by Platt, Sean
She didn’t want to interrupt, but at the same time didn’t know what to do.
She knocked to no response.
The man kept humming.
She knocked again and waited.
Still nothing.
She looked down at the door handle, an ancient-looking knob, glass with no lock.
She reached out and turned it.
The door creaked open to reveal a long narrow room with nothing but a bed, a dresser, a trunk, and another door, which she assumed led to a bathroom. On the floor, facing the open window was a man in a black-hooded robe, on his knees, praying, or singing — Marina wasn’t sure which.
As she stepped forward, the wood beneath her creaked.
The humming stopped.
The man sat upright.
Her heart pounded as he slowly turned.
Marina nearly dropped her box when she saw the black thread running through his lips to sew them shut.
* * * *
CHAPTER 8 — BORICIO WOLFE
Boricio opened his eyes in the back of a beat-to-hell pickup truck, staring up at the dirty bug-encrusted lights of a gas station overhang that hadn’t been cleaned since before Kurt Cobain made himself a buckshot sandwich.
His hands were tied behind his back with what felt like a nylon zip tie.
What the hell are they planning?
Whatever they had in mind, Boricio had no desire to play Honey Boo Boo in their bullshit.
He kept still, not sure if there was anyone in the truck’s cabin, wondering if they were all inside the convenience store, loading up on cases of Bud and cans o’ chaw, for a night of Hee Haw hilarity.
After a few moments void of sound and movements within the truck, Boricio rolled his bones for a better view in the back. No one in sight. He sat up, slowly, and looked around.
Three men inside the gas station — Grizzly plus a pair of gangly fuckers from his personal Nitty Gritty Dirt Band. No sign of Blondie Cumbox.
They were at the counter, either paying for their shit or chatting up the cashier, a woman Boricio could barely see from his angle. He looked around the station and saw woods in every direction. He was somewhere in South Carolina, but Boricio didn’t know a dingleberry more than that. They might be planning to drag him into the woods. Killing him there made most sense. They probably had to grab some gas so they didn’t get stranded among the trees with a corpse. Or perhaps cousin Jim Bob was getting his banjo restrung so he could play a ditty while they cornholed Boricio.
He stood, feeling exposed, certain they’d see him if he didn’t move fast and break free from the ties. Boricio bent over, brought his arms up behind him, then slammed them back hard against his tailbone and snapped the nylon zip ties.
He jumped from the truck, but before Boricio could check to see if the hillbillies had left the keys in the cab, the convenience store bell clanged violently on the door.
Time to skedaddle.
“Hey!” Grizzly yelled as he and the gangly fucks poured out of the store.
Boricio bolted for the field — and the woods just beyond — across the street, running without looking back.
“Hey!” one of them yelled behind him.
As Boricio crossed the wide-open field, feeling exposed, the tree line felt like a mile away, hillbillies hot on his ass.
No way I’m gonna reach the trees!
Their footsteps pounded pavement behind him, then the grass. Boricio could hear them panting like puffy wet pussies, heaving breaths punctuating their pink little pleas.
“Stop runnin’!”
“We ain’t gonna hurt ya.”
“Come on, we just wanna talk shit out!”
That was beer-battered bullshit, and Boricio knew it. He’d ended plenty of fuckers after swearing he wouldn’t. Bert and Ernie could’ve seen through that shit.
He kept running, hoping he was fast enough.
Just as Boricio got woods adjacent enough to see the escape in his mind, one of the fuckers ran right into his back, tackling him hard at the goal line.
Boricio fell face-first into the wet grass, unable to brace his fall. The ground emptied his chest and had him sucking for air as his tackler, one of the skinny fucks no less, jumped up and pulled a knife on Boricio.
Boricio turned over and was about to stand.
“Stay down, or I’ll gut ya.”
With his bulging eyes, long skinny neck, and ugly nose, the gangly fuck reminded Boricio of a bird.
Boricio kept gasping for air, heart pounding in his ears as the trinity of cunt hairs closed in around him. They were all far enough from the station that the men could kill him without a witness to dick.
Grizzly looked down and spit on Boricio.
“Gonna talk some shit now, smart ass?”
Boricio darted his eyes among the three men, smiling as he sized them up, weighing options and measuring ways to counter their attacks.
Boricio caught his breath, met Grizzly’s eyes, and with exaggerated fatigue said, “OK, ya got me. What do you want?”
“You tried to rape my girlfriend, you fuck. I’m gonna make you pay.”
“Oh, please. Your bitch was begging to batter my corn dog, said she was looking forward to having a real man play some cuntry on her clitar.”
Grizzly moved forward and drew back his foot, aiming to send Boricio’s teeth down his throat.
Boricio threw his arms over his face, bracing for a blow to the elbows instead of his jaw. Boricio countered Grizzly’s kick by trapping his right foot and delivering a punch directly above the man’s ankle joint, killing his leg so he crumpled in agony to the ground.
Boricio rolled on top of the man, shoved his fingers harder into the man’s right ankle, then with his left hand grabbed Grizzly’s foot and wrenched it back to effectively hobble him.
As Grizzly writhed in pain, Boricio hopped up from the ground, and eyed the two skinny bastards, Birdman and Nose Ring.
Boricio smiled. “Which one of you wants next?”
Birdman raged forward with his knife.
Few things were as dangerous as a fucker with a knife in your intimate space. Claiming the knife might be possible, but maybes weren’t aces, and Birdman was as likely to find himself lucky enough to stab Boricio in the arms, or get through to his gut.
Boricio had to stay away from the blade, dodging and weaving until he saw a chance to turn the fucker’s face to oatmeal on the road.
He dodged Birdman’s first attempt, ducking back as he kept both men in front of him.
Nose Ring might have been armed, but Boricio didn’t recall seeing a weapon in the man’s hands.
For the moment, Boricio focused only on Birdman. Grizzly woke bears from hibernation — or at least anyone within earshot — with his screams. It was only a matter of time before the gas station attendant heard something and called the police.
Boricio had to get past Birdman, then the fuck out of Dodge. “Come on,” he said, “why don’t you give up now before someone else gets hurt?”
“Only person gettin’ hurt is you.” Birdman danced around Boricio like a brain-damaged boxer.
He hadn’t seemed threatening at first, but Birdman did seem comfortable with the blade, and wasn’t making any of the rookie mistakes that most people did.
Boricio had to get in his head and force an error. He could run into the woods and hope the skinny fuck didn’t catch him — again. But Boricio wasn’t much of a runner.
“You give big daddy over there a reach around whenever he wants it, too?” Boricio pointed to Grizzly, “or do you just fight all of his fights because you’re his dumb little bitch?”
“Fuck you.” Birdman kept his eyes on Boricio, staring down his every move.
“Come on,” Boricio said, “you all know I didn’t rape Reese Witherpoon. Your buddy there’s just trying to protect his manhood because he can’t stand to think his cumbox wanted to dippity-doo-dah with a stranger in the bathroom. No reason for this to get any uglier.”
Birdman charged again.<
br />
Boricio dodged the slash, raising his elbow to block the attempt. He managed to seize Birdman’s wrist and twist the man’s hand, and the blade, back on him.
Boricio plunged the knife into his gut, and Birdman fell to the ground, eyes wide in shock. Boricio grabbed the blade and turned on Nose Ring.
Two down, one to go.
Nose Ring turned and took off back toward the station.
Oh no the fuck you don’t!
Boricio raced behind him, blade in hand, eager to end another hillbilly’s life before he could reach the truck where he would either flee or maybe grab a gun tucked in the glove box.
Nose Ring screamed as he fled. Boricio ran hard — he had to shut the fucker up, and quick. But Nose Ring was surprisingly fast and had a good ten yards on Boricio.
He was close to the convenience store, which may as well have been home base. Every gas station in the world had cameras these days; last thing Boricio needed was to be caught killing a fucker on YouTube. He’d been too careful over the years to get caught finishing off some redneck fuckface at a Stop n’ Go.
Boricio pushed himself harder, but couldn’t go faster. His body simply wasn’t up to the task after weeks of pouring petrol down his throat.
Nose Ring reached the road about twenty steps ahead of Boricio.
If he went toward the station, Boricio was screwed. He’d have to turn and run, head for the woods in another direction or something.
Instead, Nose Ring went for the truck, drawing keys from his pocket as he ran.
He hit the truck’s alarm, its angry, ugly, mechanical blurt screaming into the night, and surely alerting the cashier.
Fuck! Now that’s two more notches on the killing stick.
Nose Ring reached the truck, threw open the door, and jumped inside.
If he had a gun, Boricio was fucked.
Nose Ring leaned over, toward the glove compartment.
Shit.
Boricio raced faster, near certain he’d sprain something or pull up limp.
He reached the truck as Nose Ring grabbed a pistol from the glove compartment.
Boricio launched himself through the still-open door, jumped on the man, mercilessly attacking with the blade, so fast and frenzied that the asshole was nowhere close to aiming his weapon.
The gun fell to the floorboard as Boricio kept stabbing, screaming, venting three weeks’ worth of pent-up anger and turning the fucker to pulp.
For Boricio, time practically stopped as he plunged the blade repeatedly into the man’s stomach, his throat, and then into his face, each blow releasing more of the rage that had gathered like a storm inside him for weeks.
Boricio had almost forgotten how good it felt to kill.
Almost.
The last sound he wanted to hear tore him from the moment — a siren.
Boricio turned around and saw two sheriff’s cars, lights flashing and casting garish red and blue into the woods.
“Drop the weapon, put your hands on your head, and step back slowly,” said a voice over the car’s speaker.
A deputy was already out of one of the cars, with a rifle aimed at Boricio.
TO BE CONTINUED …
YESTERDAY’S GONE
::EPISODE 26::
(SECOND EPISODE OF SEASON FIVE)
“I Know Why the Caged Wolfe Sings”
CHAPTER 1 — PETER WILLIAMS
Peter Williams sat in the ParkView Elementary School parking lot, staring at the front door, trying to stir his courage and get his ass out of the seat so he could do what had to be done.
Peter still couldn’t believe it had come to this.
A year ago everything was perfect. Then, just like that, it all started to crumble. First with the headaches that the doctors couldn’t understand. The migraines made him irritable and difficult to deal with, and no amount of pills or booze could get them to leave. At best, they barely dented the splintering pain.
Peter lost his job, then his friends. His wife and daughter right after that, both at once.
Funny how quickly the world turned on you when you lost your job and ability to earn. When you got sick with no relief. The final insult came two weeks ago when he received the restraining order, to stay away from his wife, Josie, and their daughter, Claire.
Something had clicked inside him.
Peter realized that he didn’t have to take this anymore.
He was the master of his fate, not his bitch wife or some fucking bullshit court document saying he had to stay a certain number of feet from his own flesh and blood.
Fuck that.
Pain stabbed his brain, again. He reached into the duffel, past the guns, and found pills to dull his roar.
Josie thought she could take his daughter and he’d sit back and take it? Like he’d let some piece of paper keep him from seeing his child — their child?
It was originally supposed to be a trial separation, a “breather” from one another. They were supposed to try and put things back together.
But that fucker, Mr. Montgomery, had started working in the classroom beside her. A good-looking guy who seemed like he was used to leather seats. Peter had seen the way his wife had looked at Montgomery when he went to pick up Claire from school for their weekends together.
Peter confronted her. She blew up, accused him of being crazy. Said she didn’t think he should be around their daughter anymore. She didn’t feel safe.
What the fuck?
Then that asshole, Montgomery, got into it with Peter, coming over, shoving his nose in their family business. Put his hand on Peter, said maybe he should leave before Peter did something he regretted.
Of course he exploded. Who wouldn’t have?
Peter decked the asshole fucking his wife. Then when Josie turned on him, yelling at him to leave her lover alone, Peter lost it.
He smacked her, letting anger overwhelm him.
A guy smacks his cheating wife one time in twelve years, and suddenly he’s a monster who can’t see his child?
For the first time it made sense. The headaches weren’t a mystery illness. It was his subconscious picking up on his wife cheating with this asshole. He hadn’t seen Montgomery until after their separation, but the guy had shared a school with his wife for years. She’d probably been fucking him under Peter’s nose for a while.
The headaches showed him what his eyes refused to see.
The headaches said that he’d allowed this to happen. Invited a usurper to claim his family.
The only way to kill the headaches was for Peter to man up and take shit into his own hands.
He grabbed the duffel and weapons case, got out of the car, crossing beneath the flagpole, Old Glory whipping in the wind, and headed towards the school’s front doors.
It was time to make things right.
* * * *
CHAPTER 2 — MARY OLSON
Mary was sitting on the couch, doodling on her tablet, stabbing at creativity — she’d not finished a greeting card in forever — when a scream from the kitchen snapped her attention like a twig underfoot.
She jumped up and ran to find Paola on the ground, having another seizure.
Mary grabbed the pen and pad they kept on the counter for exactly this reason, dropped down beside her daughter, then cradled her head.
“It’s OK, I’m here.” Mary’s mouth went dry.
No matter how many times she saw Paola in this state, the terror never dimmed.
She wasn’t sure which was worse, how her daughter’s body was shaking, the stiffness of her limbs, or the way Paola’s eyes rolled into the back of her head. It all scared the hell out of Mary, even though it had happened five times since their return to Earth.
She’d nearly lost Paola twice to The Darkness. Two too many times for a mother.
Even though the island doctors said she was in perfect health, Mary felt like she was waiting for the inevitable drop of the other shoe. The, “Oh, yeah, one more thing … ” yet to come. Whether that meant The Darkn
ess was on its way to claim her, for Paola to start aging again, or some other unforeseen tragedy, Mary couldn’t shake the feeling that they were all on borrowed time, no matter how hard she tried to tell herself that things were finally fine.
Paola’s fingers began searching up and down her body for something to write with, and on.
She handed her daughter the pen. Paola snatched it without acknowledgment, and Mary watched it swirl in a pantomime of violent writing.
Mary slipped the writing pad under the pen, straightened the paper, and stared as the ink arced in wide, scribbling strokes, then smaller ones as it grew fluid and words began to form.
The same words over and over:
Peter Williams
Peter Williams
Peter Williams
Peter Williams
Peter Williams
Peter Williams
* * * *
CHAPTER 3 — PETER WILLIAMS
Peter stepped through the school’s front entrance and approached the front counter where Nancy, the woman who’d worked the front desk forever, looked up and smiled. That expression peeled from her face like fading paint when she saw it was Peter.
“Hello, Mr. Williams. How can I help you?”
Peter kept the duffel hanging loosely from his shoulder strap, and the rifle case hanging behind his back. The duffel was unzipped, but looked closed to the casual observer.
“Hello, Nancy, I’m here to pick up my daughter.”
Nancy’s frown widened as she looked at her monitor.
“I don’t see anything on here about an early release.”
“Please,” Peter said, “I just need to see her.”
“I’m sorry,” Nancy said, “I’ll need to call your … wife.”
The hesitation between “your” and “wife” said it all. Everyone knew that he and Josie were finished. Probably knew that Josie was fucking Mr. Perfect, too.
Everyone knew that Peter was a joke. Hell, they probably laughed at him every day at lunch with his wife telling more stories about her stupid husband.
He could feel his nerves showing. Judging Nancy’s brow, wrinkling deep as she reached for the phone, she was likelier to call security than Josie.
