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

Boricio, a thousand at once. For the first time in years, Boricio nearly screamed. But he didn’t. He clawed back, kicked at limbs, and bit hands that brushed across his face, cursing and spitting out chunks of flesh as he bit them. He kept moving until he reached the lip, and clawed his way onto the soft, cold grass, hugging him like a blanket as it rolled in waves beneath the purple sky. The pit, with its corpses, moaned in defeat.
    Boricio bathed in the light of the moon, so fat it filled much of the night sky, and laughed.
    I’m alive!
    A sharp cry from a wolf sliced through the air, followed by an echoing chorus.  
    It’s a dog-eat-dog world, Boricio. How big is your bark?
    The howls were getting closer, and the fuckers sounded hungry. Boricio rolled to his feet and stood up, opened his hands like claws, and steeled himself ready for whatever was about to come.
    No pack of Motel Six for fleas mother fuckers is gonna take me down, you could bet your ballsack and both balls in it.  
    The howls fell silent as a fog rolled in, covering earth and sky alike.  
    Boricio, now blinded, titled his head to better hear his surroundings. The moaning from the pit stopped, leaving him in silence except for his heartbeat. He turned in the dark fog, waiting for anything from any side, his claws at the ready.
    The fog receded and two figures emerged into view. A tall woman stood beside a dog, a Husky with large, sad eyes that looked even larger and sadder beneath the bright light of the full moon.  
    The woman turned to the Husky and said, “It’s a dog-eat-dog world, eh’ Oggy Doggy?”
    The Husky ignored the woman, but turned to Boricio and spoke, “Well fuck a duck son, it looks like you just screwed the pooch!”
    Boricio stared, knowing this was a bad trip and not sure how in the hell to respond.
    Before he could speak, someone else appeared behind the pair. A small boy with big eyes. The boy studied Boricio, looking him over from head to toe, eyes narrowed in study. Finally he said, “Who are you, mister? Are you one of the voices?”
    “I’m Boricio,” he said. “Now, you wanna tell me what the hell you’re doing out here smack dab in the middle of Fuck-All?”
    “I’m lost,” he said. “But I came from over there.”  
    The boy pointed at the horizon, then down at the pit. “That’s the middle.”
    Another voice, one deeper than the child’s, chimed in, seemingly from the child’s mouth, “The Center of Fuck-All.”
    “Where you from, you know, besides your mama’s furbox?”
    “Las Orillas.”
    “Where are your parents?”
    “Everyone is gone.”
    The woman put her arm around the boy as the Husky lay down at his feet. The boy suddenly seemed to grow in a matter of seconds, shooting from a small boy to one old enough to have a few hairs on his balls.
    Boricio stumbled backwards, then righted himself and returned forward. “None of this is real, right?”  
    The boy shook his head. “Everything is real, Mr. Boricio,” he said.  
    The woman and dog nodded in agreement.
      The woman then whispered something in the Husky’s ear. He raised his snout in the air, stole a glance at the moon, then fell into a loud, 30-second howl. When he was finished, he winked, then fell back to a sleeping position at the boy’s feet.
    “Everything’s real, Mr. Boricio,” the boy repeated. He looked at the moon, and then the woman. She nodded and the boy said, “Sorry, Mr. Boricio, but I have to get going now.”  
    “Wait,” Boricio growled, “Who in the fuck are you?”
    The boy smiled, now growing to around Charlie’s age. In a grown man’s voice, he said, “Sorry,” he said, “My name is Luca. I’ve got to tell you something.”  
    Another fog rolled in and Boricio braced for the unknown, whether it be wolf, woman, dog, or child.
    When the fog retreated, they were gone.
    All of them, the corpses in the pit too. The moon hung in the air another moment, but only long enough to widen and blanket the sky in the brightest white, bright enough to bleed beneath Boricio’s closed lids.  

    Boricio opened his eyes and found himself in the forest, not too far off the highway, the BMW Z8 about 100 yards away.  
    Well, that was some beer battered bullshit if ever I’ve tasted any.
    Boricio got in the Z8 and keyed the ignition. As he found his way back to the familiar, and was heading home, he wondered what the hell Luca, real or not, was trying to tell him.

    * * * *

6 - DESMOND ARMSTRONG: PART