a punch to the b.a.l.l.s.

A fluttering curtain parted from an open window on the second floor on the side of the house. And time froze for Boricio.

It felt like someone was pouring iced reality down Boricio's throat then making him p.i.s.s it right back out.

That dumb b.i.t.c.h from New Orleans - the one from the world's last night alive, the one whose body had disappeared and blood turned to bleach stains - she was staring at him from the window, with secrets in her eyes and a broken promise on her lips.

She put her pointer finger to her mouth, shook her head, then closed the curtain.

Boricio gritted his teeth and snarled. It took everything inside him not to rush the house and figure out exactly what in the beer-battered bulls.h.i.+t was going on.

"What are you waiting for Mr. Boricio?" Charlie asked.

f.u.c.k!.

A second spotlight doused the black from the sky and more survivalist f.u.c.ks were spilling from the front of the house. s.h.i.+t was about to get ugly as a nun with a goiter.

Boricio looked up at the window again. He could see her silhouette, the same silhouette he'd stared at for months. The one he'd been saving for Christmas.

Charlie again: "Should we go?"

f.u.c.k!.

Boricio growled, "Just waiting for the perfect minute. Keep your guns down and ankles moving. I'm gonna need you on the other side." He looked back, nodded and said, "NOW!"

They tore into the night, and sure enough, a trio of gunmen was waiting just around the corner of the rear of the house. Boricio charged at full speed, ending their lives as he pa.s.sed.

No one looked behind as their world exploded: whistling bullets, flying dirt, and shouted orders. They veered across empty s.p.a.ce like the worst football team ever, somehow crossing the distance - zigging, zagging, and clinging to every molecule of available darkness.

Bullets. .h.i.t the hanger with a clang. Boricio opened the door, rushed inside and closed the doors just as his team scrambled inside, leaving just enough light to see several cars and trucks.

"I'm gonna need you to shoot any f.u.c.kers who try and get in here," Boricio said to the two kids. "I'll look for keys and if I can't find any, I'll hot-wire. Either way, I'm gonna need a few minutes."