Yesterday's Gone: Season One

dressing a sniper in light. Boricio swiveled to the side as a hollow crack flew through the air, followed by a splatter of dirt beside him.  
    “Follow me!” Boricio crouched and ran, behind the building and out of sight, but not out of the sniper’s range. Adam and Charlie followed close. Manny too, but not close enough. Another hollow crack thundered in the air and Manny fell to the ground. Adam grabbed his bat, and ran to Boricio, out of breath, sweaty and panicked, just like Charlie.
    FUCK! We’re surrounded and about to get a bullet bukake straight to the face. Least it looks like I still got the two best apples in the barrel, for what that’s worth.  
    “Alright, listen up,” Boricio said as they ducked behind the brush against the wall. The spotlight swept overhead, then back, searching for them as men shouted at one another from the front yard. “Them assholes are dead because they were supposed to be. You’re supposed to stay alive. All three of us. Now we need to get from here to there.” Boricio pointed at the hanger about 50 yards away, in the back of the compound. “We can do it, but we have to keep going and can’t stop for nothing. Got it?”
    They nodded.
    “These fuckers are multiplying by the minute and if we’re not out of here yesterday, we’re gonna be the meat in the middle of a dead fucker sandwich. So just keep running. Night’s on our side. They’ll shine that light on you, but you zig and zag every time they do. Do NOT run in a straight line. Run like you’re the craziest Forest Gump mother fucker to ever put on a pair of Nikes. Don’t stop for nothing and wait for my lead.”
    Another dozen footsteps slapped the dirt from the rear of the house. A few seconds, and they’d be surrounded. Boricio peeked out at the three survivalist fucks who must’ve lost all common sense when everything else in the world went adios since they had their guns drawn but were standing right out in the open, facing the front yard instead of the back.
    “Cover my back!” Boricio yelled, then flew into the open, splitting five bullets between three survivalists and dropping them all.
    Boricio was about to tell the boys to go, but something grabbed his attention like a punch to the balls.
    A fluttering curtain parted from an open window on the second floor on the side of the house. And time froze for Boricio.
    It felt like someone was pouring iced reality down Boricio’s throat then making him piss it right back out.  
    That dumb bitch from New Orleans — the one from the world’s last night alive, the one whose body had disappeared and blood turned to bleach stains — she was staring at him from the window, with secrets in her eyes and a broken promise on her lips.  
    She put her pointer finger to her mouth, shook her head, then closed the curtain.
    Boricio gritted his teeth and snarled. It took everything inside him not to rush the house and figure out exactly what in the beer-battered bullshit was going on.  
    “What are you waiting for Mr. Boricio?” Charlie asked.  
    FUCK!
    A second spotlight doused the black from the sky and more survivalist fucks were spilling from the front of the house. Shit was about to get ugly as a nun with a goiter.
    Boricio looked up at the window again. He could see her silhouette, the same silhouette he’d stared at for months. The one he’d been saving for Christmas.  
    Charlie again: “Should we go?”
    FUCK!  
    Boricio growled, “Just waiting for the perfect minute. Keep your guns down and ankles moving. I’m gonna need you on the other side.” He looked back, nodded and said, “NOW!”
    They tore into the night, and sure enough, a trio of gunmen was waiting just around the corner of the rear of the house. Boricio charged at full speed, ending their lives as he passed.  
    No one looked behind as their world exploded: whistling bullets, flying dirt, and shouted orders. They veered across empty space like the worst football team ever, somehow crossing the distance — zigging, zagging, and clinging to every molecule of available darkness.  
    Bullets hit the hanger with a clang. Boricio opened the door, rushed inside and closed the doors just as his team scrambled inside, leaving just enough light to see several cars and trucks.
    “I’m gonna need you to shoot any fuckers who try and get in here,” Boricio said to the two kids. “I’ll look for keys and if I can’t find any, I’ll hot-wire. Either way, I’m gonna need a few