Yesterday's Gone: Season One

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,