Smith had a lot more questions for her, but a few of them made him a little uneasy, though he wasn’t sure if asking them was going to be more uncomfortable for him or her. Maybe both of them.
“The answer is no,” Blake said when he didn’t say anything else.
“No what?”
“No, I didn’t consummate with Travis. That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?”
“One of the things I was thinking, yeah.”
“Oh, he wanted to, but I kept putting it off. I managed for a good two weeks until I could finally run away one night when he was on his rounds. I was a mile out of Gaffney when Mandy and her people found me.”
“‘Found’ you?”
“It wasn’t an accident. Mandy was one of the first women to escape this place; she spends most of her time out there, watching and waiting for someone else to try to escape so she can help them. I was one of the lucky ones. Other girls…” Blake shook her head. “Not everyone makes it.”
“What happens to those?”
“The Judge reeducates them.”
“‘Reeducates them’ how?”
“It’s basically brainwashing. By the time he’s through with them, they think the Judge is the greatest person in the world.”
“How, exactly?”
“I don’t know. But I’ve seen the results. They’re not the same afterwards.”
“How long have Mandy and the others been fighting Gaffney?”
“I’ve only been around for six months. Mandy’s been out here for two years.”
“Was last night the first time Gaffney has attacked the junkyard?”
“There have been skirmishes in the past, but it was never like this. Never this intense.”
“But they have attacked before.”
“Yes. But they know we won’t just lie down for them. We have plenty of guns and people that know how to use them, too.”
“What about the ghoul?”
“The ghoul?”
“You remember? The one that attacked us?”
Blake nodded, then sniffed his clothes. “Oh, I remember. What about it?”
“Where did it come from?”
She opened her mouth to answer but stopped short.
“Blake?” Smith said. “Where did that ghoul come from?”
Blake stared at him, and he completely believed that she had forgotten all about the ghoul they’d fought back in the junkyard.
“I don’t know,” Blake finally said.
“Have you guys ever had ghoul problems at the junkyard before?”
“No, never. At least, not one that’s managed to get through the perimeter. We have a fence all around the place. Tall fences with barbed wire on top. Ghouls have gotten tangled up there before trying to climb over, but they’ve never managed to make it through. Besides, we have permanent guards stationed pretty much everywhere, day and night.”
“What about last night?”
“Last night, too.”
“But Travis and Stephens got through.”
“They must have lured people to the front, then snuck in the back.”
Blake went quiet and stared across the cell at the far wall, but of course Smith knew she wasn’t looking at the wall. She was probably running through everything she thought she knew—about their base, the fence, and last night’s attack—through her head right now and questioning everything.
“What are you thinking?” Smith finally asked.
She looked over at him. “I’m trying to figure out where that ghoul came from and how the hell it got inside the fence.”
Sixteen
Members of the Judge’s posse came to get him the next morning, rousing Smith from his slumber. He woke up to the sound of Blake shouting at someone to take their hands off her, and sat up on the bench to find Hobson and the young kid who had been a part of Hobson’s posse the day before standing in front of him. They were both wearing gun belts, with Hobson inside the cell while the kid, whose name Smith still didn’t know, stood waiting in the hallway. Blake was already on her feet and glaring at Stephens, the guy who had attacked Smith and her back at the junkyard.
“Leave her alone,” Hobson said to Stephens.
Stephens raised both hands in mock surrender before turning and walking out of the cell to wait outside with the young man.
“Asshole,” Blake said after Stephens.
Smith sat up on the bench and yawned. He guessed he should have been afraid, but he wasn’t. Maybe it had something to do with the fact he was feeling a lot better after getting a good night’s sleep; that, or because he didn’t feel like his life was in any danger. Certainly, Hobson didn’t have that punchable face that Travis had, and neither he nor the kid—or even Stephens—looked as if they had come here to kill Smith.
At least, not yet. That might come later, though.
“You’re going on trial tomorrow for those three killings, Mr. Tough Guy. You best get your defense ready, ’cause if you’re found guilty…” Travis had said last night.
Travis had then “cut” his forefinger across his own throat, a gesture that clearly meant Smith better talk fast or he would hang. Or worse. Did they even still hang people anymore? Maybe not, but then Smith had never run across a town like Gaffney before.
But just what kind of town was Gaffney? He’d find out, soon enough.
“Get up. You have a date with the Judge,” Hobson was saying to Smith.
“He’s not well enough to go anywhere,” Blake said as she walked over to stand protectively next to Smith. “Look at him. He’s whiter than a ghost.”
“He’ll be fine,” Hobson said. “Who put the bra on his head?”
“I did. Travis nearly killed him last night when they abducted us.”
“He looks fine to me.”
“I told you, he’s not in any shape to be going anywhere.”
Hobson glared at her. “He doesn’t have a choice, woman.”
“Go to hell, Hobson.”
“Maybe one day,” Hobson said. He turned and gestured at the young man, who stepped inside with his hand on the butt of his holstered pistol.
“Step back, ma’am,” the kid said. He looked even younger now than when Smith first saw him.
“Fuck off, Kyle,” Blake said.
The kid, Kyle, glanced over at Hobson as if to ask him what he should do next or how to respond.
Hobson sighed. “Don’t make this any harder than it has to be, Blake.”
“I told you, he can’t—”
Hobson drew his pistol—a Glock—and pointed it at her face. “I said, step the hell aside, woman!”
It was the first time Smith had seen Hobson be anything other than pleasant, and the switch caught him off guard. Apparently, it did Blake, too, because she stumbled and almost tripped on the edge of the bench trying to back up.
Smith caught her first and smiled at her. “I’ll be okay. Don’t worry about me.”
Blake obviously didn’t believe him, but it wasn’t like either one of them had any choice.
Smith turned around and nodded at Hobson, who had holstered his handgun. “Okay. Let’s get this over with.”
Hobson stepped back, and Smith walked over to the opened cell door. Kyle watched him like a hawk, his palm resting on the butt of his holstered weapon the entire time. Smith wondered if the young man was a fast draw.
“Eyes forward, spud,” Kyle said when he saw where Smith was looking—at the Smith & Wesson at his hip.
“Spud?” Smith said.
“Yeah, that’s you.”
“I’ve never been called spud before.”
“First time for everything, I guess.”
“I guess so,” Smith said as he stepped through the open cell door.
Stephens was outside waiting for him, the brim of his Stetson hiding his eyes underneath the squiggly yellow hallway lights. “Nice hat.”
“Wanna trade?” Smith asked him.
“Nah, I like mine better.”
“Your loss
.”
Behind him, Hobson slammed the cell door closed, then locked it with a key that he pocketed. Kyle continued to stare at Smith, trying to intimidate him. Trying to, because it didn’t work. It might have been more effective if Kyle wasn’t twenty-something or had the fresh face of a kid who just came off the farm. Smith wondered again how good he was with that gun he kept touching.
“Let’s go,” Hobson said as he walked past Smith to lead the way.
Smith glanced back at the cell—at Blake leaning against the bars looking after him.
“I’ll be right back,” he said to her.
She forced a smile. “Yeah. You do that.”
“Don’t go anywhere.”
“Funny.”
“I try.”
“Try harder.”
“You smell great.”
“I smell like vomit and ghoul shit.”
“Yeah, but it’s awesome-smelling vomit and ghoul shit.”
She smiled. This one was much more convincing, almost as if she believed that he would, really, be right back.
“Funny guy,” she said. “See you when I see you, funny guy.”
“Count on it,” Smith said.
Just as Blake had told him, they were being kept inside a police station that didn’t look as if it’d gotten a whole lot of use over the years. There were plenty of desks and offices in the main lobby, but no one to make use of them. The place was abandoned but didn’t look, feel, or smell it, so it had clearly been looked after even when it wasn’t in use. There were no old stacks of yellowing paper on the desks or scattered across the floor, and cork boards along the walls had been cleared of whatever had been tacked on them before The Purge.
The large room was dark as Smith was led through with no one else inside the place except him and his captors. Hobson led the way, while Kyle and Stephens walked behind Smith. They hadn’t bothered to handcuff or even bind his hands, and Smith wasn’t sure if he should be grateful or a little insulted by that. Maybe they saw the condition he was in and how unsteady he was on his feet for most of the trip and didn’t think he was much of a threat. That, or the bra still wrapped around his head screamed “harmless.”
Not that Smith had any intentions of trying to escape. He was good with his hands, but he wasn’t that good. At least, not good enough to take on three guys. Three armed guys.
Now, if he could get his hands on a gun, then it would be another story.
“So where are we going?” Smith asked as they were halfway across the lobby and headed for the double doors on the other end.
“I told you, you’re meeting the Judge,” Hobson said.
“What does he want?” Smith asked, even though he thought he already knew.
Travis had pretty much laid it all out for him last night. He had asked anyway, though, because maybe he could glean more information from Hobson; or, at the very least, some idea of what he would be facing.
“He has some questions for you,” Hobson said.
“What kind of questions?”
“You’ll find out when we get there.”
“You can’t give me a hint?”
“No.”
“Come on, Hobson.”
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
Smith decided to try another tactic. “Where’s Mary and her son? They were supposed to be safe here.”
“They are,” Hobson said.
“After what happened at the junkyard, you expect me to believe that?”
“You don’t know anything about what happened at the junkyard.”
“I know that you guys attacked them.”
“Is that what Blake told you?”
“She doesn’t have to tell me anything. I was there, remember?”
“I was there, too,” Stephens said from behind Smith. “Saw you falling like a lump of coal.”
“‘A lump of coal?’” Smith said. “How does a lump of coal fall, exactly?”
“Like how you did last night.”
“Yeah, but can you describe it? ’Cause, you know, I was too busy being sucker-punched by an asshole with a rifle. So, I didn’t really get to see how a lump of coal falls.”
“Smartass,” Stephens said.
“Better than a dumbass.”
“Shut up, you two,” Hobson said.
“Just making conversation,” Smith said. “Trying to figure out why you would attack a bunch of girls in a junkyard, that’s all.”
“You don’t know anything, do you?”
“You saying that’s not what you did last night?”
“The truth is more complicated than that. Not everything is as black and white around these parts.”
“Seems pretty black and white from where I’m standing.”
“Because you’re not from around here. You don’t know the facts.”
“So why don’t you clear it all up for me?”
“That’s not my job.”
“What is your job, Hobson?”
“Take you to the Judge.”
“So you’re his lackey?”
Hobson’s shoulders tightened up slightly. It was almost imperceptible. Almost.
“Hey, I’ve been there,” Smith said, hoping to push for more information. “Playing the good soldier, following the orders to the letter. That was before I decided I wasn’t going to die for someone else’s war.”
“You need to shut up now,” Stephen said from behind him.
“Can’t. My tongue has a mind of its own.”
“I can fix that.”
“Sorry, Stephens, but I’m not into guys.” Then, to Hobson’s back, “So why are you running around town fetching things and people for this Judge, Hobson? Is it the free wives he’s giving out like candy? Is that all it takes to buy your loyalty?”
Hobson stopped and spun around, so fast that it actually caught Smith off guard. The older man poked Smith in the chest and leaned in close. “Shut up. Shut your fucking mouth, Smith. You don’t know me. You don’t know a damn thing about me.”
Then the sheriff turned and walked out the door without another word.
Someone—probably Stephens—poked Smith in the back to “nudge” him forward after Hobson.
Smith stepped outside and into the warm morning sunlight. It felt good, but it would have felt better if he wasn’t being taken to the Judge, where, according to Travis, he had to defend himself against three charges of murder.
Seventeen
Gaffney, home of the Fighting Panthers, was a good-size town. At least, the parts of it that Smith could see as he was taken out of the police station and walked down its main street, from which the rest of Gaffney was connected to. A water tower jutted into the sky about a block away like a rocket ship, a faded purple panther looking ready to claw someone’s eyes out with sharp talons plastered across the side. It was the tallest structure in the entire place by far.
Hobson led them down the sidewalk while Stephens and Kyle kept a respectable distance behind Smith, almost as if they expected him to try something. Or maybe they were hoping he would. If it was the latter, they were going to be disappointed.
Smith knew when he was up a creek, and he was there now. This was no time to play hero. He might have acted differently if he thought he or Blake were in imminent danger, but they weren’t quite there yet, as far as he could tell.
Not quite yet.
Gaffney was big enough for a few thousand citizens, but of course there wasn’t even close to that many taking up space. Smith only counted a handful on the streets or hanging out of apartment windows as he was led down the sidewalk. A few curious citizens stopped what they were doing to get a look at him. They must have realized by the way he was being flanked by Hobson up front and Stephens and Kyle in the back that Smith wasn’t there by choice.
As far as Smith could tell, the faces staring at him didn’t look like they belonged to people being held prisoner. During his time with Black Tide, Smith had seen what captives looked like and how they acted when they were be
ing kept somewhere against their will. Nothing he was seeing on the streets jived with what Blake had told him about Gaffney—certainly nothing that would have qualified the town as a “hellhole”—and that only led to more questions.
Was Blake wrong about Gaffney, or were there things he still hadn’t seen yet?
Smith was leaning toward the latter, but he also had to remind himself that he didn’t know Blake all that well. And maybe, just maybe, he was thinking with the wrong head when it came to a woman like her.
Maybe? Probably is more like it.
Up ahead, an older man was brushing the sidewalk with a broom, while another was giving haircuts inside an old-fashioned looking barbershop, complete with striped pole out front. The man getting his hair cut glanced out the window to watch Smith being marched by. Farther up the street, Smith spotted two more people wiping down the sidewalks. Both, like the first one, were older people. Cleaning, apparently, was a job for the older survivors of Gaffney.
The others were loitering about, people waiting for something to do…or something to happen. A few kids chased a dog into an alley while a girl and her mom came out of a building carrying cleaning supplies. If he didn’t know any better, Smith would think he was in any ol’ Small Town USA, only with way fewer people.
“Clean town,” Smith said after a while. “You guys must have an army of sweepers working the place every morning and afternoon.”
Hobson, turning the corner, didn’t reply.
Smith turned with him. “Who decides who cleans the place, and who just watches?” When Hobson remained quiet, Smith glanced back at his two bodyguards. “What about you two? You guys help out with a broom every once in a while? Or is posse-ing a full-time job?”
Both Kyle and Stephens took their cue from Hobson and remained quiet.
“So it’s the silent treatment, huh?” Smith said.
Smith turned back around. He could see now where Hobson was leading him—there was a courthouse up ahead about another block away. It was a big red brick building with four Doric-style columns up front. GAFFNEY COURTHOUSE was written in bold black letters at the top, with a still-running clock above that. Five windows reflected back the morning sunlight—three on top, two at the bottom. Concrete steps led up to a highly decorated front door, the way flanked by guardrails.
After The Purge, AKA John Smith (Book 2): Run or Fight Page 11