Smith didn’t argue. After all, there were two bullets in the shack tonight that hadn’t been here earlier. There was nothing safe about his prison.
He managed to stand up, and this time stayed upright. Blake was tall for a woman—about 5’10”—but he still had a few inches on her. He couldn’t help but notice how good she smelled standing so close to him, even though he was pretty sure it was just soap and water.
“You okay?” she asked, watching him with some concern.
He nodded. “I’ll be fine.” He looked past her at the open door. “So does this mean I’m a free man?”
“Mandy decided you weren’t dangerous. She told me to come get you herself.”
“Where is she now?”
“Back at the main building with the others.”
“Where is that—”
The pek! of a round striking the wall behind him, followed quickly by the zip! of something very hot and fast slicing through the air about a foot to the right of his head.
Blake ducked instinctively, though of course that wouldn’t have done any good if the bullet had been true.
Thank God it hadn’t been.
“Geez, that was close,” Blake said.
“Where are we, anyway?” Smith asked. “I mean, in terms of this place. Middle? Back? Side?”
“Somewhere in the back. Why?”
“I just like to know where I am at all times. Let’s get out of here,” Smith said, when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye.
Another dark figure, this one racing past the side of the shack before turning the corner to where the open door was.
“Someone’s coming,” Smith said.
Blake turned around just as the smell hit Smith, and he thought, That’s not human. That’s not a human smell!
He reached out and grabbed Blake’s hand before she could walk the short distance to the door. She whirled around, eyes widening in a What the hell are you doing? expression, but before she could say anything, she smelled it, too.
Blake spun around as it peered in at them from the darkness beyond the open door.
It was a ghoul.
A lone ghoul.
It looked in at them, thick drops of saliva dripping from jagged teeth that seemed to flash in the moonlight as it opened its mouth wide, wide, and wider still.
Thirteen
“Tell me that knife of yours has silver.”
“No.”
“No?”
“No. It doesn’t have silver.”
“Why doesn’t it have silver?”
“Um, I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“I don’t know, okay?”
Smith sighed. He might have continued the back and forth with Blake if the ghoul didn’t pounce. When it did that, both of them stopped talking.
Blake had drawn her knife and taken a step toward the creature just before it made its move, but Smith grabbed her from behind and pushed her out of the way. She let out a surprised yelp and might have shouted something else, but Smith couldn’t hear it because he was too busy falling after the ghoul leapt at him and knocked him down.
It wasn’t so much that it was heavy, because it wasn’t, but rather the force of the impact that made Smith lose his footing.
And the stink. God, the stink. It was like spoiled garbage roasting in the hot sun. The stench invaded every pore along Smith’s face as the creature thrashed on top of him, scrambling to rise while at the same time lunging toward his face.
No, not his face. His neck.
It was going for his neck with its fanged teeth. Thick, sloppy wetness flicked across Smith’s cheeks and forehead, more of the rotten stuff splashing his shirt as it clawed its way up the length of his body, cold, bony fingers looking for footholds wherever it could find.
Smith would have thrown up if he could afford to, if he wasn’t too busy fighting for his life. Its putrid smell was simultaneously intoxicating and retch-inducing, and he had to fight through both sensations to start crawling backward, out of the thing’s reach. That wasn’t easy to do since he’d landed on his ass and back, but he managed to get his legs under him anyway and pushed off on the ground, his boots skirting the hard surface as he propelled himself back and—
Thwack! as his head slammed into the pole that had held him prisoner for the better part of a day. He’d forgotten it was back there.
He remembered now, as he tried to fight off the sudden burst of pain. It had to be the back of his head, too, that had impacted the unyielding piece of lumber. Jesus Christ, did Mandy’s people actually use a telephone pole to tie him up? If that was the case, did they bring the damn thing here or build the shack around it? Or—
The ghoul! It’s going to eat you!
Focus on the ghoul, you idiot!
He focused on the creature as it lumbered clumsily up the length of his body, using every part of him to grab onto and propel itself forward. Smith’s momentary halt after backing into the pole had given the monster the extra two or three seconds it needed to regroup.
Blake let out something that sounded like an insane yell just before she started stabbing the creature in the back with her knife. Smith wanted to tell her, Stop it! You’re just pissing it off! but he didn’t get the chance. Mostly, he was too busy holding up his hands to keep the ghoul’s blood from spraying him each time Blake pulled the knife out of its body and slashed again, then repeated the process over and over.
Her knife—her silverless knife—didn’t kill the ghoul, but it did draw its attention. The creature whirled around and leapt off Smith’s body and at Blake.
She stumbled back, slashing with the knife.
It was a big knife—just a shade over eight inches in length, about four or so of that making up the sharp metal part—and Blake wielded it like she knew what she was doing. It was probably that familiarity with the knife that allowed her to cut the ghoul’s right hand off at the wrist as it groped for her. The severed hand flopped to the ground, the fingers twitching as if still alive, while the thing that it was once attached to continued charging Blake.
The shack’s door, somehow, had closed in the aftermath of the ghoul’s entry—a big gust of wind, perhaps?—and Blake bumped into it. The entire structure shook slightly on impact, but she didn’t let that stop her and stabbed forward, the knife going into the creature’s chest and out its back.
Not that that was going to stop it. The undead thing simply pushed forward, letting the knife sink even deeper into its chest and out its back, as it reached for her with its remaining hand. Meanwhile, thick arcs of blood spurted out of the stump on its right hand, splashing Blake and the door and parts of the shack.
Blake screamed. It was even louder than when she’d launched her initial attack. This time it was full of fear and horror and just about every other emotion she could conjure up as black blood dripped from her cheeks and forehead and clothes.
Smith was on his feet and running toward them. He grabbed the creature from behind, wrapping both arms around its rail-thin body just as it managed to get its fingers around Blake’s face. He jerked it off her and swung it away, the very thought of touching the ghoul sending all kinds of sickening sensations through him.
It flew through the air and thwacked! against the pole in the center of the building, and Smith thought, How do you like that, fucker?
It liked it just fine, because almost as soon as it landed on the floor, it snapped back up and whirled around. It bared its teeth at him even as blood squirted from the stump on its right arm. Black eyes gleamed in the semidarkness of the shack’s interior, almost as if there was a soul behind them, but of course Smith knew better.
Ghouls were undead things, devoid of intelligence, and driven almost purely by the basic need to survive. Unfortunately for him and Blake, and the human race as a whole, their survival meant feeding on the thing flowing through their veins.
Smith had forgotten just how ugly, how unnatural the creatures were up close. This one was in
a slight crouch as it raised itself up on its thin legs, but maybe that had more to do with the deformity that had befallen its skeletal frame. It didn’t so much as stand as it hunched over, drops of black liquid dripping from the cuts that Blake had inflicted on its body.
Not that the creature looked even remotely hurt. Or wounded. Or slowed down.
It charged without hesitation, half-running, half-scampering across the ground, flicking black blood all around it as it moved.
What was Smith going to do? He didn’t have a gun. He didn’t even have a knife. And even if he had one of those things, he’d need something with silver to stop it. Because the creature wouldn’t stop. Nothing in this world would end its attack permanently but silver and sunlight, and he didn’t have either right now.
“Move!” Blake shouted just before she swept him aside—similar to how he’d done to her earlier, he thought ironically—and jumped in front of him.
Blake swung with the knife in a wide arc as the ghoul launched itself at her. The blade sliced through the thing’s neck, cutting through it like a bullet through Jell-O. The creature’s momentum continued forward and it crashed into Blake and knocked her back and into Smith, and the two of them bumped into the shack’s closed door.
The ghoul’s body crumpled to the ground, where it began twitching even as blood poured from the stump where its head was, once upon a time, attached. That head was a few feet away, having bounced off a wall, blood leaking out of its neck.
Smith didn’t for one second think the creature was “dead.” He’d seen ghouls “survive” worse things than decapitation. So he wasn’t at all surprised when the decapitated body attempted to pick itself up. Blood continued to squirt out of the stump on its right hand as it groped the ground, searching for some way to push itself upright.
Smith opened the door and stepped through, dragging Blake with him. “Come on, let’s go. Let’s go.”
She couldn’t look away from the headless ghoul as it somehow got back up onto its legs—only to fall back down…
…before scrambling to get up again.
“Jesus,” Blake half-whispered and half-gasped.
You’ve never seen that before? Smith wanted to ask her. He had. A lot of times—and a hundred more grotesque things to boot.
“It’s still alive,” Blake was saying.
“No, it’s not,” Smith said.
“I mean, it’s not dead, yet.”
“And it won’t be, unless we hit it with something silver. Right now, this is good enough. Come on.”
Smith slammed the door shut so she wouldn’t have to see more of the gruesome—but in so many other ways, fascinating—sight. He grabbed the chains off the ground and slipped them through the door’s handle and snapped the padlock into place. He wasn’t sure how long it would take the ghoul to get back on its feet or if it would even know in which direction to chase them, but he wasn’t taking any chances.
“You did good back there,” he said.
“Thanks,” Blake said. Even in the moonlight, he could tell her face had paled noticeably. It helped that her skin was so fair.
“You going to be okay?”
“I’m not sure…”
“Give it a second. Just breathe in and out. In and out.”
“I think I’m going to throw up,” Blake said, even as she wiped at the thick sludge dripping from her cheeks and chin and forehead.
Smith took her by the shoulders. He had some of the stuff on his own clothes and, he was sure of it, parts of his face, but the smell and contact of ghoul blood was, at least for now, temporarily taking a backseat to the danger he was in.
Now that he wasn’t fighting for his life against a ghoul, Smith could hear the gunshots again. Not that they had stopped while he was in the shack with the creature, but he had forgotten all about them until now.
“Blake, breathe,” Smith said. “You’ll be all right. Just breathe.”
She did—or tried—even as she gazed back at him. She had amazingly deep blue eyes, and Smith thought, God, she’s captivating. Even covered in ghoul blood, this is probably the most beautiful woman—
Blake made a gurgling sound just before she threw up all over his boots.
Smith tried to jump back, but it was too late.
“Oh God, oh God, I’m sorry,” Blake said as she bent over at the waist, the smell of vomit in the air, having replaced the—
Stink of human sweat.
Smith spun around as they came out of the shadows.
Two large men this time—or maybe they just looked large because of what they were wearing: long black dusters and dark half masks—with rifles.
He had no idea how long they’d been there, but it was apparently long enough for one of them to chuckle and a familiar voice to say, “Looky what’s going on here!”
Smith focused on the speaker.
Travis, the redhead from Hobson’s posse, squirrely eyes sparkling in the moonlight.
Sonofa…
The man grinned at him. “Hey, tough guy.”
Before Smith could do or say anything, the one next to Travis struck Smith in the gut with the butt of a rifle. Smith doubled over, but that only presented a better target for the same buttstock, which crashed into the side of his head.
He flopped to the ground and would have eaten a mouthful of whatever was down there if he hadn’t managed to stick both hands out just in time. But that, again, only left him wide open for—
Something hit him in the temple, about the same spot—maybe even the same spot—as the bullet graze underneath the bandages from earlier, and Smith stopped fighting.
He heard a voice that sounded like Blake’s say, “Clarence?”
Travis, replying, “Miss me?”
Then Smith didn’t hear anything anymore, because he’d lost consciousness for the third time that day.
Fourteen
He opened his eyes while suffering from the monster of all hangovers. Instead of a drumline banging away inside his head this time, there were two of them. Maybe three, but it was a little difficult to discern the exact number when every inch of his skull was vibrating, threatening to come apart at any second.
Any second.
Any second now!
He was surprised it didn’t hurt the first time he woke up, but apparently all of that was being saved up for now. With interest.
A lot of interest.
A hell of a lot of interest.
“You okay? You don’t look okay. In fact, you look far from okay. Like, really, really far.”
That about sums it up.
Blake was sitting next to him, close enough that he could still smell the lingering vomit on her lips, not to mention on the boots he was still wearing. He decided to focus on the crisp blue of her eyes instead; they were very radiant despite the lack of light inside the room.
He glanced around him. They were in some kind of jail cell.
No, that wasn’t true. It wasn’t “some kind” of jail cell, but an actual jail cell. There was concrete walls on three sides and iron bars to his left, with a locked gate door. A hallway beyond that, just as poorly lit as the room he was sitting in.
Smith raised himself up from the bench, Blake’s warm hands keeping him from falling right back down, which he was very much in danger of doing, because Goddammit, his head was pounding like crazy.
“Relax, just relax,” Blake was saying, in that soft and comfortable voice people used on an injured person. Which, Smith guessed, he qualified as.
He leaned back against the wall, the hard and cold concrete behind him making for an unpleasant headrest. Blake was leaning in close, and it took him a while to realize she was getting a good look at his temple. The same spot where he’d been struck by a bullet, then later the buttstock of a rifle.
“Where are we?” he asked.
“In a jail cell,” Blake said.
“I get that. But where?”
“Gaffney.”
“We’re in Gaffney?”
&
nbsp; “Yes.”
“How did we end up in Gaffney?”
“They brought us here. Clarence and his pals.”
“Who’s Clarence?”
“The redhead.”
“I thought his name was Travis.”
“It is.”
“But you just called him Clarence.”
“His full name is Travis Clarence. I call him Clarence because he hates it.”
“Two first names?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s a little greedy.”
“That’s Clarence in a nutshell.”
So he’d been attacked and brought back to Gaffney by Travis and his buddy, who Smith hadn’t gotten a very good look at. Smith wasn’t so much concern about the how—he assumed it took place during the attack on Mandy’s people—and the when was irrelevant. What mattered was now what?
“You’re bleeding again,” Blake was saying. She was kneeling on the bench to get a better look at his wound and had removed his bandages. She seemed to know what she was doing; or, at least, she wasn’t shying away from it.
“Bad?” he asked.
“No, not too bad. I can stop the bleeding.” She unzipped her jacket and pulled it off. “I need you to close your eyes.”
“Why?”
“’Cause I’m gonna take off my bra and use it to stop the bleeding. But first I need to take off my shirt, and I don’t want you to see my tits.”
“I can just turn my head—”
“Close your eyes, mister.”
Smith smiled. Her ability to still be embarrassed about any potential nudity while they were in Gaffney, locked inside what appeared to be a genuine jail cell, made him slightly amused.
He closed his eyes. “All right.”
He heard her taking off her shirt, then her bra, before feeling soft materials pressing against the side of his head.
“Okay,” Blake said.
He reopened his eyes and tried to look over at her, hovering slightly next to him on the bench. “How’s it look, doc?”
She rolled her eyes. “You’ll live. For now, anyway.”
“‘For now?’ What does that mean?”
After The Purge, AKA John Smith (Book 2): Run or Fight Page 9