Yesterdays Gone: SEASON TWO (THE POST-APOCALYPTIC SERIAL THRILLER) (Yesterday's Gone)

go?”
    Harry wiped his brow. “They left a while ago. Haven’t heard a peep since. Sorry, Boss.”
    Boricio was furious. He growled, “Stay the fuck put. I’m going out,” then headed back to his car. He turned, and growled, “I mean it. I’m gonna be kill-a-bitch pissed if I have to leave here looking for any more ex-members of Team Boricio.”
    “I’m not planning on going nowhere, Boss,” Harry said. He nodded, then got back to the engine work.
    Boricio would’ve kicked him hard for ending the conversation early, but figured it wasn’t worth injuring the hand that fed the Boriciomobile. So he muttered something Harry couldn't hear, then headed outside to the Z8. He’d find Charles in Charge, and everyone he was in charge of, and deal with each of them accordingly, saving Callie for last.  
    Nobody, and I mean nobody, gives Boricio the old adios. I say when it’s sayonara, and there ain’t no one this side of the sun gonna tell me when I’m finished with their sky. Fuck every one of ‘em. I find them and something’s gone wrong that wasn’t none of their fault, well then circle gets the fucking square and we’re even as the number two. But I find out they surrendered their spot on Team Boricio, Boricio will cut their scalps and wear them as a necklace.  
    Boricio cranked The Mummies and whipped the Z8 to 110 mph.  
    It felt great to be out on the prowl. Truth was, ole’ Boricio felt better in flight than out of it, his nose in the air and hairs up on end, the taste of prey teasing his mouth.  
    The thought of prey in his mouth smeared a smile across it, then put a thick on his dick as he thought about a prime piece of prey he once had named Pepper, a Puerto-Rican chica who had actually been quite tasty and not spicy at all. Boricio sunk his teeth into her two years earlier when the both of them were nice and drunk and she wasn’t expecting a thing, least of all the flood of blood soaking the bed just a few seconds after Boricio filled her with white honey. She was still shaking from all the shudders he’d sent into her body with his few final thrusts that she didn’t realize it was a knife he’d slipped in her gut right there at the end, at least not until she was swimming in the crimson bath.  
    Boricio eased on the gas and started rubbing his cock through his jeans.  
    There hadn’t been a struggle. Her eyes just went from wide to not even there. Boricio had to leave town the next morning since he’d made things so messy. He was usually cleaner than he’d been that day, but Boricio was never at his best when hungry, and it had been far too long between snacks.  
    Control was the golden key to never getting caught, and Boricio knew himself well enough to fuck his worse habits in their ass, as long as he made the time to do it. So he kept himself on a tight schedule and vowed to never go hungry again. And he hadn’t, at least not until the world went away and left him with nothing to fuck.  
    Soon as he found the Merry Band of Fuckalls, Boricio would maybe take Maid Marian Callie in a room with no windows and make her do every unladylike thing he could think of. He had the rest of the drive to imagine the specifics, but he could already guarantee it involved his pecker, her face, and a happy fucking ending. He wouldn’t kill her, of course; that would be bad for business. But he’d spent enough time laying off, pretending that Charlie was hitting that. She had to be craving some cock by now.
    Boricio slapped the steering wheel, suddenly pissed, thinking about the day he shat away after sucking down those trippy pills and dreaming again about some Damien Omen -looking kid that creeped him the fuck out.  
    Blind with rage and cruising near mach 1, it was a miracle Boricio saw the curly Q of white smoke snaking on the dark horizon, but there was no doubt about what he saw. Boricio flipped a bitch and shot the Boriciomobile back toward the belching chimney.  
    It probably wasn’t Charlie, or any of the Merry Band of Fuckalls, but it might be better. There was a 50/50 shot that whoever put the smoke in the chimney was wearing a furbox between her legs, and that made her ripe to make Boricio’s acquaintance. And considering there might be more than one person in a house with a fire, Boricio figured his odds were even better than that.  
    There’d probably be at least one bitch good looking enough for Boricio to get on down and pray to the divine scar, fill her with milk, then