by Sean Platt
“Shhhh … you’re gonna wake them!” Boricio said, mimicking Mary’s earlier warnings she’d been using since Luca and Paola went to bed about two hours before. At least that was the warning that Mary was using before she started throwing bottles herself a half hour ago.
Mary laughed, feeling goofy enough to wonder if Boricio hadn’t switched labels on the beer bottles.
“You didn’t give me real beer, did you?” she asked.
“I might be an asshole, but I’m not gonna give a pregnant chick beer,” Boricio said. “I don’t wanna see you giving birth to some short-bus kid.”
Mary laughed again, despite the awfulness of his comment.
Mary was on her fourth bottle of piss, or perhaps it might have been her fifth. She was usually good at keeping track, but throwing her empties into the bucket had begun to confuse her. Or maybe it was sitting on the bench beside her new friend Boricio the Killer that had done it.
Mary didn’t believe she could ever get used to living in close proximity to Boricio, and nearly everything about him still horrified her. But after several days in his company, and what seemed like a hundred thousand hours or so of his endless mouth, Mary had a vague, but fascinated, understanding of what it was that made him tick.
Boricio was a genuine killer; that wasn’t for show. He was the real deal, and had been long before the end of the world, she figured.
Only after Mary opened her third bottle of piss, the one that might have been her fourth, did she finally get the courage to ask Boricio what she’d been wanting to ask for a while, and even managed to do so without flinching. “What was it like the first time you killed someone?”
Boricio was mid-swig when Mary asked.
He took an extra-long swallow, then smiled like a wolf, returned his lips to the bottle and stole its final swallow, then turned from the table, and the bucket behind it, and tossed his bottle like a dart into the forest.
“That’s a helluva good story,” he said. “You sure you wanna hear it?”
Mary nodded. “Yes,” she said.
Boricio howled. “Well, alrighty then. But I’m not telling you a PG-13 bullshit version of the story. It’s a spicy dish, and I’m not holding the pepper.”
Mary said, “Has there been anything from your mouth in the last two hours that’s been anywhere PG?”
Boricio howled again. “Nope,” he shook his head. “But that’s because there isn’t a point. You censor the words, and you’re just giving a dirty mind more to work with.”
Mary said, “Well, good thing Paola doesn’t have a dirty mind.”
Mary waited for Boricio to challenge the thought, perhaps say something vulgar about her daughter. But he didn’t. Just opened another bottle, took a long swig, then wiped his mouth and said, “Looking back, Boricio should’ve waited a while longer before doing what he did when he did it. But I was green as a jalapeño, and so I ended up making a 32-gallon trash can’s worth of mess that first night. I remember watching the news the following day, shaking my head, shocked at how much they did and didn’t say about all the things I knew I did. But the fucker who had to quit his breathing earlier than he expected to, and quite by force, sure as a new necklace after a titty-fuck deserved it. He was a regular at the restaurant where I’d been cooking for two months at the time of the ‘accident’ — this shit bar called, The Office.”
Boricio took another swig, and Mary felt herself uncomfortably fascinated by his tale, just as she had been for every one in the two hours before it.
“So, this same fucker would come in every night, drunk before he even got there it seemed, then order something fried from the menu and bitch about it five minutes after Jeremy set it on the counter.” Boricio looked at Mary. “Every. Fucking. Time. You dig?”
Mary swallowed, then said, “I dig, but does that mean you killed him just because he sent his food back?”
Boricio laughed. “No, I would never do that, at least not unless I felt like it. This fucker didn’t earn a grown-up abortion because he sent his food back; he got gutted on account of the gift wrap he gave the complaint. Every time the assfuck sent his food back, he attached an insult that made him deserve to die a little more, so really, the fucker was lucky I let him keep breathing as long as I did. Truth of the matter, Mary Mary Quite Contrary, is that I couldn’t understand why Jeremy Pile, the old fucker who owned The Office, was bending over for the shit eater each night. I probably should’ve figured what the hell and let the shit-covered dick continue to live since making slop on repeat wasn’t much different than making slop in the first place. I still punched out at the same goddamned time.” Boricio shook his head and took another long swig. “The fucker had said plenty of shit before, but when he said my nachos tasted like I’d put a tiara on a pile of rancid taco meat, and that the only creatures capable of enjoying the meal were the flies at his table, only thing I could see besides the red was the camel crying and the broken straw on its furry fucking back.”
Boricio cackled.
“When Jeremy came back in and told me what the fucker had said, I asked him why he didn’t throw his ass the fuck out. Pile said it was because the dude drank like a fish so who gave a shit if the place took a bath on 90 cents worth of nachos. Well, I did. So,” Boricio shrugged, “I figured I’d give the fucker a bath myself.”
Mary swallowed hard again. “What did you do?”
Boricio smiled. “I’m glad you asked, and thank you for playing, What Would Boricio Do? I got patient, that’s what. Waited three more weeks until the fucker was dumb enough to stay until the bar closed. I met him in the back of the alley, then surprised the fuck out of his holy spirit. Shit dick was always talking about his apartment, ‘just two blocks away,’ so I made him take me there. He wasn’t too drunk to realize he didn’t have much of a choice. Once we got inside, I spent the next few hours emptying the fucker’s fridge and making him meal after meal of shit that made those nachos taste like sweet ambrosia. He kept crying like a bitch with every bite, but swallowed every mouthful like a good boy, anyway. When the fridge was empty and his belly was full of all sorts of shit you ain’t ever supposed to put in your mouth, I made him some new meals with some fresh meat. When he was finished with that, I silenced the fucker forever.”
Mary could barely speak, but still managed to half whisper, “Then what did you do?”
“Got the fuck out of Dodge. Left town early the next day, right after I saw the news, in fact. No Bob’s Big Boy of a deal; I was ready to leave, anyway.”
“And that was the first person you ever killed?” Mary also wanted to ask Boricio how many people he had killed since, but didn’t want to know an answer that might keep her from sleeping at night.
Boricio barked a broken hiccup of a laugh. “No, I guess if we’re talking Honest Injun, then no, I suppose it wasn’t. First was my dear ole fucking stepdad, but that ain’t a story I wanna tell right now, ya dig?” He smiled. “But it was the first fucker who ever got his shit premeditated, and no doubt the biggest goddamned mess I ever made.”
Boricio looked at Mary, his bottle hovering in the air a few inches from his lips. “You know what the kitchen looks like around Thanksgiving with all the pots and pans and bullshit before you get to setting the table, right? Well, this looked like that, but with about six or seven gallons of blood.”
Mary felt like she was about to vomit, and wondered if she’d be half as patient with Boricio’s macabre recital if she wasn’t so thoroughly drunk.
“How can you be so honest about everything?” she asked. “Don’t you ever feel bad, at all?”
Boricio sucked on the nozzle of his bottle for a while, and Mary wondered if he had any intention of answering the question. She couldn’t quite decipher the something on his face, though if she had to give it a name, she’d call it “almost thoughtful.” Mary had no idea how long Boricio took to open his mouth again, just that she had time to open one final near beer, just like her last two, and nurse it to a third empty.
; “Before a few days ago, no, never,” Boricio said. “Not even for a fucking minute. But ever since Luca broke me, I’ve been seeing shit upside down, and yeah, that’s had me wrestling with some of the shit I’ve done.”
“Does that mean you regret it?”
“I don’t know if it’s that exactly,” he said. “I don’t think I’d be here talking to you today if I weren’t that Boricio, you know?” He took a final swig then threw the bottle into the woods, chasing the handfuls he’d already thrown.
Mary didn’t agree, but wasn’t brave enough to challenge Boricio out loud. But she did ask, “How can you talk so openly about it?”
Boricio shrugged. “Because what happened, happened. Life’s too short for regrets. Shit is what it is; you may as well be honest and give it an NC-17 instead of drowning it in lies and dressing it in a PG-13.” He winked.
Mary wasn’t sure if it was the placebo buzz of the near beer or the frank conversation with Boricio that gave her the confidence, but she said, “How do I know you won’t ever hurt me, or Paola?”
“Because you’re safe with me,” he said, without pause. “Now I’m not saying it’s the sort of safe where you’re never gonna hear the boogeyman howling outside your window, because here at the end of the world, I think that’s the special of the day. But you can feel safe knowing that Boricio isn’t the big, bad wolf, huffing and puffing and waiting to get in. He’s the one who’ll protect you three little piggies and blow all the other houses down.”
Mary wanted to say more, but didn’t want to push it, or him. So, she went back to her earlier question. “So, there’s nothing you regret?”
Boricio shook his head and looked like he was about to say no, then paused and said, “Yeah, I’ve got regrets.”
He went silent after that, so Mary said, “Like?”
“I had this one lady named Sissy, tried taking care of me back when I was a kid. Was one of the only women who ever reached out to me, almost like she actually cared. But I shit on her like I shit on everyone.” Boricio looked suddenly hollow. It was another several seconds before he finished with, “Though I’m not sure I’ve ever given it a lick of thought until today.”
He shook his head and muttered, “Fucking Rip van Creepy broke me,” then opened another bottle. “How about you, Miss Contrary, any regrets?”
Mary was just fake buzzed enough to bore Boricio with the story of her and Ryan, and how she caught him with Natalie Farmer.
Boricio said, “Well, that’s not all that surprising. Men are a helluva lot more likely than women to cheat anyhow, and it sounds like you were giving your man all sorts of reasons.”
Mary blinked her eyes, shocked. “Excuse me,” she said. “And how’s that?”
“Didn’t you say you were making like a billion dollars a year with your To Be or Not to Be greeting card shit?”
“Not quite,” Mary said. “But yes.”
“Well hells bells and cum-filled wells, Miss Mary, that will get a fucker wanting to test the Big Bang theory with a bitch he don’t have to hear snoring. Now don’t get me wrong, you’re a mighty fine-looking piece of ass, but with your little lamb being around for so long, you probably started boring your boy in the bedroom. And us guys like our shit fresh. We don’t get it, and it’s easy to justify the cheating. Add to that the fact that you’re wearing the pants — bringing in the bacon and cooking it for dinner, well that’s a formula for fucking outside of the house.”
It was almost funny. Mary could hear Boricio discuss murder like he was talking about the size of his tomatoes, and it was almost easy to take. A little like watching Dexter. But the second he started talking about Ryan’s cheating, and making excuses for her ex, she wanted to punch him in the face.
Mary knew that if she didn’t change the subject, they’d end up walking into a mess of trouble. “So, how do you think the training’s going?” she said.
Boricio smiled wide, said, “Well, lookie lookie, crunchy cookie; looks like Miss Mary doesn’t want to see the truth inside her separation.” For a few seconds it looked like he was going to twist the knife, but then he followed Mary’s lead and changed the subject.
“Training is good,” he said, his tone going from playful to thoughtful. “I think another day’s worth of shooting at shit would be good, though I don’t really know if that’s the problem. Seemed like it was nothing more than fear keeping the gun at your baby girl’s side today.”
“It wasn’t that,” Mary said. “At least not that simply. The monsters are scary, but Paola wouldn’t have frozen like that if it was one of the bleakers that had come through the gate. It was because she was staring at something she’d never seen before. That dog was bigger than you; it would’ve been scary on Oct. 15, before it was half zombie. Any new thoughts on what giant mutant dogs might mean? Think there’s more of ‘em out there?”
Boricio shook his head. “Not since the 47th time you asked me, ‘round about a half hour ago,” he said. “But if the monsters are now coming in all manner of man and beast, I’m thinking we want to mosey up to New York, double time.”
“When do you want to go?”
Boricio said, “Tomorrow, day after that at the latest. I make sure Luca’s ready for the trip. He didn’t look so good today. And since I’m the captain of Team Boricio, I’ve gotta decide how we’ll fight the battle before it begins. That means knowing what everybody is and isn’t capable of doing. I don’t wanna get on the road and find we need to find a wheelchair or some shit. One more day,” he promised. “Two max, okay, Miss Mary?”
Mary nodded, astonished at how much her knowing was trusting the monster on the other side of the table.
“Another beer? Just say the word and I’ll go grab some,” he said.
“You mean near beer, right?” she said, suddenly nervous that he had gotten her drunk.
“Yes,” Boricio said, smiling, “One more bottle of piss for the lady.”
Thirty-Nine
“The Prophet”
Black Mountain, Georgia
March 2012
FIVE MONTHS AFTER THE EVENT …
It lay on the mattress with Its eyes closed, feigning a sleep It did not need.
It used the time to allow the husk to refresh Itself while It connected with the parts of Itself outside, roaming the world and among Its beings, slowly absorbing everything into It.
This shell, of this fat man calling itself The Prophet was so limiting.
Old. Obese. Used.
It was a wonder that anything could go through life in such worn form, indulging on its very self-destruction.
It needed to change Its shell soon, trade it for something younger; stronger, and with more energy. Its purpose was revealing itself in new ways every day. As It grew, It remembered more of Its life before this.
A life where It thrived in another world.
But something had happened — what, It could not yet recall. Something that had changed everything, then brought It here to this world.
Where It was not alone.
Another Something was out there. Something that was its opposite, trying to undo Its work.
Something It sensed on the highway when the storm came. That storm wasn’t any ordinary storm. The storm was the enemy. Fortunately, It was able to hide itself inside the old man’s husk.
But for how long?
A war raged outside, a war for survival that none of these ignorant humans could either comprehend or possibly see.
It had lost before.
It would never lose again.
First It must kill the child. The One, Luca, It knew was different. Luca wasn’t just different. The enemy was hiding inside the child. Why it had chosen a child for a vessel made little sense to It, but perhaps brilliance was behind the move.
As a child, it could go undetected and gather strength.
Fortunately for It, the child’s husk had recently changed, at least that’s what Its others had reported.
The child had gone from young to
old. From strong to weak. Now was the time to strike before the enemy could change hosts and gather strength.
Strike now, take the rest of this world and bring it unto Itself.
It would spread.
That was what It was meant to do.
All would grow dark. And nothing would stop It once it was.
Forty
Charlie Wilkens
Black Mountain, Georgia
March 2012
FIVE MONTHS AFTER THE EVENT …
Charlie sat at a square, wooden table alone in a 20 by 20 white, sterile room, drinking an ice-cold can of Coca-Cola.
He’d not had a cold drink since forever; ice cold soda was only a memory.
Damn, I almost forgot how good these are!
They’d also given him clothes. A black T-shirt and matching sweats. He requested that Callie get the same thing to wear — his one condition, other than her safety, for helping them. Charlie considered pushing for everyone on the block to get clothes, but stopped short since he had no idea how strong his hand actually was. The last thing he wanted was for the Guardsmen to resent him and take that resentment out on Callie.
In front of Charlie was a paper plate piled surprisingly high with pretzels and chocolate chip cookies, both remarkably fresh given that they were at least a half year old. A Guardsman named Darren told him to eat as many of the pretzels and cookies as he wanted — the first thing said to him as he was led into the small room after Dr. Rudolph drew his blood in hopes of creating some sort of serum that might cure Ryan.
Charlie didn’t understand the science behind the serum, or anything the doctor said, really, but the process seemed painless enough, at least on his end. He hoped they found a cure soon. While Charlie had somehow resisted the full mutation, unlike every other infected body Black Mountain had found, that didn’t mean he’d never fully mutate.
