by Sean Platt
“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 circumstances 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 embarrassed that Desmond had seen him so vulnerable.
Fifty-Six
Boricio Wolfe
Oct. 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 fucking 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 importanté. 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 assume this place is a Rambo factory, you can be sure as a Friday night fuck in the ass, these shit 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 dick?”
“I’m sure that’s a miniature fucking weapon,” Boricio laughed. “If you hadn’t been such a throbbing cock, 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 bitch 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 fuck 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 fucks pointed an assault 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.
Shit, 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 bitch, and we’re glad he’s gone.”
Good kid.
Boricio shot from the dark and into the survivalist fuck’s chest, pulling the rifle from his grip then shattering his jaw with its butt in a single fluid motion. Once the survivalist fuck started screaming, Boricio figured the pussy 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 fucks 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 fucking 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 fuck, about 10 feet away, and pulled the trigger. Like most hunters, Boricio’s night vision was second to none. The fucker 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 fucks 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.
FUCK! We’re surrounded and about to get a bullet bukkake 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 assholes 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 hangar 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 fuckers 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 fucker sandwich. So just keep running. Night’s on our side. They’ll shine 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 fucker 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 fucks 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 balls.
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 piss it right back out.
That dumb bitch 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 bullshit was going on.
“What are you waiting for Mr. Boricio?” Charlie asked.
FUCK!
A second spotlight doused the black from the sky and more survivalist fucks were spilling from the front of the house. Shit 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?”
FUCK!
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 passed.
No one looked behind as their world exploded: whistling bullets, flying dirt, and shouted orders. They veered across empty space like the worst football team ever, somehow crossing the distance — zigging, zagging, and clinging to every molecule of available darkness.
Bullets hit the hangar 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 fuckers 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.”
Charlie and Adam nodded, then split, each one taking an opposite side of the hangar. Bullets smashed against the hangar’s corrugated metal walls, some bouncing off, some ripping through, as Boricio searched through four trucks and found exactly dick. He circled back to the first truck, and tore the large, plastic panels from the top and bottom of the steering column and pulled the wiring from inside. He looked up just in time to see a survivalist fuck appear from nowhere, grabbing Charlie in a headlock and putting a gun to his head.
“Outta the truck!” the fucker yelled at Boricio.
Boricio didn’t even need his thinking cap. Adam slipped behind the toady and bashed the fucker’s skull in with the bat.
Team Boricio is getting better and better.
“Great job, boys!” Boricio hollered through the open window of the truck, slapping his hand on the roof. “One more minute and we’ll be outta this bitch!”
Boricio dug his nail across the top of the wire’s coating until the metal was exposed, then twisted the ends together. The dashboard lights came on, and Boricio howled again.
Charlie opened the hangar doors, as Adam fired shots outside. Boricio revved the engine and drove up to the doors. “Get in!” he yelled, and Charlie and Adam each jumped in on opposite sides. Boricio floored the gas, and the truck roared from the hangar.
Several dozen survivalist fucks were lined up near the front gate, waiting with rifles aimed and empty shells flying from the side as bullets tore through the night. At least another two dozen soldiers were spread throughout the compound and the entire place was lit like gay Christmas.
Boricio mowed through any survivalists stupid enough to stand in the way, keeping his head low as bullets kissed the metal in a symphony of deafening dings. Bullets that found the windshields hardly left a scratch.
“Woo-hoo!” Boricio hollered. “Nice of them fuckers to armor the truck for us, eh boys?” He turned to the back seat. Adam was quiet but smiling. Charlie’s grin took up half the back seat.
Boricio spun the truck and aimed for the gate, which didn’t stand a chance when Boricio barreled through it going 40 MPH six seconds later.
The truck flew up and over the small lip at the edge of the gate, caught air, then landed on the street, fishtailing a bit before Boricio got control of the wheel. Damn, it felt good to hit concrete.
Boricio glanced in the rearview and saw another truck, surprisingly close behind.
“Ha!” Boricio laughed. “That all them redneck fuckers got? You boys ain’t worried, are you?” He turned to the back seat.
Adam looked behind him at the truck, then back up at Boricio and shook his head.
Charlie leaned forward. “Anyone know how to use this thing?” He had a grenade in the palm of his hand. “I lifted it from the soldier in the garage after Adam shot him.”
Boricio laughed then pounded the dashboard.
“Holy shit, you little fucker! Look who just stepped up to claim MVP!” Boricio grinned at Charlie through the rearview. “Now I ain’t no expert, but I say you just lean out the window, pull the pin, release the spoon, then chuck that fucker behind you. Just make sure you throw it outside the window or we’re gonna be on the worst episode ever of Funniest Home Videos.”
Charlie nodded, then rolled do
wn the window, grinning ear to ear. “Die, FUCKERS!” he yelled, pulling the pin and dropping the grenade onto the highway.
For a moment, it seemed as if nothing would happen. The truck was too close, and it looked like Charlie dropped too early. But just as Boricio was starting to think he’d have to outdrive the fuckers, the grenade did its job, taking out the back of the gunmen’s truck, causing the truck’s headlights to swerve out of sight in the rearview.
“Woo-hoo!” Boricio yelled. “If Moses saw the look on your two faces, he would’ve had to add an extra commandment!”
They roared into the night, kings of the fucking road.
Fifty-Seven
Brent Foster
Brent had eaten both Pop-Tarts in the foil wrapper and was still hungry. He returned to the kitchen, grabbed a Twinkie, then sank back into his chair.
He laughed at the cliché of eating a Twinkie at the end of the world. Truth was, he could think of far worse foods to be stuck with into an eternity. Like those cans of weird meat that looked like flesh from another planet. That would suck if that’s all there was left. He hoped more Twinkies than cans of meat were sitting on store shelves.
As he swallowed the last of the cake, Brent found himself wondering if Ben had ever tried one of the famous Hostess treats. He and Gina were strict about only giving him healthy food, except the occasional cookie. But even those were homemade oatmeal raisin, not some hydrogenated sugary wad of fat. The more Brent thought about it, the more certain he was that his 3-year-old had never tasted a Twinkie, which made him sad. Every child should have a Twinkie at least once.
