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

news anchors to folks on the street, loudly testified to his lunacy. Of course, Boricio knew one-sided when he saw it. He’d seen plenty of people praising the old man, twice a day for a week, though he never saw the anchors or the interviewers on the news getting their side of the story.
    The TV talking heads made fun of “The Prophet,” crafting jokes and casting him as anything from a raving idiot to a master of deception. Boricio hadn’t untangled the second part yet, but knew the first one was downright ridiculous. Anyone who failed to see the intelligence in the old man’s eyes a second after staring inside them had to be idiots themselves. And anyone who hadn’t looked into his eyes didn’t have a right to pound their nails into a rickety bridge of opinion. Assholes were entitled to their own opinions, but not to their own set of facts. Hell, even an eight year old knew that.
    Boricio suddenly missed Luca with a flare of fierce intensity, as though his little brother could make his world orbit like it did back when everything was better. As if Luca could give him permission to start living, without having to wake in the morning with the scent of Jack on his collar.
    Given the time, Luca should be alone, assuming he was still being home schooled, or maybe with Sarah, but when Boricio called, Will answered on the first ring.
    “Hello?”
    Boricio was silent.
    “Hello?”
    Still nothing.
    “Is that you, Boricio?”
    Will gave Boricio a minute to respond, but Boricio only chewed the air without hanging up.
    “I’m sorry, Boricio,” Will finally said. “Please, talk to me.”
    Boricio thought of telling the old man to fuck himself, maybe with something sharp, but silenced the line instead.
    He dropped the phone in his pocket, where it buzzed seven or so seconds later. Boricio pulled it back out, looked at the screen to see what he already knew, then opened his nightstand drawer and dropped the phone inside with a thunk before slamming it shut.
    He heard a knock at the door, so in time with the slamming drawer that Boricio wondered if it was his imagination.
    Three more knocks said it wasn’t.
    Boricio went to the door and opened it to the round face of the old man, split a third down the middle with the widest smile Boricio had seen before breakfast in months.
    “Care to have a talk over drinks?”
    Boricio scratched his head. “You kidding, Father? You’ve any idea how early it is?”
    The old man said, “I’m not a Father, just a humble servant of The Good Lord. My cloth gets stained before it gets in the wash, no different from yours.” He smiled even wider and pat Boricio on his shoulder. “Besides, I’m not drinking anything but the blood of Christ, and all times of day are great for that. And you,” he shook his head, “well, you’re not having anything but the hair of the dog that bit you, and I can’t see a lick of harm in that.”
    The Prophet added, “Woe unto them that rise up early in the morning, that they may follow strong drink,” then winked. “Isaiah 5:11.”
    Boricio said, “Doesn’t that verse mean we’re not supposed to drink?”
    “Nope, Son,” The Prophet shook his head. “It sounds exactly like permission granted to me.” He winked again, then said, “I’ll be right back.”
    The old man nodded at a now smiling Boricio, then disappeared to his F-150, returning a minute later with a full bottle of Jack — replacing the single drop Boricio had left — and a black wine bottle with a large rooster on the label, and a gold twist-top instead of a cork, plus two red plastic cups.
    The Prophet set both bottles on the small table in Boricio’s room, then turned to Boricio. “What’ll it be?”
    Boricio said, “Jack, please. I can’t trust wine without a cork.”
    “Corks don’t make the wine taste better,” The Prophet argued.
    “Yeah, but it’s how wine’s supposed to be finished. Would you listen to a sermon that didn’t mention God?”
    “That’s different.”
    “Nope,” Boricio shook his head. “I don’t think it is.”
    “People want things easy, and don’t always have a bottle opener.”
    Boricio didn’t want to argue. He said, “Wine is poetry in a bottle; sunlight, held together by water. The cork is the final verse. I’m not interested in your savior’s blood this morning, Padre.”
    Boricio watched The Prophet, blinking twice as fast while breathing half as slow, trying not to look a quarter flustered as he was, probably trying