by Sean Platt
Time to figure out if this fuck knows anything worth knowing.
“I need to check in with dispatch. Anything you can think of for me to tell them?”
“Not much to say. I woke up this morning, and everyone was gone. Thought my girlfriend was pissed since we had a big blowup last night. Same brand that happens every 28 days or so and she’s never left before, but I’ve never slept on the couch either, so I didn’t think anything of it at first. But then the air got so heavy, know what I mean?”
“No, not sure. We didn’t have anything like that up north, just a bunch of people running and screaming in the streets. What sorta feeling you mean?”
“Well, it was like ... ” the motorist swallowed hard, “Don’t think I’m crazy or nothing, but it was like the air weighed more, or maybe less, I’m not sure, but it was different. And I could feel it so I knew something was wrong.”
“What’d you do?”
“At first, nothing. Turned on the TV, but there was nothing on. Not a single station.”
“You mean the TV was dead?”
“No, it was working, but all the channels were blue, except the ones with snow. Oh, and one channel that was showing some old show from the ‘50s. Might’ve been Leave it to Beaver, but I’m not sure. Didn’t leave it on long enough to find out.”
“What’d you do after the TV wasn’t working?” Boricio looked at the motorist with kind eyes, waiting to kill.
“Went outside to see what I could see, you know? And I could just feel it, the whole neighborhood gone. And sure enough, it was like someone had shaken the city and dumped the people out. So I changed my clothes, grabbed my keys, and started heading north.”
“Why north?”
“Got some family here, brother and his kids, wanted to check on them. But my truck was near empty, hadn’t gassed it in a week, and the gas stations I ran into are all down. No power, no people.”
Fuck. No gas. That was gonna be a BIG time, beer-battered bullshit of a problem. Good thing the cruiser was still three-quarters full.
“Well, you’re welcome to ride along with me,” Boricio jerked his thumb at the cruiser. “I can drop you off at your brother’s, if you like. Anything else you can think of before I check in with dispatch? Anything that might help us figure what this is all about?”
The motorist looked far off, half swallowing what he didn’t want to say. Boricio put a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
“It’s okay, you’re not alone. Tell me anything you think dispatch might wanna know, and don’t worry if you think it sounds weird.” Boricio smiled as wide as he could. “This is the season of weird after all.”
The motorist returned the smile and swallowed again. “Okay, you know that church up the road? The big one with that sign that says, The Perfect Place For Imperfect People
Boricio felt a bristle at the back of his neck. “Yeah?”
“Well, it was still there, but it wasn’t. Know what I mean?”
Boricio wished he didn’t, but he mostly did. “No, not sure I do.”
“I could see it like it was there, and I felt like if I got out of the pickup I’d be able to feel it beneath my fingers, but it was gone, just like my girlfriend and everyone else in the city.”
“Well, that is weird. I’ll report that to dispatch.”
It’s official. This fucker has gone from worthless to boring.
“You ready to ride?”
“You bet!”
Boricio stuck out his hand. “Sorry I’ve not introduced myself yet. Must’ve left my manners back with the chaos. I’m Officer Thompson. Good to meet you.”
The motorist took Boricio’s hand. “Jim. Jim Silva. Good to meet you, too. Thanks for your help.”
“My pleasure.”
Jim Silva had exactly two seconds to notice the officer’s face move from passive to predator before he felt the grip on his hand tighten.
“Hey, Jim?”
“Yeah?” Jim asked, confused by the tight grip on his hand, but too pussy to do anything about it.
“I’m not a cop, Jim.”
“Huh?”
“No, I’m a hunter. I hunt people like you, Jim. Hunt ‘em and kill ‘em.”
Jim’s eyes widened as he tried to pull back his hand. Boricio locked his grip tighter. He loved the look in his victims’ eyes in that moment when they first realized they were with a psychopath. It made him erect, even though he was no queer.
Boricio grabbed Jim by the back of his head, twisted him around, and thrust forward.
Silva’s nose smashed into the top of the cruiser and rained a fountain of blood. He would’ve screamed if sudden knuckles hadn’t beaten the possibility from his throat. Boricio released Jim on two unsteady feet, then let him wobble a few seconds before kicking them from under him with a maniacal laugh.
Another second and Boricio was on top of his new friend, Jim, banging his head on the asphalt like a stick on a snare drum. Jim heaved a few quivering shudders, already dying but a good stretch from dead. Boricio pulled the .45 from his belt, put it to the motorist’s temple, then shook his head and put it back.
Bullets are better than money now.
He raised his boot above the motorist’s head and Silva’s final whimper was silenced with a squish and a new stain on the highway’s old asphalt.
Adios, dipshit.
Boricio climbed back in the cruiser and floored the gas.
Boricio wondered if he’d killed his friend, Jim, too quickly. Sure, it felt good, but he’d never killed two days in a row. Maybe he should’ve added the crisp-clothed cocksucker to the stash of Ding Dongs in the trunk and saved him for later. Would be a shame to not have anything else for a while, which was probably how it would be.
He was relieved to find another breather, though; to know he wasn’t alone on the big, blue marble, yet. That meant it was only a matter of time before he’d have someone else to play with. And hopefully the next time it’d be something he could fuck.
Boricio ran his hand along the sudden bulge beneath his denim. The hard-on made him think of pussy for sale, which sent his thoughts to his favorite strip club, Plan B, which made him realize their billboard had gone missing, too.
Why the fuck didn’t I notice that?
For some reason, that bothered Boricio more than just about anything else. He loved that fucking billboard, and looked forward to it even if he wasn’t gonna stop. Shit was obviously wrong with the world, but shit was wrong with him, too, if he didn’t even notice his favorite pussy parade was AWOL.
Boricio pulled off the road at a Love’s Travel Stop. If he couldn’t get gas, then he’d get a fully-gassed car. The lot was lit like Christmas, but none of the pumps was working. Boricio traded his cruiser for a full tank and an empty Prius, then went inside and emptied the register of cash, just in case, before heading back to his brand new ride.
The door was halfway open when Boricio heard a muffled, “Help!”
The cry was female, causing the bulge in his jeans to resurface. It sounded like it came from the back of the store, maybe from the bathroom, but after 15 minutes of frustrating search and two more cries, Boricio gave up looking.
I’ll be fucked if I start hearing things, too. If the world is fucked to pieces, fine. That’s them. But if I’m hearing voices, well baby, that’s all me.
Boricio flew back onto the highway and started fiddling with the stations, thinking maybe they’d be better than the ones in the police cruiser. For the first 15 minutes or so, they weren’t, but then a crackle of static on 90.7 reversed the trend.
90.7 was the New Orleans “Original Local Jazz and Heritage Station,” but if jazz was what was being broadcast, Boricio couldn’t hear it through the hazy wall of static punctuated by the occasional beep or muffled word. And though he couldn’t make anything out, the sound was still better than the eerie nothing outside. Besides, it was sorta fun trying to hear what he could, like trying to watch porn on a scrambled channel.
Boricio kept driving
while the sky outside darkened. Daylight hadn’t hit, though it had to be morning. But the gloom in the clouds looked less than normal and mostly like a bruise.
A loud POP! on the radio was followed by the word “Boricio,” which despite its clarity, he knew he must’ve imagined. The world could disappear, sure, but some shit just wasn’t possible.
Like the strength in his shoulders, it didn’t make sense. Boricio felt like he could ditch the Prius and run the rest of the day, though he hadn’t eaten since early yesterday and wasn’t hungry enough to bother with any of the crap food piled in his trunk, even though he’d taken the time to move it from the cruiser to the Prius.
He was in mid-daydream, imagining pitting his new strength against some 250-pound pussy (the fat ones always liked to fight) when the broadcast from 90.7 suddenly jumped in volume. Boricio heard his name again, no doubt, followed by another 20 minutes of mostly silence seasoned with the muffled versions of the words gone, absent, defunct, dead, and buried, all crackling through the speakers.
Only one word repeated though, several times, in fact.
Extinct.
Ten
Charlie Wilkens
“You in there, Charlie?” Bob shouted, rattling the door with his knuckles.
Charlie’s head was still hurting, but Bob’s sudden appearance had startled him to readiness.
The whole town ups and leaves, and this asshole is still here? The end of the world and it’s me and Bob? Fu-uck me.
Bob caught a glimpse of Charlie peering through the curtains, so there was no point in hiding. He grabbed the empties and tossed them in Josie’s closet, then headed downstairs and opened the front door.
“What the hell happened?” Bob asked, pushing his way into the house without invitation. “Where’s your mother?”
“I dunno, I woke up, and you and Mom were gone, then I went around the neighborhood and everyone else is too.”
“Your mom’s gone?”
“Yeah,” Charlie said, noticing that Bob looked genuinely concerned. “Where were you? I thought you were gone, too.”
That’s when Charlie noticed Bob was wearing his greasy work shirt and cap, with Sal’s Towing in ugly, cursive letters.
“I had to cover someone’s shift last night. I was bringing a car to the impound, and I must’ve nodded off waiting for the asshole to fill out the paperwork. Next thing I know, I woke up and everyone is gone.”
“It’s not just our neighborhood, then?”
“Dude,” Bob said, his eyes wide and nervous, “it’s the whole fucking world. Or at least everything I’ve seen for 50 miles on the highway.”
Charlie stared, digesting the news.
“Why are you here? Anyone home?”
“No, I came looking for my friend Josie, and saw her door was open. So I came inside to see if she was here.”
“So you broke into her house?” Bob said, his face showing a shadow of the asshole Bob hid beneath the surface.
“The door was open,” Charlie explained. “I came in to see if anyone was here, maybe hurt or something.”
Bob stared at him, likely trying to decide if he’d be a total fucking hard ass like he usually was or if he’d let it go on the count of it being the end of the world and all. He turned and headed out the door, “Come on; let’s go home. Your bike’s in the truck already.”
Charlie wanted to protest, but knew he didn’t have a choice. He was, by all accounts, Bob’s bitch again. He walked like a dog behind him.
“So, what are we gonna do?” Charlie asked, sitting on the couch opposite Bob, who was in His Chair — the chair nobody else in the house dared to sit in — drinking his fifth Natty Light.
“Fuck if I know,” Bob said, his voice slightly slurred. “Wait for someone, the Army, The Marines, fucking X-Files, I dunno. If you ask me, it’s the goddamned Rapture. God came and took the good folks to heaven so we degenerates could rot.”
“Don’t you think if it was the Rapture there’d be a lot more people here than vanished?”
Bob stared at Charlie for a moment, as if trying to figure out how he felt about Charlie’s response.
“Shit, boy, that’s the funniest damned thing you ever said.”
Charlie glanced at the ground and shrugged.
“You ain’t so bad,” Bob said. “You should talk more instead of always staying up there in that room of yours.”
Yeah, maybe I would if you didn’t always call me dumbass or retard, or slap me around.
“How old are you now?”
Charlie squirmed a bit, not sure where this was going. “Almost 18.”
“Well, hell, ‘almost 18’ is old enough for a beer. Shit, I was drinkin’ when I was 13. Of course, times were different back then. Go get me another beer and get yourself one, too.”
“You sure? I don’t think mom would want me . . . ”
“Your mom ain’t here, now is she? She’s probably up there in heaven and seeing as you and me are still here, means we’re probably goin’ to hell. So, we may as well have some good times ‘til then, eh?”
“I guess.”
Charlie went to the fridge and grabbed the last two cans of beer, then returned to the living room and handed them both to Bob, just in case Bob was testing him.
“Here, crack it open,” Bob said, throwing it to Charlie.
Charlie pulled back the tab and beer sprayed all over his face and shirt. He let out a yelp before running into the kitchen so his beer could overflow into the sink. As Charlie cleaned himself, Bob was in the living room, laughing his ass off.
“Goddamn, you are funny, boy.”
Charlie glanced at the beer, still about 70 percent full, then lowered the can into the sink, quietly spilling all but 10 percent or so down the drain. He returned to the living room taking a sip of the beer as he entered. The beer tasted disgusting. Like shit’s shit, if shit could shit. Nowhere near as sweet as the wine coolers he’d downed at Josie’s. He made an awful face, and Bob laughed again.
“Beer virgin!” Bob said like he was some kinda frat boy asshole. Charlie would’ve rolled his eyes if he didn’t think Bob would knock one of them onto the floor.
Charlie took another swig, though most of it was thankfully gone. He pretended to drink longer than he had been, then put the empty can down and let out a loud burp. That ought to make ole Bob laugh his ass off.
And it did.
“Holy shit, you’re done?” Bob said, grabbing the can and shaking it, “Wow, that’s impressive.”
Charlie smiled and sat back on the couch.
“You didn’t pour it down the sink or anything, did ya?”
Charlie’s heart sped up. He wondered if Bob had seen him, but the angle of the kitchen’s opening killed the clear view into the living room.
“No, but I spilled half the can on myself. And . . . oh shit, the floor,” he said, realizing some had gotten on the carpet, also.
“Hey, boy,” Bob snapped, a serious glare flamed in his eyes, “you watch your mouth, ya hear.”
Charlie paused, staring at Bob, waiting for him to crack a smile or laugh, or tell him he was just kidding. Hell, Bob had just told him to drink a beer and now he was gonna get all hardcore about a curse word? Sure, Charlie never cursed in the house before, but that was out of respect for his mom. He never realized Bob would be Billy Bad Ass about a little foul language.
Hypocritical fuck.
Bob continued to glare, “You don’t use that language under my roof.”
“Yes,” Charlie said, glancing at the floor, not even bothering to point out that it wasn’t his roof, but his mother’s, and that Bob barely contributed to anything, much less rent. God knew what he did with his money, but he sure didn’t give any to Charlie’s mom.
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, sir,” Charlie said, and shrunk into the kitchen to get some paper towels to clean the mess.
As Charlie sprayed the beer stain with carpet cleaner, Bob got up and went to the kitchen. A moment later he ye
lled, “Hell, we’re outta beer!”
Charlie cringed, wishing he’d mentioned that his was the last can. He was even more glad Bob hadn’t seen him pour half the last beer down the sink. He dabbed at the stain, soaking it dry with the paper towels, pretending to be deep in concentration and hoping to avoid Bob’s wrath.
Bob slammed the fridge, came into the living room, and said, “Come on, kid, we’re gonna hit the store.”
Charlie jumped up, threw the dirty paper towels away and told Bob he’d be right out, after he went pee, using the word pee, because if shit ticked off Bob, piss would probably make him go nuclear.
“Okay, hurry up, I’ll be waiting in the truck.”
Great, we’re gonna go out and do some drunk driving in a tow truck. That should be a blast.
Bob was a surprisingly good drunk driver, though he still went too fast for Charlie’s tastes. When Bob saw Charlie clenching the hand holder thingee above the passenger side window, he vented another one of his dirty, ain’t-I-an-asshole? laughs.
“What? You think I’m gonna crash us? Shit, boy, I’ve been driving trucks since before you were an egg in your momma’s snatch.”
Wow, there’s an image.
“I’m sure you’re a great driver,” Charlie said, “I was just thinking maybe the beers might impair your driving a bit.”
Charlie regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. He expected Bob to go ape shit.
Instead, Bob laughed.
“She-eeit, it takes more than a six pack of beers to get me intoxicated, kid. You ain’t even seen me drunk.”
Charlie laughed, uncomfortably. He still had a few bruises that said otherwise, but he wasn’t about to say that!
The streets beyond their neighborhood were creepy enough to keep the hair on his arms high the entire time. Not a soul on the roads. They passed a few cars here and there, which had seemingly been left running in the middle of the road or crashed on the sides of the streets, but not enough to cause any congestion.