Yesterday's Gone: Season One

remaining two, one was as easy as tenderizing a few pounds of meat.  
    None of the prisoners were armed, Boricio figured. He’d need to rip off his blindfold, survey the room, then get clear to his far right within the first second. He had no way of knowing for certain whether the four “prisoners” were friendly or not, but he’d have to assume they were all cozy with Testosterone and the Big Nipple Bitch, because as Boricio had learned long ago, you never take anything as a given.
    He’d start with the prisoner on the far right, snap his neck before anyone in the room knew what was happening. He’d move straight in a row, ending each of the blindfolded pigeons until he hit Silent Bob at the end.  
    Bitch of it was, the strategy would have to flip a bitch in a second if any of the four prisoners were instead a guard. He’d still start with the guy on the far right, but would have to immediately grab the second guy so he could use his body as a shield while he figured out what to do with the other two fucktards.  
    It wouldn’t be quiet, and that meant just seconds until Testosterone and Big Nipple Bitch came busting in with their Superdome-sized home court advantage and whatever weapons they carried.
    Much as he hated to soak in the saltwater suck on this that came with murdering time, it was college cool to play the room until the right time. It would happen, and when it did, he’d let everyone in the room, dead and alive, know he was their new Lord and Savior, least for the six or so seconds they had the chance to swear allegiance. They were already on their knees at the end of the world; ain’t no better time than that to switch up deities.
    Boricio would’ve already snapped a whole lot of spinal cords, but the shit that came falling from Silent Bob’s mouth a few minutes earlier had tripped him way the fuck out.  
    He didn’t understand the dude’s words, but his tone was all wrong — sent an arrow straight into the bull’s-eye of Boricio’s terror like few things he’d ever heard.  
    The Chinese had a weird ass ching chong ramma lamma ding dong of a language, but there was shit about it that just made good sense, way it was once explained to Boricio. Like the way they used the same words to mean different things, difference being in tone.  
    “Tiger” “four” and “death” were all the same exact fucking word in Chinese, just the tone the chinks said it that made the difference. Most people in America would be too stupid to hear that shit; everyone would end up confusing one another all the time. But if a fucker can learn how to listen over there, then they can do it over here. Boricio knew everything he needed to know 99% of the time, and he got there with his ears and his eyes, and sometimes his nose. That’s what instincts were: listening to the music of the world around and never missing a note. When it came to hearing the fear in another man’s throat, Boricio had perfect pitch.  
    Silent Bob was scared as fuck about something.
    He saw something out there that he don’t know how to explain. His mind is turning it over and trying to measure it, but there’s too much and not enough and he can’t stir that shit up enough to make no sorta sense. And it’s mixed with the kinda fear a man gets when there ain’t no way he’s got more than 100 breaths left inside him.  
    Whatever he saw, there was a chance it wasn’t human. A week ago that would’ve sounded like some science fiction bullshit to Boricio, but not anymore. Something soured the planet to memory — had to be global, otherwise some sort of cavalry would’ve been rolling in by now.
    Something pointed the barrel at humanity. And it forgot to empty the chamber, or ran out of bullets. Either way, aliens, government, who-the-fuck ever — someone let the fries burn. And Boricio had a feeling that something was being done to clean up the mess. That something is probably what Silent Bob saw. It was something that Boricio had sensed more than knew, as a predator senses when a new breed has risen to the top of the food chain.
    Whatever Silent Bob saw, must’ve fucked with his head big-time. Made sense. Boricio’s head was fucked with, above and beyond his usual internal bullshit transmissions. It felt real, sure, but he sure as shit knew a Boricio FM wasn’t broadcasting his name across all hours of fuck all.  
    If that were all true, and Boricio figured it was, he was safer in this room, even if it meant staying