Read Online Yesterdays Gone: SEASON TWO (THE POST-APOCALYPTIC SERIAL THRILLER) (Yesterday's Gone) by Sean Platt, David Wright - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sean Platt, David Wright
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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 the fourth soldier before sending an unnecessary bullet into the fifth Charlie had already finished.
“Well lookie who’s been learning to bulls-eye something besides Callie’s face,” Boricio said, slapping Charlie hard on the back. Charlie grunted and turned to the warehouse.
Boricio had called dibs on “whichever fucker was stupid enough to talk into a walkie talkie.” Vic and Charlie were silent as he took careful aim.
Boricio pulled the trigger and the walkie talkie flew to the concrete, followed a second later by its handler. The scream was deafening as the team leader’s kneecap shattered, pooling the already bloody parking lot with a new, wider river of blood. Boricio pulled the trigger again, turning the guard’s hand into a sloppy slab of meat. Boricio started to laugh. “You see that fucker flapping like his hand was made of fish. That’s what happens to stupid fuckers who start shit they don’t know how to finish.”
Boricio was cut off by the sudden screeching of monsters, clicking in deafening waves surging toward the still screaming cars and crashing through the center gate of the warehouse, which the dead bikers had left open.
“Ramblers, let’s ramble,” Boricio said, pointing to the Boriciomobile.
A whole lot of pants must’ve been meeting a whole lotta shit from behind the warehouse walls, judging by the way the bikers started pouring out the open bay door. And they were armed a lot more elegantly than Boricio
“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 the fourth soldier before sending an unnecessary bullet into the fifth Charlie had already finished.
“Well lookie who’s been learning to bulls-eye something besides Callie’s face,” Boricio said, slapping Charlie hard on the back. Charlie grunted and turned to the warehouse.
Boricio had called dibs on “whichever fucker was stupid enough to talk into a walkie talkie.” Vic and Charlie were silent as he took careful aim.
Boricio pulled the trigger and the walkie talkie flew to the concrete, followed a second later by its handler. The scream was deafening as the team leader’s kneecap shattered, pooling the already bloody parking lot with a new, wider river of blood. Boricio pulled the trigger again, turning the guard’s hand into a sloppy slab of meat. Boricio started to laugh. “You see that fucker flapping like his hand was made of fish. That’s what happens to stupid fuckers who start shit they don’t know how to finish.”
Boricio was cut off by the sudden screeching of monsters, clicking in deafening waves surging toward the still screaming cars and crashing through the center gate of the warehouse, which the dead bikers had left open.
“Ramblers, let’s ramble,” Boricio said, pointing to the Boriciomobile.
A whole lot of pants must’ve been meeting a whole lotta shit from behind the warehouse walls, judging by the way the bikers started pouring out the open bay door. And they were armed a lot more elegantly than Boricio
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