Yesterday's Gone: Season One

first, then finally with enough force to push the fucker off him. Hanging half-out of the car, Luis kicked hard, pressing both feet into Joe’s chest, trapping him against the passenger door as Brent scrambled in the back seat.
    “Gun!” Luis screamed.
    Joe’s head shook violently back and forth so fast it was nearly a blur, screaming and clicking the entire time, black spittle flying from it and landing all over Luis and his car. Joe reached down and grabbed hold tight of Luis’s leg, clenching down impossibly hard for an old man.
    Luis screamed, sure the thing that was once Joe would rip right through his flesh. With renewed fear and anger, he kicked both his legs up with all the force he could muster, found Joe’s jaw, and kicked it straight back. He kicked again, repeatedly, as hard and fast as he could, bashing Joe’s skull into the window until it was a bloody pulp and his body stopped twitching.
    Luis hopped from the car, screaming, adrenaline coursing through him, air stinging his lungs as he gulped deep mouthfuls. Brent climbed from the back seat, gun in hand. Luis grabbed it from him, ran around to the passenger side, opened the door, and yanked Joe’s body out, then threw it to the road and fired four shots into the corpse.
    “Fuuuuuuck!” Luis screamed, wiping at his stinging, bloody arm. The injury was worse than he’d thought, a mouth-sized chunk of flesh torn from his right forearm.  
    Brent ran to him, “What the hell happened?”
    “He was infected,” Luis said. “He was turning into one of those things.”
    “Holy shit,” Brent said, staring at Joe’s body, eyes wide in disbelief. It took a moment, but Brent’s eyes soon found Luis’s injury. “What...?”
    “It bit me,” Luis said, feeling fear for his own life for the first time in decades.

    * * * *

BORICIO WOLFE

    October 18
    Somewhere in Alabama

    The door whined open and Boricio smiled.
    Testosterone must not have been expecting trouble because he sauntered in like he owned half the South. Two guards were behind him, neither one holding the guns in their holsters.
    Stupid shits.  
    “Now!” Boricio growled.  
    The door was open just three seconds when the flat of Boricio’s bat was beating the air straight from Testosterone’s lungs. He hit the floor with a throttled wail and both hands curled around his gut. Boricio left him writhing, then turned his gnashing teeth to the other two guards.
    Killing the delicate was like popping a zit, and the two flowers in the doorway were just a few seconds from wilting.  
    The two guards reached for their guns. Boricio swung the bat and broke the knuckles of the first guard before he’d even unfastened his holster. Boricio dropped the bat, grabbed the man by his neck, spun him around, and reached into his holster. Boricio pulled out the guard’s Colt, and shot him once in the chest, followed by a second shot to his head on the way down.  
    A geyser of blood rained onto Testosterone, who was still thrashing around on the ground, though quickly catching his breath. He opened his mouth as if about to scream for help, and Boricio pressed the Colt hard against his cheekbone.
    “Gimme one reason,” Boricio said, shoving the gun so hard into the man’s face it would leave a bruise.
    It was one-on-four on the other side of the room. The remaining guard had his gun drawn. “Stand down!” he screamed, waving the gun back and forth at Team Boricio who surrounded him. Adam and Charlie stood behind the guard while Manny and Jack stood in front of him.
    He obviously wasn’t the one who signed the checks, but he might also have been given orders to keep the prisoners alive, since despite his boss licking the concrete and his comrade already growing cold, the guard just stood there with a shaking gun and hollow eyes.  
    Stupid fucking asshole. That right there is the last dumb ass decision of your wasted life. Pull the trigger five times and BAM! Ashes to ashes, we all fall down. Maybe you’d manage to get us all, maybe you wouldn’t. But if you don’t pull that trigger in the next two seconds, you’re dead no matter what you get around to doing.  
    “Stand down!” the guard barked again.
    “Shoot him...” Testosterone finally found his voice long enough to issue a command. Boricio smacked Testosterone in the head with the butt of the pistol, then stood up.
    Boricio flashed the gunman his most winning smile and raised his hands in the air. “Not so fast,” he said. “I