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

wouldn’t think twice about his predilections. Or so he figured.
    Tonight would offer a him the opportunity to kill with unbridled glee and nobody would think twice. They were there for revenge, after all. And in the guise of revenge, Boricio could do whatever the fuck he wanted short of skull fucking a corpse. That might draw some odd looks.
    Boricio laughed when they found the truck and motorcycles parked in front of a warehouse, 17 miles east of his compound.  
    “We’re heeeere,” he said to the passengers and took out his binoculars and surveyed the area.
    Shit.
    Boricio handed the binoculars back to Charlie. “We need to go.”
    “We’re not doing anything?” Charlie said.  
    “What the fuck?” Vic shouted in the back seat.
    “Did you see those fuckers out there? Cocky as a bunch of bayou crocodiles, what with four guards standing in front of the warehouse in broad daylight. Must think themselves the Justice League. We could’ve popped those four fuckers into the ever-after without even getting out of the truck. But we ain’t got no idea what’s waiting inside. And I’d like to know what the hell four guards are waiting for. Makes me think they know something Boricio don’t. If we don’t know what’s in their playbook, we should probably just piss on the pages. So let’s lay out what we do know: dumb shit fuckers usually don’t know how to get four, even when they’ve got two and two staring them in the titties. If we want them drinking, we’ve gotta give ‘em Cinco de Fucking Mayo in their backyard.”
    Vic and Charlie nodded. Even if they didn’t know exactly what Boricio meant, and they looked like they didn’t, they’d been with Boricio long enough to follow his lead. Fuck it. They would figure it out one way or another before shots were fired; that was all that mattered.  
    Vic was a born hunter. Daddy gave him a .22 for his 10th birthday, and the giant fucker had been shooting into the trees ever since. The dude brought down his first deer before he turned 12; the bullet had struck home right between Bambi’s pretty little eyes, he’d said. That made his daddy proud. Unlike the rest of Team Boricio, Vic actually liked his old man, and in a way that made Boricio leave him alone. The other boys would’ve been heckled to death, talking about how they loved their daddies. But when Boricio had asked Vic if he swallowed his daddy’s spunk, or just spit it into a napkin like his baby brother, Vic looked at him with the same brand of boiling rage that washes the face of someone about to put a bitch six feet beneath the daisies.  
    “How many you think are in there?” Charlie asked.
    “You ain’t scared, are ya?” Vic asked, laughing. “Shit, Boricio, maybe you shoulda made Charlie stay home instead of Callie.”
    “I’m not scared,” Charlie said, “Just trying to think of the best way to do this.”
    “Good point, Charlie Brown, which is exactly why we’re gonna liven this party up a bit,” Boricio said. “And nothing livens a party up like a few dozen uninvited party crashers. And I’ve got just the plan.”

    **

    An hour later, Boricio and the boys were descending rapidly upon their designated sides of the warehouse, each behind the wheel of his own steel stallion: an old Honda Prelude, a new Honda Pilot, and a shiny red Dodge Charger Boricio had a hard time not just taking back to the compound.  
    With all three cars parked, they bolted back to the Boriciomobile, hit the alarms on the keychains, and waited as the sirens wailed.
    Two more bikers came outside to investigate the noise. One looked hispanic and the other even darker. A half-black? That surprised Boricio; the group he’d seen on the bikes looked like skinheads who generally didn’t take to partnering up with brown people. Boricio looked through the binoculars. “Two shit smears added to party,” Boricio said. “Looks like we hit our minimum.”
    Boricio’s minimum, conveyed to Charlie and repeated to Vic, had been: No less than six dumb fuck bikers before we start shooting, got it?
    “Now?” Vic said.  
    Boricio nodded.  
    Charlie was the first to pull the trigger, though only by a half-second. His shot was good, hitting the biker closest to the door directly in the shoulder. He fell back as Charlie’s second bullet tore through the guard’s skull. Vic nailed three in a row, sending the two soldiers on the roof spiraling over the side before training his sights on the ground, clearing