Yesterday's Gone (Season 5): Episodes 25-30 (5 page)

Shit.

Ed wondered if the agents in pursuit were only wanting to talk or if they were like Sullivan, infected by aliens and looking to close open loops that might see them discovered.

After a few miles of nothing but logging trucks and the weathered, battered road beasts that normally swallowed this stretch, Ed turned back toward the safe house.

He considered calling the house to see if everyone was OK, but decided against it. While the line was encrypted and he’d installed voice modulation software on his phone as well as Jade’s and Teagan’s, Ed didn’t want to take a single unnecessary risk, especially if agents were closing in on his location.

They’d need somewhere else to go.

Staying in Maine was too risky.

Problem was, Ed had nowhere to run. He’d burned through his money getting this house and had to assume his connections — forgers, weapons suppliers, and the same money guys he’d been using since his agency days — were all compromised if agents
had
tracked him to Maine.

“Fuck!” Ed slammed his palm into the steering wheel.

He had $6,457 left. He could get some camping gear and equipment then head further north, perhaps into Canada, and do all right. But Ed wasn’t sure how well the others would hold up. 

Even though Brent and Ed’s daughter, Jade, were survivors who could be counted on to weather the tough times, he wasn’t so sure about Teagan. She was a child, raising a toddler. Plus Brent had his son, Ben, who was only five. 

Ed couldn’t be carting children across creation with the government’s most dangerous black-ops agents in pursuit.

He wished he had some way of knowing if Bolton was compromised. If not, there was a chance Ed could return to Black Island, forge some sort of truce, and maybe get them to leave his family alone.

But if Bolton, or even people above him (
who knows how deep the alien’s tentacles had managed to slither?
) were infected, Ed would be ensuring his death along with all those he had vowed to protect.

**

The half-mile long stretch of dirt leading to Ed’s cabin forked from yet another dirt road, blocked by a locked rusty gate that read,
No Trespassers!!!
and looked like it hadn’t been used in decades. There was no way you’d find the cabin without explicit directions or previous knowledge. Odds of it being accidentally stumbled upon by agents were virtually impossible.

Hunters were a bigger threat, though hunters in these parts weren’t likely to cross the barbed wire or trespassing signs along the property, especially since there was no shortage of game to be had on the neighboring lands.

Ed’s truck bounced violently on the bumpy road as the sky opened to dump rain on his final stretch to the cabin, reducing visibility to maybe ten yards, forcing him to a near crawl.

The slower he went, the more eager Ed was to reach the cabin and make sure everyone was OK, even if he didn’t yet know how to tell the only family he had that they might be compromised and had to leave just as they were getting settled. He wasn’t even sure if he’d tell them of his plan to visit Bolton. Perhaps he’d tell Brent, but Ed was sure Jade would freak out and beg him not to. 

That was the last thing he needed. Ed had to keep his head clear and figure out their options.

As he reached the end of the road and the woods thinned to a clearing, Ed noticed a pair of black vans parked in front of the cabin. 

Shit!

Ed panicked, not sure if he should back out and make a run for it or get out of the truck and look the piper in his eye. He had to assume that if the agents wanted his friends and family dead, they already were.

Ed paused, still uncertain, and cursed his indecision. He was rusty. Old Ed would know exactly what to do, with a body that moved faster than his mind.

Bright headlights flicked on behind him, likely another black van, barring every thought of retreat.

“Shit.” Ed killed the engine and opened his door.

He stepped out of the truck as the cabin’s front door flew open. Jade came running out, yelling, “Dad!”

Someone — or two someones — grabbed Ed’s arms from behind, injecting him with something before he could turn. He struggled to resist the drug’s effects, and the men holding him, as his daughter screamed.

Ed saw a bag being pulled over his head, then nothing.

* * * *

CHAPTER 3 — BORICIO WOLFE

Somewhere in BumFuck, South Carolina

If it hadn’t been for the asshole playing “Friends in Low Places” for the umpteenth time, Boricio might not have found the strength to stand from the bar and get the hell out of the shithole joint before the jolly band of jerk offs started “singing” the song —
again
.

On the list of worst songs ever made, “Friends in Low Places” had to be Number Fucking One. It was practically an anthem for ignorant hillbilly cousin-fuckers to be blue-ribbon proud of their ignorant hillbilly cousin-fucking ways.

Fuck Garth Brooks for making this piece-of-shit song. Fuck him and fuck his sweat-stained nasty-ass hat.

Boricio stood from his stool and felt the floor swaying beneath him. Despite punishing his liver for three weeks running, not to mention a lifetime of abuse before he met Rose, Boricio was still surprised by his level of inebriation. The world had gone from wavy to what-the-fuck, and that was when anything could happen, and something always did. 

Boricio laughed as he made his way to the bathroom, hoping he wouldn’t have to smell too much shit as he pissed before leaving.

Halfway to the crapper, some asshole bumped into Boricio, and nearly sent him to the floor.

He managed to stay off his ass, and spun to see what careless asshole had been stupid enough to brush against the devil.

A giant Paul Bunyon-looking fuckstick with a Grizzly Adams beard and a nice big black prison tat of a swastika on his forearm stood there staring at Boricio as if
he
had been the one to bump into him.

Grizzly blurted, “What?” 

Boricio looked him up and down, trying not to laugh at an outfit straight out of racist biker central casting or a bad '90s action movie. 

Torn acid wash jeans?
Check. 

Black leather jacket spattered with idiot patches?
Check. 

Red bandanna to hide his bald spot?
Check. 

Tattoos that proved how much he hated himself and every other race?
Check. Check. Triple nipple I’ll turn you cripple, check!

Big Billy Badass was trying so hard it made Boricio giggle like a bitch. 

“Whatchyou laughing at, boy?”

“Nothin’ honey, you just keep rockin’ that look.”

Grizzly stared at Boricio, open mouthed. Boricio wanted to play more, but still had to squirt. 

Boricio turned from Grizzly’s stare, giggling on his way to the bathroom and hoping that big didn’t mean dumb, and that Grizzly would be smart enough not to bother a man on his way to point Percy at the porcelain. 

There was no way he would’ve looked back, even if he heard the bear charging, but Boricio didn’t need to worry. Grizzly was more interested in the hot piece of ass waiting for him to finish — a bleach blonde with an equal number of “I hate my daddy” tattoos, but still young enough that the miles of self-loathing, drug abuse, and whoring had yet to turn her pussy into a pile of rancid lunch meat.  

At the door, he turned back to see what he knew he would see — the blonde eyeballing Boricio like she wanted him belly to belly and burying a bone. 

Boricio winked, then went into the bathroom. He emptied his eel, then stepped back out and threw his arms around the bar. A song by that cunt Kelly Clarkson came on the jukebox, clearly pissed of a few of the patrons — the song was a few years old, but brand new by shithole bar standards, and not Garth Vader or George Fucking Straight.

As he searched the bar for a reason to stay, Boricio saw Grizzly’s blonde coming toward him.

Well, well, well. Lookee here.

The blonde looked Boricio up and down on approach, passing him with a wink and a smile on her way into the lady’s room.

Boricio followed her inside, not at all concerned about the restroom’s other occupants. Places like this — usually packed like opening day at a glory hole with meth heads, chicks fucked hard on the pain pill du jour, and drunks — women didn’t think dick about a dude doing the lumpy batter all over a bitch’s back in the stall.

Girls gotta earn their drugs. 

Boricio expected a crowded house, but the shit room was empty save for the blonde.

The door swung shut behind Boricio. The blonde looked back, feigning surprise.

“What are
you
doing in here?”

“I think you know.” Boricio climbed her body, using his eyes to fill every hole. 

“I’m with someone,” she said, smiling coyly.

“Yeah, I saw. But we both know he ain’t doin’ you like you need to get done. Am I right?” Boricio arched an eyebrow and grinned, feeling the liquor swimming inside him. 

She stood by the sink and said nothing. Boricio stepped closer. Inches away, he looked down at her swollen tits, beaded with sweat, skin flushing for his touch. Her breath was rapid, and her eyes said she was as starving as him, and for the exact same thing. Hell, he could close his eyes and smell her.

Boricio put his hands on the blonde’s hips and pulled her against him. 

She leaned in, kissing him hard on the lips like she had cancer and his saliva was her cure.

He wanted to fuck her into a pile right there in the filthy bathroom, make her scream his name and leave her with cum on her tongue when she went to French Grizzly. 

But Baby Boricio wasn’t cooperating. It wasn’t often that he got a case of drunk dick, but he knew not to force shit when it did. 

He considered taking her back to his motel and saving her for morning, but the room was maybe six shit stains better than the bathroom, and something told Boricio that the blonde would never taste better than now. 

The blonde, realizing Boricio’s loss of interest, pulled away.

“What’s wrong?” 

“Nothin’ — just realized I got somewhere to be.”

She wrinkled her nose, pushed him away, and clomped out of the bathroom. 

Boricio followed, pausing on the sawdust-covered floor as Grizzly passed, likely on his way to the men’s room.

He looked at his woman, then at Boricio, slowly adding up two and two in his tiny noggin. He finally got four and yelled at the blonde. 

“What the fuck you doin’ in there with this pile of shit?” 

“He followed me.” She pointed an accusing finger at Boricio.

Right, like you didn’t want me making cherries jubilee.

“Why the fuck you following my girl?” Grizzly shoved Boricio hard. 

He fell back, then paused to size up his enemy. 

Boricio was better drunk than most were sober, but that didn’t diminish how fuckered he was. Clearly this asshole, and his Neanderthal friends, could kick his dick ass six ways to Sunday. But at the same time, bitches clucked and Boricio didn’t. Weren’t no way, no how he was backing down now.  

Boricio had been on the run for three weeks since The Darkness stole Rose from his soul. Three weeks of getting as far the fuck away from her as possible before this world went to hell like the other one. Three weeks of searching for Mary and Paola, three weeks of failing to find them. Three weeks of nights like this — losing himself down the twin holes of hell — liquor to poison his blood and disposable pussy to help him forget.

Three weeks without the violence Boricio needed. Three weeks without losing himself to the rampage, killing a fucker, especially one who deserved it, and making him choke to death on Boricio’s rage. 

He met Grizzly’s eyes and smiled. 

“Bitch was begging, said you’re nothing but hair, gut, and stub, and that even with that you only slam her a minute before stubby gets to spittin'—” 

Grizzly swung, his ham-sized fist finding Boricio’s jaw before he could duck or counter.

A detonation of pain boomed through his jaw. 

Boricio stumbled, would’ve fallen to the ground if he hadn’t stumbled back against a wall of tacky framed photos hanging crooked outside the bathrooms.

Blood flooded his mouth. 

That fucker better not have knocked out a tooth!

Boricio felt around with his tongue, but didn’t have time to check both rows of pearly whites before the fucker was charging toward the second round. 

Boricio dropped to the ground, and managed to scramble away just as Grizzly barreled straight into the wall.

Boricio bounced up, looked back at Blondie, who was staring at the two men with a look so jaded she almost seemed bored. 

Every drunk in the bar paused their shows for Boricio. Like the blonde, they’d seen this shit play out a thousand times before, but nothing thrilled hill folk like a brawl.

Boricio winked at Blondie. 

The giant yelled, “Come on, you fucker!”

“Your GPS now working? I’m right here. And really, is
fucker
the best you got? Now technically, if I’d had another minute or two with your cock cozy that’s exactly what I’d be right now, but she smelled like the pussy you get at Goodwill so I passed, and I haven’t fucked your mother since yest—”

Grizzly charged and stole Boricio’s second punch line. 

Boricio saw himself sidestepping the goliath, then rushing him from behind, smacking his hands on the man’s ears before going to town. But Boricio was drunk, and Grizzly sent him hard to the floor. 

He was a boulder atop Boricio. He managed a few jabs to the giant’s ribcage, blows that would’ve hurt most men, if not broken some bones. But Grizzly was wearing a blue whale’s winter coat. 

He grunted, reached up, grabbed Boricio’s head with both hands, and slammed it hard onto a cushion of sawdust.

Pain splintered Boricio’s skull, screaming from the lightning strike through him, white and blinding enough to rob him of everything else.