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

times a week or three times in one day, inebriation faded equally fast. He would collapse into bed drunk, then wake eight or so hours later, hungry as fuck. But this morning, Boricio was suffering from a helluva dry mouth, a slight headache that threatened to start pounding, and a flash of irritability at how shit in his head was messier than a murder scene.
    Boricio grabbed his knife and gun, then shoved them both into his pants before leaving his bedroom and heading downstairs.
    Boricio could smell the pancakes. They had 800 or so giant bags of pancake mix, and an equal amount of syrup which Charlie and the crew had grabbed up a while ago from a Costco, excited as if they’d hit the lottery. Unfortunately, pancakes didn’t have the protein Boricio was constantly craving, and preferred first thing in the morning. Judging from the speed at which they were shoving forkfuls into their mouths yesterday, Paola and Luca seemed to be loving them like stupid kids usually did.
    But Boricio was starting to worry about the lack of protein, for him and for all of them. They’d need to make a run soon to find some beef jerky, beans, or start hunting some fresh meat. Too many shitty carbs made you fat, slow, and stupid.
    And being fat, slow, and stupid was a one-way ticket to the morgue post-October 15.
    Boricio stepped into the large dining room, then looked over at Mary tending to a pancake on the portable stove.
    “Morning, Miss Mary,” he said, looking around the dining room, surprised to see he’d beat both Paola and Luca downstairs, despite the pounding in his head. “Where are the Happy Meals?”
    She looked up. “Well, good morning. I’m surprised to see you walking.”
    Mary smiled, and Boricio was surprised to find himself liking it, and without a dirty thought to chase it.
    “Paola’s been up for a while,” Mary said. “She went upstairs to wake Luca, since he’s still sleeping. I’m surprised you guys didn’t cross one another in the hall. Want a pancake?” She lifted the pancake with a fork, then set it on a wide plate and held it out for Boricio.
    It was the light brown color of a beautiful woman; Boricio couldn’t have cooked it better himself. He raised his eyebrows and nodded. “Thanks,” he said, taking the plate and wishing the hammers would stop slamming nails into his skull.
    Paola came running downstairs, then spilled into the dining room. “Mom,” she cried, her voice slightly high and flying way too fast to not have trouble chasing behind it.
    “What is it, Honey?” Mary moved her eyes from the frying batter to Paola.
    “It’s Luca. He’s not waking up. And there’s nothing I can do. I keep calling him and shaking him and I even punched him in the arm once I worked up the courage to do it, but nothing is working.”
    “Is he breathing?” Mary asked.
    “I … I think so.”
    “What do you mean, ‘you think so’?” Boricio said, his mouth full of pancake. “Fuckers either suck air or don’t. There ain’t no in-between when it comes to breathing. Is Rip Van Creepy sucking air or not?”
    Paola said, “I guess so, but not very much.”
    Well, FUCK!
    Boricio dropped his plate onto the counter, then bolted up the stairs and charged into Luca’s room.
    The man-kid had to be okay. It wasn’t even that Boricio cared, necessarily; it was that the old fucker was stringing the shit of their world together. He couldn’t explain it, even to himself, but Boricio somehow knew that without Luca, things would take a sharp detour into Fuckedsville.
    “Hey buddy,” Boricio yelled, a foot into his room. “Time to stop dreaming about the Golden Girls . Wake up and I promise we’ll find you some granny porn, so you can tug your raisin.”
    One look at Luca, and Boricio understood why Paola wasn’t sure if he was breathing. He looked damned close to dead.
    Boricio dropped to a knee and started to shake Luca.
    “Is he okay?” Mary asked, suddenly in the room even though Boricio hadn’t heard her come in.
    Before Boricio could answer, the sound of an engine roared from the front yard, then up into the room, bringing Boricio another sting of deja vu.
    Engines meant enemies and enemies meant fights. Fights likely meant death. Even if that death was dealt to someone other than Boricio, it was an inconvenience to his morning quiet.
    Boricio leapt from the bedside and was at the window in a second, peeling the curtains aside. He turned to the girls. “A black van. Looks like it’s been