Yesterday's Gone: Season Three (THE POST-APOCALYPTIC SERIAL THRILLER)

closed off. Can you imagine?” he turned to Boricio. “Closing off such a beautiful place so people could no longer enjoy it?”
    “People suck,” Boricio said, like it was fact. “So, what happened? I’m guessing things got better.”
    “Yes, for a while, though this company was untouchable. It buried its face behind caviar-eating lawyers, lobbyists, and politicians, all crooked as The Mississippi is long. Hell, the company even got to some of the locals here, trying to sway them. But the good people of Kingsland, well they weren’t about to sit by and watch as some corporation came in and ruined their lake … our lake. ”
    “So, what did they do?”
    “They banded together, pooled their money, and hired themselves their own high-priced attorney, some fellow on TV, I forget his name, and he stood toe to toe with the company. It was David and Goliath and we all got to watch, smiling from the front row. It was a big win for the good people of Alabama, and we all cheered as our David slung rocks at the wobbling Goliath. It took eight long years, but finally, the fish started coming back, and soon we were able to open the lake back up.”
    Boricio stared out across the water, quiet for a moment, then said, “That’s a ripping yarn, Father. But I don’t see how it has anything to do with me?”
    “You young people, everything has to be about you or it doesn’t mean anything,” The Prophet said.
    “Not what I’m saying, Padre,” Boricio said. The man had not yet called him The Prophet, and seemed as though he went out of his way to call him everything but his title. Like most people, he probably found it hard to acknowledge something greater than himself. The idea of God’s Eternal Love or visions of the Rapture likely scared the man.
    “The point of the story,” The Prophet said, turning his eyes from Boricio back to the lake, “is that there was a time, not too long ago, when people would stand together and fight for what they believed. I hate to say it, but I’m sure if some company tried something like that today, the good folks here would just roll right over, and let it happen like it didn’t even matter. Too many people have surrendered their rights, handing them gift wrapped to politicians and companies, either too afraid or too apathetic, or hell, just too plain busy to fight back.” The Prophet shook his head. “It’s a day worth mourning when people turn their eyes from what’s right to cast them on what’s easy.”
    Boricio was quiet, still staring at the lake, probably trying to figure where The Prophet was going with his sermon.
    “So,” The Prophet said, “why did you give up?”
    Boricio blinked, then turned to The Prophet and sighed. “Really?” he said. “You’re trying to draw a line between what’s happening inside my head and a bunch of apathetic losers getting bent over and butt tickled by The Man?” He shook his head. “I expected more from you, Preacher Man, especially after dragging me out of my room so early this morning.”
    “You think you’re any different from these so-called apathetic losers?” The Prophet said. “Sorry, Son, but you don’t seem all that different from most people I see — drowning in misery, self-delusion, and ultimately, their own self-destruction. How long are you gonna bury yourself in a squalid motel drinking yourself into oblivion?”
    “Until my bank account runs dry or I’m ready to move on. I don’t see how it’s your concern, Padre,” Boricio snapped, anger flashing in his eyes as he turned to face The Prophet.
    “I don’t believe you,” The Prophet said. “I think the real reason you haven’t left is that you’re searching for something. Salvation, perhaps?”
    Boricio laughed, turned to the lake and stared, breathing heavily before he turned back to The Prophet, “Salvation? You think I’m seeking salvation? I don’t know what you think you know about me, but let me just explain one thing to you, simple so you understand it — I’m not seeking salvation. I’m not some wretched sinner like the rest of the white trash losers you get waltzing into your church every day ending in Y. I don’t need the snake oil you’re selling or the crutch you’re offering.”
    Boricio stepped forward, inches from The Prophet’s face, eyes narrowed in menace, as he growled through his gritted teeth, “I don’t need you to wave your magic fucking wand and make all my bad karma go bye-bye. So save your talk of