Yesterday's Gone: Season One

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 up and running 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 were 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