“You got eyes on the gate?” Charlie called into the radio to Vic, who was on watch in the cupola. “Can you see inside?”
“Hold on, it’s dark, but looks like him.”
“Wait here, okay?” Charlie said to Callie, half asleep in a lounge chair beside him, where she’d been staring at the stars and engaging in her usual “what-ifs.” She sat up in her seat, staring at the front gate.
Charlie grabbed the shotgun, ran inside, down the stairs, and out the front door with Boricio, who was holding his trusty bat, and Vic, with his Colt Python.
“Where’s the truck?” Boricio asked.
“I dunno,” Charlie said as they drew closer to the car, still a blur in the dark, though they were close enough to see it was some sort of dark sedan. The car’s interior was bathed in darkness, causing Charlie to silently curse himself for not thinking to bring a light. He hoped Boricio wouldn’t notice his lack of planning. There was no room for errors on Team Boricio, even if they’d been safe for nearly three months since finding the compound. And Charlie already felt like the weakest link, aside from maybe Adam. Vic and Jeremy were constantly teasing him, calling him by girls’ names and giving him the same shit that Bob did, though they claimed they were just playing. Charlie thought he’d settled the issue of his supposed weakness with what he did to Bob, but most of them hadn’t been there to see that, and only Boricio really knew what happened.
In their eyes, Charlie was the kid, the baby of the group. Never mind that Adam was actually weaker, younger, and more timid than Charlie. Somehow Adam got a pass, for reasons Charlie didn’t understand. Perhaps it was because Adam was so nice to everyone, practically fawning over them. Or maybe there was some target painted on Charlie that always made him the butt of the jokes, the one most likely to get bullied. The one who couldn’t do anything right. The pussy who always chose the path of least resistance. Whatever the case, he found himself in the familiar position of trying to fly under the radar in a pack of wolves. Trying to avoid scrutiny. Trying not to fuck up.
By the time they reached the gate, they got a clearer look inside the car’s cabin. Whoever was inside was slumped over the steering wheel, unmoving.
“Who is it?” Charlie called, shotgun raised.
The shape in the car moved, slowly, and the driver’s door opened. The shape stepped out, and into the moonlight.
Adam’s face was bloodied, his left eye swollen shut, shirt shredded and covered in blood.
“Jesus!” Vic said, “What happened?”
Adam stumbled forward as Boricio unlocked the gate and pulled it open.
Adam shuffled forward then leaned against the car; his hand slipped on the hood, and he nearly fell to the ground. Charlie rushed to his aid and put an arm around him, helping him stand upright.
“They killed Jeremy and took the truck,” Adam said, eyes on the ground.
“Who did this?” Boricio asked, enraged.
Adam’s eyes wouldn’t leave the ground. Charlie couldn’t tell if he was afraid to report the bad news to Boricio, or if he was simply too weak to look up. “It was that crew we ran into on the road last week, the pale guys on the motorcycles.”
Boricio stared at Adam, laughed, then glared at Charlie. “I told you we should’a killed those cum colored fuckers!”
“They didn’t do anything,” Charlie said defensively.
“Tell that to the walking roadkill,” Boricio said, pointing at Adam.
“I meant they didn’t do anything last week. They didn’t pose a threat.”
“This ain’t a fucking Sadie Hawkins dance,” Boricio yelled, “And we don’t fucking wait for invitations or for motherfuckers to ‘pose a threat.’ We strike first so we can stay alive.”
Charlie shook his head, not wanting to have this argument again.
“Let’s get you inside,” Vic said, helping Adam towards the house.
“Lock the gate,” Boricio barked to Charlie, throwing him the keys, as he followed Adam and Vic inside. Charlie shook his head, then caught a glimpse of Callie standing on the balcony, looking down, concerned. He sighed, then turned back and closed the gate, taking an extra moment to lock it, knowing that once inside, he would get an earful from Boricio.
By the time Charlie made it back inside, Adam was sitting beside two battery-operated lanterns at the kitchen table, shirt off, as Callie cleaned his wounds with a rag and a fresh bowl of water. Adam’s face was bruised and his nose bloody, probably broken. Blood seeped from a thin red line slashed across his chest courtesy of the sharp side of a knife. The wound looked scarier than it was, though, as it didn’t seem to run too deep.
Adam cringed as Callie hit a tender spot. “Sorry,” she said.
“They got you after you made the pickup, or before?” Boricio asked, pacing back and forth.
“After,” Adam said.
“Fuck!” Boricio slammed a fist on the black granite kitchen counter. “So they got the truck and the supplies.”
“Yes, sir,” Adam said.
“OK, Lone Ranger, I want you to start from the beginning and tell me exactly how in the fuck this shit went sideways.”
“Well, everything was normal. We hit the store, loaded the truck, and were about halfway back when all of a sudden we heard the motorcycles and saw the lights behind us. At least six of them, all on bikes. They drove in front of us and blocked the road, with guns aimed at us.”
“And you didn’t just run the fuck through them?” Boricio asked, “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, that’s a holy trinity of fucking stupid. Why wouldn’t you floor it?”
“I was afraid they’d shoot us if we didn’t stop.”
“Well fuck a duck, son” Boricio said, “looks like you just screwed the pooch. What happened next?”
“We got out of the truck and one of the guys, the bald one with the patch, asked us what we had in the truck. I’m pretty sure he knew, though. So I told him ‘supplies’ and he said they didn’t belong to us, that we’d stolen them from the store, and he was gonna take them back and we ought not to get in his way.”
“And then?” Boricio asked, full attention on Adam’s story while Vic paced in the shadows where the kitchen opened to the dining room.
“Well, Jeremy said hell no, so the guy with the patch shot him right in the head. I wanted to shoot the guy, but there were six of them and I knew I couldn’t get them all. He told me to give him my gun.”
“And you did?” Boricio’s upper lip twitched.
“Yeah,” Adam said, eyes on Boricio like a child afraid he was about to see the slapping side of a belt. “So the guy took my gun, then hit me in the face with his shotgun. All the other guys started laughing. He asked me for the keys and I asked him if he was gonna shoot me. He laughed and said if he’d planned to do that, I’d already have maggots making babies in the holes. So I handed him the keys, and he was all, ‘See, I told you I wasn’t gonna shoot you’ then headed to the back of the truck to see what was inside. The other guys followed, except one, who stood over me. I don’t know what took so long, but they seemed to be looking in the back of the truck forever. Then the guy who was watching me went to join them. I got up and ran into the woods, but they came after me, and knocked me down. I thought for sure that was it. The bald guy came over, leaned down, slid the knife across my chest, and said, ‘Tell your people that we own Dunn, and we’d better not see them again.’ Then they left me there. I walked a half a mile or so, without a gun or anything, praying I wouldn’t run into one of them monsters. Then I found a house, went inside, got the keys to a car, then drove back here as fast as I could.”
“Thank God you’re alive,” Callie said, looking up at Charlie, quietly urging him to say something.
“You did a good job,” Charlie said, figuring someone should praise him if Boricio wasn’t.
Boricio laughed, “If shitting the bed and losing a truck along with one of our men is what constitutes a good job these days, well fuck me in the face and show me where I can sign up for the union.
” Boricio laughed, then added, “My my, how far the mighty Team Boricio has fallen.”
Charlie looked up, “Do we really want to bag on him while he’s down. I’m sure he feels like shit enough, already.”
Boricio’s eyes drilled into Charlie. He seemed like he wanted to say something, but kept his mouth shut in a rare moment of silence.
“So, what are we gonna do?” Vic, the walking steroid case, asked, “We’re not gonna take this shit, are we?”
“I dunno,” Boricio said, “Let’s ask Prince Charles, here. Do we want to make this shit straight, or should we just pack our bags, tuck our dicks in between our legs and cluck the fuck out of Dunn because One-Eyed Willy and his gang of cum-colored fucktards said to get off their turf?”
“There’s enough homes and stores for all of us,” Callie said, ignoring Boricio’s usual ranting. “Why did they rob us? It’s not like there’s that many people competing for resources, right? They’re the only ones we’ve seen, right?”
“Well, them and The Prophet’s compound, but that’s about an hour away,” Charlie said. “Maybe supplies are drying up around Dunn? Or maybe they’re just acting now to get what they can before they do? Maybe they’ve run into other people left behind?”
“Who gives a dickstick dipped in twat oil WHY they robbed us,” Boricio said, swinging his hands theatrically. “It’s Top Of The Food-Chain Time, kids! That means kill or be killed, whether you’re human or monster. I know Charlie and Adam here have this cozy notion that people are ‘nice’ and we ought to be a happy band of Mr. Rogers-types, taking off our shoes and wiping survivors’ asses if they can’t do it themselves. But when the cosmic shit hits the fan, people ain’t nothin’ but animals – hunter or prey. And in case any of you fuckers were in the bathroom tossing one off during intermission, Boricio is a hunter. The only question is what do you all wanna be?”
“Hunters!” Vic shouted as he came back into the kitchen, fist in the air like he was rooting for his favorite wrestler.
Boricio smiled, “What about the rest of you?”
Charlie and Callie were silent. Adam whispered, “Hunter,” avoiding eye contact with anyone.
Boricio looked at Charlie, eyes wide and smile manic. “Well, what say you, Charles In Charge? Hunter or hunted?”
“Hunter, but...”
“Nope, nope, nope. No butts! Predator or prey. No middle ground, no gray areas, no nothing. Kill or be killed.”
“I’m not down with killing people for no reason,” Charlie said. “When we passed those bikers on the road, there was no reason to do anything. Not at the time. Yeah, they gave us dirty looks, and there was a tense moment where it looked like they might make a move, but they didn’t do anything. They kept on going.”
“Yeah, but apparently, they circled back,” Boricio said. “Maybe they followed us back here and have been watching us since, waiting with fangs. Fuck, maybe they’re in the bushes ready to rattle right now. Maybe they’re the smart ones here, and Team Boricio is a drooling bunch of dumbasses riding the short bus to the graveyard.”
Vic looked like he’d been smacked in the face, then ran upstairs, back to his lookout post.
“Listen, Charlie, I appreciate you’ve got a nice pink pussy side. But that’s the same side that had your step-daddy beatin’ the shit out of you, right? There’s no place in this world for nice; not no more. We’re an endangered species, and there ain’t no place for the weak. If you can’t pull the trigger, you’re already extinct.”
“We all know what I’m capable of,” Charlie said, glaring back at Boricio. “Just ask Bob if I can pull the trigger. Oh yeah, you can’t. Can you?”
Boricio smiled, “Fair enough, Chucky. Fair enough. But not everyone’s gonna give you an excuse like Bobby Big Boy. Sometimes, you’re gonna have to find a reason. And most times that reason boils down to whether your hard-on to live is fatter than the next fucker’s. So, are you two with me? You hunters? Are you gonna help me hunt these fuckers down, get our truck back, then shove a shit sandwich straight down One-Eyed Willy’s throat?”
Charlie swallowed, “Yes.”
“Definitely,” Callie said. Though she was tough, she wasn’t bloodthirsty. But seeing her friend Adam injured sparked her fiercely protective streak. “Let’s get these fuckers.”
**
midnight
The house was silent. Callie had retired to the bedroom a half hour earlier. Boricio had been down for an hour or so while Vic was still upstairs in his spot, supposedly wide awake on red alert. Charlie found Adam alone, sitting in an overstuffed recliner in the living room, reading a book by lantern-light.
“How’s it going?” Charlie asked. “Feeling any better?”
“Yeah,” Adam said, “Feeling stupid more than hurt.”
“Don’t let it get to you. I would’ve done the same thing,” Charlie said, sitting on the couch across from Adam. “No way you could’ve known they’d kill Jeremy.”
“Worst thing is, Jeremy actually told me I ought to run them down.”
“No shit?”
“Yeah, but I didn’t want to tell Boricio or he’d blame me even more.”
“Yeah, he can overreact sometimes,” Charlie said with a grin.
Adam laughed, then coughed and winced.
“Jeremy was a good guy,” Adam said. “I mean, I know he was kinda an asshole sometimes, and Boricio didn’t care for him, but he was always nice to me.”
“I hear you,” Charlie said, though if he was being honest, he would have said good riddance. Jeremy was nice to Adam because Adam kissed his ass. Otherwise, the guy, a 38 year old former stockbroker on vacation when shit hit the fan, was a raging douchebag who always had to have his way. The only good thing the guy had ever done, as far as Charlie was concerned, was find the three story house they called, half-jokingly, their compound.
The home was huge, three stories, 12 bedrooms, five baths, and a separate five car garage, but it wasn’t a true compound like The Prophet’s where they’d been held as prisoners. The home had a wrought iron gate, a well, and a generator that they were able to use when they had fuel. Best of all, the home was located in the middle of nowhere, and they’d avoided detection by man or monster . . . until now, perhaps.
Charlie wondered if Boricio was right. Had the bikers followed them to the compound? Were there enemies hiding in the dark, waiting to strike? Charlie wondered how the hell Boricio could sleep with all the uncertainty in the air. He considered talking to Adam about the matter, figure out whether or not Adam thought anyone had followed him, but the kid was feeling shitty enough without adding the worry of an impending enemy strike to his plate.
“Why don’t you get some sleep?” Charlie suggested.
“I’ve got lookout in a few minutes.”
“I got it.”
“You sure?” Adam said, “Isn’t Callie waiting for you?”
“She’s passed out,” Charlie said, not bothering to clarify a misconception in the house that he and Callie were an item. Though they’d gotten close, and they slept in the same room, oftentimes in the same bed, Charlie was imprisoned behind the Friend Zone. And to be honest, he didn’t care. Having Callie in his life was enough. Or at least that’s the lie he kept telling himself. He maintained the lie partly to appear like less of a loser, but also as a way to protect Callie from the others. They hadn’t seen another woman in a long time. While Charlie trusted Boricio as much as a guy like Boricio could be trusted, and Adam seemed harmless enough, he didn’t trust Jeremy or Vic. Well, Vic, now that Jeremy was gone. None of the others needed to know the details of his relationship with Callie, so let them believe whatever they wanted if it kept them from sniffing around her like dogs in heat.
“You sure?” Adam asked.
“I’m up,” Charlie said, “No problem. You catch some z’s and get better. God only knows when Boricio and Vic will want to hunt down the fuckers who did this to you.”
* * * *
4 - RYAN OLSON PART 1
/> October 15, 2011
Brentwood, Missouri
6:27 p.m.
Ryan Olson knew shit would splatter fan blades the second he saw Pete’s car mulling about the Shop N’ Save parking lot.
What the hell is he doing here?
Ryan glanced back at the registers; five lanes open. While the lines were maybe a little longer than they were supposed to be, and two cashiers had called in sick, he didn’t need to take a register yet. Plus, Becky and Rosa were due back from break in 10 minutes. So, things should be cool, and he could slip outside without it turning into the end of the world. Of course, when it came to the grocery store, the end of the world happened at least twice a shift.
He grabbed the intercom microphone on the wall and called for the head stock boy, Bill, to come to the front end.
Bill appeared a few minutes later, mopping a hand across his sweaty brow. “What’s up, Ryan?”
“I’m taking my lunch break now, I need you to watch the front end, okay?”
“Sure,” Bill said, eagerly peeling off his blue apron, and tucking his white shirt over his big gut and into his pants. “Who’s on break?”
“Becky and Rosa; they should be back soon, then Dex will probably want his break. But if we’re in the weeds, he can wait.”
“K,” Bill said, taking over the captain’s spot on the front end, the one that allowed him to see the entire front of the store. Though Bill didn’t know it, he would never make management. Despite being a great worker and always on time, he was too sloppy and awkward with people, especially women. He was a 35 year old who still lived at home with his mother and lacked the skills needed to be much more than a cog in the retail machine. To be management, you had to be great with people. Bill was scared of them. However, his eagerness to rise from the ranks of stock boy, where he’d been for 11 years, meant he would do whatever was asked, eager to prove himself to management, even the Assistant Manager, Ryan. Which was great when Ryan needed to break for longer than usual.
Yesterdays Gone: SEASON TWO (THE POST-APOCALYPTIC SERIAL THRILLER) (Yesterday's Gone) Page 4