After The Purge, AKA John Smith Box Set | Books 1-3

by Sisavath, Sam

  The woman was shouting at the boy. Trying to calm him down. Which wasn’t quite working, because she was trying to talk through tears. Hard to convince someone everything was okay when tears were streaming down your face and your voice was choking.

  Smith had no clue how the boy and the woman had initially crossed paths with the trio. All five of them had just appeared out of nowhere on the flat and empty highway in front of him. Their voices had woken him up from what had been, up to that point, a pretty good nap. Something close to a hundred yards separated him and the road. About the length of a football field.

  There was nothing but knee-high grass and goldenrods separating Smith and the group, which was why they hadn’t seen him when he was lying down. Even now, all it would have taken was for one of them to turn in the right direction. It wasn’t like he was hiding. He hadn’t moved since being woken up by the commotion. The fact that he was wearing dark brown clothes probably helped him to camouflage against the tree trunk behind him.

  He was sure the big man (the leader) would see him first, but the guy was too focused on the sunset just over two hills—like the breasts of a woman lying down on her back—farther up the road to notice. He told himself to lie down, to stay hidden. It would have been easy. All he had to do was slide down the trunk of the tree and disappear among the grass. As long as they didn’t leave the road, he’d stay invisible.

  So why didn’t he do it? Why didn’t he just do the obvious thing? Why did he instead reach down and undo the clasp over the SIG Sauer holstered on his right hip, then make sure the safety was off the AR-10 lying on the ground to his left, next to the binoculars he’d used to spy on the fivesome earlier?

  It was just as a precaution. That was all.

  …that was all.

  The woman released a bloodcurdling shriek as Tall and Skinny punched the boy in the back of the head. That was enough for Big Man to finally pull his focus away from the sunset and look over at the commotion behind him. Even from 100 yards away, his turn signaled clear agitation at the interruption of his view. As Big Man turned, his gaze fell across the big elm tree, along with Smith sitting against it.

  Now you’ve done it, the voice said. Now you’ve done it…

  Big Man did exactly what Smith was expecting. He lifted his rifle slightly, but seeing that Smith hadn’t responded, never fully raised the weapon into a firing position. Instead, he might have squinted at Smith as if trying to figure him out, or maybe how long he’d been there watching them. If the man had binoculars, like Smith did, he would have seen that Smith was not an immediate threat.

  Not yet, anyway.

  The leader said something to the other two, but 100 yards was too far for Smith to overhear, and the wind was blowing in the wrong direction. The Accountant and Tall and Lanky glanced over at Smith. So did the woman, who was kneeling over the boy. The kid had fallen to the blacktop when Tall and Lanky struck him and hadn’t gotten back up. Smith would have needed his binoculars to see what kind of expression was on the woman’s face as she looked across at him.

  Would it be hope? Dread? Indifference?

  She was wearing pants and a long-sleeve shirt. Both articles of clothing were slightly torn but not enough to show skin. It was slightly chilly, but not freezing. There was a time when people worried about weather patterns. Those were, as someone used to say, First World problems. These days, they were Who Cares problems.

  Smith focused on Big Man as the traveler left the road behind and began walking toward him. Smith remained where he was, unmoving, and watched the other man approach at a steady, unhurried pace.

  One hundred yards was a long walk.

  Big Man was calm, but his comrades were fidgety in the background. The woman, meanwhile, had taken advantage of the temporary reprieve to care for the boy, who looked hurt. Or maybe he was just stunned from being punched.

  The leader finally stopped about ten yards from where Smith sat and gripped his rifle in front of him. His finger, Smith noticed, was already in the trigger guard, though the barrel was pointed down and just slightly to the right. It would have taken precisely one second to swing the AR up and into firing position. His dark clothes made him stand out like a sore thumb against the field of goldenrods.

  Smith wasn’t too worried about that, though. He was certain he could draw and fire the SIG first without having to move from his current position.

  Reasonably certain.

  “Hey,” Big Man said.

  “Hey,” Smith said.

  “Didn’t see you there.”

  “I wasn’t hiding.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  One corner of Big Man’s mouth tugged upwards into an almost-grin. “Must have been the clothes. Made you blend in with the tree.”

  “Happy coincidence.”

  “Was it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  Big Man shrugged, then looked around. “What’re you doing out here?”

  “Same thing you are,” Smith said. “Passing through.”

  “Is that right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “We’re new around these parts. You know what’s up the road?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You wanna tell me?”

  “More road.”

  Something that might have been a snort. “And…?”

  “And what?”

  “What’s after that?”

  “Even more road.”

  A chuckle as the man’s eyes fell on the AR-10 lying in the grass next to Smith. He had probably seen the SIG in the holster long before that. “Nice piece.” Then, when Smith didn’t bother with a reply, “AR platform, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “10?”

  “Yeah.”

  “A lot of ex-military guys go for the AR-10. You ex-military?”

  “Why do you give a shit?”

  This time the other corner of the man’s mouth tugged upward. “Just making conversation.”

  “You’re wasting your breath.”

  “Not very friendly, are you?”

  “Fuck off.”

  Big Man snorted. “You alone?”

  “What you see is what you get.”

  “No one hiding behind that tree?”

  “You know how long I’ve been watching the three of you manhandle that woman and child before you finally spotted me?”

  “No. How long?”

  “It was a rhetorical question. The point is, I didn’t have to just sit here and do nothing until you finally noticed me.”

  “Point taken,” Big Man said. “So…”

  “So, what?”

  Big Man glanced back at the highway. Not at his two friends, or at the boy and woman specifically. He was just making sure Smith knew what he was talking about when he turned back around and said, again, “So?”

  “So…what?” Smith said.

  “Just wondering,” Big Man said with a shrug. “I’m Peoples.”

  “I don’t give a shit.”

  The man who called himself Peoples made a full grin this time. “Where you headed, mystery man?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “Just being friendly.”

  “You can stop. No one cares out here. Least of all me.”

  “Ornery fellow, aren’t you?”

  “I’m not your fellow, and you’re blocking my sun.”

  “What were you doing out here, anyway?”

  “You already asked me that.”

  “I didn’t believe you the first time.”

  “Look at my face. Do I give a shit what you believe? Turn around, keep going, and don’t look back.”

  “There’s three of us and one of you.”

  “There’s one of you. The other two aren’t going to do shit when I shoot you for wasting my time.”

  “You think you can take me?”

  “I don’t think anything.”

  People
s’s fingers, covered by fingerless gloves, tightened noticeably around his weapon. “Dangerous world to be talking like that.”

  “Keep going.”

  The big man narrowed his eyes. Smith thought he could see it—the urge to find out if Smith could take him. He’d seen it before.

  Smith thought that he could. He had practice. A lot of practice. Reaching for the SIG was even easier because his right hand was in his lap, inches from the gun. All he’d have to do was slide it sideways and down, then pull the trigger as soon as the pistol cleared the holster.

  Half a second, tops.

  Peoples, on the other hand, would have to tilt his rifle upward and swing it around to aim at Smith. That would take at least a full second.

  The man must have either come to the same conclusions or decided it wasn’t worth the risk, because instead of trying his luck, Peoples glanced back at the highway again before returning once more to Smith. “We’re gonna head off now.”

  “You do that.”

  “Don’t follow us.”

  “Why the fuck would I follow you?”

  A shrug. “People do crazy things these days. Stupid things they regret later. Don’t do anything you’ll regret later.”

  “Turn around and keep walking.”

  “See you around, tough guy.”

  “Doubtful.”

  Another grin from Peoples. Smith couldn’t tell if that was amusement or a threat. It was probably a little of both.

  Peoples turned around and walked back to the highway. He looked over his shoulder twice—the first time after ten steps, to make sure Smith was still where he’d last spotted him, and the second time when he was halfway back to the road.

  Smith couldn’t hear what Peoples said to the Accountant and Tall and Lanky, but the two men seemed to noticeably relax afterward. The woman, on the other hand, jumped up from the hard pavement and began running toward Smith.

  Or she tried to.

  Peoples grabbed her by the hair and jerked his hand. She looked as if she had slipped on a banana peel and fell back onto the ground on her back and head. She screamed with pain, her voice cutting through the 100 yards or so to Smith as if she was doing it right next to him.

  This time, it was the boy who ran over to comfort his mother.

  The Accountant, then Peoples, shot a quick glance in Smith’s direction, as if to confirm he was still where he was supposed to be.

  He was.

  Smith watched them continue up the highway. Peoples in the lead, while the Accountant and Tall and Lanky kept the woman and her boy, huddled together—Smith wasn’t sure who was supporting who now—between them. The woman looked toward Smith a few times before Tall and Lanky noticed and pushed her in the back after saying something. She stumbled, almost fell, but by some miracle managed to remain on her feet.

  Smith watched them go.

  He hadn’t moved, and didn’t plan to. He’d been at this same spot for half a day and didn’t feel like going anywhere anytime soon. He looked toward the sunset. The big round orange ball had snuck halfway down over the hills while he wasn’t paying attention, and the world around him would soon be bathed in darkness.

  Not that Smith was afraid of the dark.

  If anything, he welcomed it, because there were way less people to get on his nerves at night.

  Two

  That went well.

  Mostly.

  He hadn’t had to kill anyone, so that was a plus.

  He didn’t feel like moving, so he didn’t. By the time the trio and their two victims had vanished up the highway, leaving behind no trace that they were ever there, he was already getting ready for nightfall.

  Years ago, when The Purge swept across the country, sleeping on the ground out in the open would have been a death wish. These days, with The Walk Out having thinned out the number of ghouls, the chances of Smith encountering a nightcrawler even at night was minimal. The creatures didn’t hang out where there was no prey; they still had plenty of cities and towns to choose from.

  But just because the chances of running into a ghoul was low, that didn’t mean he didn’t take precautions. He had special magazines for the SIG and AR-10 with silver-tipped rounds, which he swapped with the regular ones now. The problem with silver was that they were precious metal and not as easy to find, so using them in the daytime was an unnecessary waste of resources. Fortunately, the silver-coated blades that he carried—one on his left hip, another strapped outside his right boot, and a third inside his pack as backup—never had to be reloaded.

  Smith laid the rifle on the ground next to him and leaned back, liking the rough feel of the gnarled tree trunk digging into his clothing. It hadn’t been cold enough last night for him to break out the poncho, and he didn’t now. Darkness came fast, and the only real warning was the growing cold around him. Not quite chilly enough to make him reach for the pack, but just enough to make him consider—

  It was quiet.

  It was too quiet.

  The crickets had gone silent.

  He knew they had clammed up because he’d been listening to them all morning and day. They had been droning in his ears, a constant companion besides the wind howling across the vast countryside and empty road. In the months since he abandoned his responsibilities and took up a life as a wanderer, Smith had trained himself to know what was out there and what didn’t belong.

  This silence didn’t belong.

  Smith casually moved his right hand until it was on the ground next to his holstered pistol.

  He couldn’t hear them, but there was little doubt they were back there, approaching from the only possible direction. Only an idiot would come straight at him, and he didn’t think Big Man—or Peoples, as he called himself—was an idiot. Why were they back there, was the question. Did they think he was a danger to them? Hadn’t he been convincing enough during the chat with Peoples? What—

  The snap! of a twig came from (predictably) behind and slightly to the right of him.

  Smith lunged up and off the ground and was already twisting to face the tree before both legs were completely straight. It wasn’t the easiest move, given that he’d been sitting in the same spot for the last few hours. His joints protested, and the hamstrings on both legs threatened to snap.

  He took two, three—five quick steps out from behind the tree, exposing himself willingly, and hoping to catch whoever was on the other side by surprise.

  Eureka.

  There was a silhouetted figure in front of him, stuck in a slight crouch. Thirty—maybe forty—yards away, though it was hard to gauge for sure with only the moonlight to see with. Smith didn’t get a good look at the man’s face, but he saw plenty of white as the man’s eyes widened when he realized he’d been caught. The only other thing Smith could be absolutely sure of was the long “stick” in the man’s hands.

  A weapon.

  Bang! as Smith drew and fired the SIG in one fluid motion.

  He hadn’t bothered to aim before he pulled the trigger. He didn’t need to. Thirty or even 40 yards was a piece of cake.

  The man stumbled, dropping his rifle, and went down on one knee. He clutched his chest.

  A second bang! and the man collapsed into the grass as a portion of his skull flicked into the cold air. The first shot was meant to slow him down, while the second—a head shot—finished him off.

  Even before the dead man had the chance to vanish into the sea of grass and goldenrods, Smith had sidestepped again, but this time in the other direction. He slipped back behind the tree just before the ambusher’s friends opened fire and bullets pek-pek-pekked! into the tree on the other side.

  Right on time.

  He knew they were out there, knew there wasn’t just going to be one man trying to sneak up on him. He was surprised there was just one out in the open, though. He’d been prepared to shoot at least two, but maybe he shouldn’t have been. Cowards who beat little boys and raped women weren’t exactly known for their loyalties. It made perfect sense th
ey would send just one man to try to shoot him in the back while the others stayed hidden and watched.

  Which meant the dead man was either the Accountant or Tall and Lanky. Smith was leaning toward Tall and Lanky, though the figure had been slightly crouched and there was no light, which made determining his true body shape and height difficult.

  Not that it mattered which one it was. Dead was dead.

  Smith just knew that it wasn’t Peoples. Oh no, the leader would never do the job himself. He would send either the Accountant or Tall and Lanky to do the dirty work. After all, if you couldn’t force other people to take chances when you stayed safe and sound, what was the point of being leader of the pack?

  They continued firing into the tree, maybe under the mistaken delusion they could get to him if they could only cut their way through the thick trunk. He could have told them they were wasting their time, that the tree was there long before any of them were around and it would remain here long after they were gone.

  Smith leaned his back against the tree and waited. He listened to the bullets impacting the other side, felt the tree trembling with each bullet.

  Go ahead, boys. Keep at it.

  Go right ahead and waste all those bullets.

  They fired five more times before finally getting the hint. Eventually, the last shot echoed and faded and gave way to the silence once again.

  Smith stayed where he was, the SIG back in its holster, and didn’t move. His breathing had accelerated slightly, and he spent the next five or so seconds calming it down. He’d been in firefights before, almost died way more times for his liking, but there was always the initial adrenaline boost of being fired upon that never went away. Ever.

  He liked it that way. The day he stopped being affected by a gunfight was when he knew he’d joined the pack and might as well go looking for two other assholes to form a gang of his own.

  As his breathing settled down, Smith kept his ears open and his eyes scanning the road in the horizon to his left and right. He didn’t think the dead man’s friends would be charging head-on. No, they would be back there, behind him, where the gunshots had come from. There had been too many bullets, and the shots were too simultaneous for there to just be one shooter.