Yesterday's Gone (Season 5): Episodes 25-30 (11 page)

“Help you what?” 

Acevedo asked as if he knew the answer but was terrified to ask.

“Save the world.”

“Oh God, it’s true, isn’t it?”

“What?” 

“
It’s
out there, isn’t it? I knew it was only a matter of time. I can feel
It.
”

“What are you talking about?” Images of the dark thing inside Steven flashed through Marina’s mind.

“It goes by many names, but is commonly called The Darkness. It came in those vials from somewhere far away. It came here to destroy us.”

“Father said the vials could save us. That you know where the others are.”

“Your father entrusted them to a few special people, people he felt wouldn’t be corruptible by their power. I’m afraid your father chose wrong.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because he chose me, and I am
not
good. I thought I was. But if I, a man of God, couldn’t resist the temptation, what does that say for others?”

“Do you know where the other vials are?”

“Why? What are we going to do, assuming they’ve not been opened, and assuming these people will turn them over to us?” 

Marina said, “I thought you would know what to do.”

“You’ve come to the wrong place. Please, leave, and show no one those vials.”

“I can’t just leave! I don’t know what to do. My father said
you
would help.”

“Sorry, I’m not the man your father believed me to be.”

Marina looked at the man’s spare bedroom, with no personal belongings save for whatever few items he could stuff into the trunk at the foot of his bed. She didn’t know much of other religions, but knew an ordinary man didn’t sew his lips shut or commit to a monastic life.

She had no clue as to the man’s committed sins, but clearly seemed to owe atonement for something.

“Why are you here? Why did you sew your lips shut.”

Acevedo looked down, as if ashamed to meet Marina’s eyes.

“Please,” she said. “I have nowhere else to go. My boyfriend, a man I thought loved me, who led the church alongside me, just tried to kill me. He’s got this Darkness you’re talking about inside him. If I return to the church, he
will
kill me. And he’ll take these vials. Is that what you want?”

He met her eyes, gravely. “No.”

“Then please, you must help me.”

Acevedo stared at her, his lips a mess of blood and hanging threads. He looked lost and defeated already. She wondered if he
could
help her. Wondered what he’d seen to bring him here, and make him sew his lips shut?

“Fine, I’ll help. But you must promise me one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Whatever I do, whatever I say, do not give me any of the vials. I cannot be trusted.”

“OK,” she said nervously, hoping her father wasn’t wrong to put his faith in this broken, beaten man.

“So, you’ll help me?”

“Under one condition,” Acevedo said.

“What’s that?”

“You must become pure of temptation. I need to know you’re not tainted.”

“What do you mean?”

“I means this … ” 

Suddenly someone was behind Marina, grabbing her, putting a rag over her mouth. She tried to resist, but the rag was soaked with something that bleached the fight from her body and mind.

* * * *

CHAPTER 6 — BORICIO WOLFE

Boricio lay on the top bunk with his hands behind his head — the stingy fucks at Carlson County Correctional Center didn’t seem to believe in pillows. How the fuck were they supposed to “correct” criminals when they couldn’t even get the bedding right? He was doing his damndest not to show that he was feeling like a cracked-out cat in a cracker box of claustrophobia. 

Boricio’s cell was a tiny six by eight, with a shitter/sink combo and a pair of bunks with yoga mats for mattresses. Boricio was fortunately alone in his cell for the moment. He couldn’t imagine sharing a space so small without his cellmate DOA. And he sure as shit wasn’t gonna have some cunt come in and demand the top bunk. 

Boricio was
not
a fucking bottom.

He’d been awake for about an hour but hadn’t heard dick from the guards or anyone else.

The jail wasn’t like that shit on
Oz
where all the prisoners could see one another. Boricio’s cell had no bars — just concrete walls, what looked like an unbreakable window, and a locked door with safety glass. He could see another cell across from him, though Boricio didn’t know if it was empty or occupied. For that he was thankful. Making friends was the last thing he wanted to do in this shithole.

Boricio had barely slept since the cops picked him up. He’d yet to hear what he was being charged with, though murder seemed high on the list.

The irony was laughable. Of all the murders he’d committed, a number that had to climb high in the hundreds, Boricio had been nicked for what he’d argue was self-defense.

Karma wasn’t a bitch. She was a fucking cunt.

He wasn’t horribly concerned. Boricio had little doubt that he’d beat the rap. It was self-defense. Sure, he’d chased the fucker down, but he could easily argue that he did so in fear that the hillbilly would get to his gun then come back and shoot him. He could also argue that he wasn’t chasing the guy, but rather running to the gas station for help, then the guy said he would shoot him. Boricio wasn’t above lying for justice.

Hell, maybe there was even a camera or three that showed the cousin fuckers arriving with Boricio bound in the truck.

And on the off chance that he
was
convicted, well, Boricio would find a way to escape.

He’d go cunt crazy if cooped up too long. Of course, if he
were
convicted, he’d likely be sent to Oz, a place packed with skinheads and other factions that would all have to learn about Team Boricio. 

After what seemed like his life’s longest morning, a prison guard approached Boricio’s cell and peeked through the security glass. He was a pig, fat, late forties, with shoe polish-black hair and a fat gray caterpillar mustache. He also had that slow look that suggested his parents were siblings.

 Guard Tard told Boricio to sit on the bed with his back to the wall. He took his sweet time but complied.

Guard Tard stepped inside Boricio’s cell and crossed his arms over his ample chest. “So, your name is John Doe, eh?”

Boricio smiled, remembering how much shit the booking officer gave him while taking his prints and purty picture while Boricio refused to say shit. Let ‘em look — they wouldn’t find dick with Boricio’s name. Even his driver’s license was a decoy.

“Yeah.” Boricio smiled.

“You think you’re a real smart ass, eh? Walkin’ around like your shit don’t stink.”

“I’m new, and we’ve yet to share the pleasure of a proper introduction. I suggest you take it down a notch, hoss.” Boricio winked. “That way you’ll have less regrets later.” 

Guard Tard looked as if Boricio had pulled out his pecker and pissed on Old Glory while using the bible to wipe his ass.

“Excuse me, boy?”

“
Boy?
” Boricio laughed. “Do I look like I want a trip to Chuck E. Cheese?”

Guard Tard’s face turned bright red.

He reached for his nightstick and stepped toward Boricio, looking hungry for an excuse to whip it from his belt.

Boricio stared at the man without flinching, and smiled. “You touch your sister with that stick? She ask you to shove it up her poop chute, or does she prefer it in her purty little slit?”

Guard Tard responded as predicted — he leaped at Boricio, swinging.

Boricio kicked the man hard, just missing his knee and striking right below it. Rather than breaking his leg as planned, the man merely fell forward, nightstick hitting Boricio twice in the ribs.

Guard Tard raised the stick and swung at his head.

Boricio threw his left arm up to deflect the blow.

Unfortunately, his arm didn’t fare as well.

Something cracked. An unholy pain streaked through Boricio’s forearm.

He screamed out, surprised by how much pain the fat, fucking retard had managed to inflict.

Guard Tard stopped his attack, eyes wide, realizing he’d gone too far and would have shit to explain.

“Help!” Boricio yelled.

Another guard appeared, a heavyset black dude with a graying beard and thick black glasses. His name badge read:
BOYLE
.

Boyle yelled at Guard Tard. “What the hell, Sanders?” 

Guard Tard withdrew from the cell, whining. “He hit me, sir!”

“Bullshit! He got pissed 'cuz I asked if he fucks his sister with his nightstick.”

Boyle looked at Boricio as if to ask:
What? Did you just say what I thought you said?

Boyle might’ve smiled. It was hard to focus through the pain.

The guard looked down at Boricio’s arm, saw the huge swelling welt.

“Hang tight, I’ll get a doc to check you out.” He turned to Guard Tard. “You, out here, now.”

Guard Tard left with his tail between his legs. 

Boricio held his clucking and smiled, hoping the fucker’s superiors would turn his ass into burger. He wasn’t sure how long his stay in ButtFuck County Lockup would be, but Boricio was no one’s bitch to beat on. 

Sharks, bears, and Boricio: top of the fucking chain.

* * * *

CHAPTER 7 — MARINA HARMON

Marina woke in a dimly lit room not unlike Acevedo’s chamber — a bed, dresser, and trunk. An open door revealed a bathroom with a shower.

A single bare light bulb hung from the ceiling. The bare stone walls bore no windows. 

Marina stood, her head still dizzy, then went to the door and jiggled the knob, trying to open it. 

It was locked.

“Hello?” she yelled.

No response.

“Hey!” she yelled again, louder.

Still no answer.

“Let me out of here!” Marina screamed, wondering what the hell Acevedo had done to her. She vaguely recalled him saying something about her purity, whatever the hell that meant. If the man meant virginity, her dress hadn’t been white for a while.

Wait a second. Where’s—

She searched the room: trunk, dresser, and under the bed, but couldn’t find the vials.

They took the vials!

I knew I shouldn’t have trusted him!

“Where are the vials?!” Marina cried out to whoever might be listening. Acevedo
had
to be somewhere nearby.

His taking the vials didn’t make sense. He told her not to surrender them under any circumstance — so why would he take them? 

Marina paced her cell.

A folded blue paper slid beneath the door.

She picked it up.

It read:
21 days. Training starts tomorrow.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

No response.

**

The next morning Marina woke to the sound of a bell ringing from above.

She snapped awake and saw an old man standing over her. He, like Acevedo, was wearing robes. He was skinny, bald, and his face and hands, the only areas not concealed by robes, were covered in intricate tattoos with designs she couldn’t quite place.

“Who are you?” She sat up in bed, remembering that the note had said that training — whatever that meant — started today.

Is this my trainer?

“My name is Seven. I’m here to strengthen your mind.”

“My mind is strong enough, thank you. I’d like to leave.”

Marina stood, walking past the man on her way to the door. She grabbed the knob and tried to turn it, but the door was locked.

“Open the damned door.”

“It’ll open it when you’re ready.”

“This is stupid! Let me out. People are counting on me. I can’t be locked away for three weeks.”

“Father Acevedo said you must be ready for what’s next. I am here to prepare you, same as I did for him.”

“Where are my vials?”

“Locked away safely, don’t worry.”

“I want them. Now. And I want to talk to Acevedo.”

“So, you are not ready to train?”

“No!” 

“OK.” The old man turned and opened the door with no key.

How the hell did he open the door?

Is someone watching via secret cameras and they opened it from outside?

Marina chased him, not about to let some weirdo in robes keep her in a cell. She reached the doorway, and he spun to face her, deceptively fast. The old man raised his palm, landing it flat on her chest. It didn’t hurt, though the look in his eyes and the force with which he moved said that hurt wasn’t far from the table.

“Please, Ms. Harmon. Return to your room. Food will be sent shortly.”

“I want out,” she said, her eyes wetting with tears.

“Your life is in danger right now. You need to be trained in the way.”

“I—”

 He pressed a pair of fingers to her lips.

She pulled away, not appreciating the old man’s touch. She stepped back, and he closed the door. From the other side, he said, “Be ready to train tomorrow.”

Marina reached for the doorknob. Locked.

“Damn it!” she yelled, pounding her fists on the door. “I want to talk to Acevedo!!”

No response.

**

Marina woke to the smell of food.

She sat up in bed, with no memory of drifting off. She looked on the floor beside the door and saw a bowl of what looked like chicken noodle soup with steam rising from the broth, a single piece of bread, and a glass of ice water, sweat beading the outside.

She jumped out of bed and tried the doorknob again. Still locked.

Stomach grumbling, Marina brought the tray of food to her bed, sat, and begrudgingly took a bite of the surprisingly fresh bread.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten. Hell, the lack of windows made it so Marina couldn’t even tell what time it was now.

“Could at least give me something to read!” she yelled, assuming someone was listening, if not watching.

No response.

**