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

by Sisavath, Sam

  “We’re leaving with them, Mr. Smith,” Mary told him.

  Smith nodded and said, “That’s probably a good idea.”

  “You think so?”

  “It’s better than walking around out here with me. Aaron will appreciate the comforts of a town. You will, too.”

  “I’m used to roughing it, Mr. Smith. Tom…” She pursed a smile. “But you’re right. Aaron will be better off in a town.” She glanced quickly over at the riders, before looking back at him. “You really think this is the right decision, though?”

  “For you and the boy, yes,” Smith said.

  “What about you? You should come with us.”

  “It’s not for me.”

  “You’re not the settling-down type, I take it.”

  He forced a smile. “No.”

  It was more than that, though. He didn’t know these men, and although Hobson seemed like a decent enough fellow, Smith didn’t care for Travis, the one with the squirrely eyes. He also didn’t know anything about this Judge character that Hobson kept talking about or why the man—and these men—assumed he had any authority whatsoever out here. As far as Smith knew, there were no reconstituted state governments anymore, so how did someone manage to get himself appointed “judge” of anything? Unless, of course, the man did it himself. That wasn’t the kind of authority Smith found convincing.

  But Smith didn’t give voice to those doubts. It wasn’t his job to take care of Mary and her kid, and if Hobson was offering to take them off his hands, then, well, who was he to argue?

  While Mary and her son packed their things, Hobson’s men climbed off their horses and loitered about. Travis and the other guy in the Cornhuskers cap—Smith assumed they were buddies, thus the identical ball caps—kept to themselves while the others did various things to fill up time. The youngest and the oldest ones were rubbing down their horses, while the fifth rider had wandered off to pick up something on the ground about fifty yards away.

  Smith stood by himself and looked north, already charting his next move. He wasn’t entirely sure what was up there, but it would be interesting to find out. There was, after all, nothing for him back south or west. There was east, but he’d spent too much time out there when he was with Black Tide to want to go back anytime soon.

  Hobson appeared next to him. “Where you from?”

  “Here and there,” Smith said.

  “Texas?”

  “Why do you care?”

  “Trying to be friendly, son.”

  “No offense, but I’ve had enough of people ‘trying to be friendly’ to me this week.”

  “You talking about the three that took Mary and her boy?”

  Smith glanced over at the older man. The one thing he could say about Hobson was that the guy had the eyes and crow’s feet of someone who had seen some shit. He’d probably used that holstered sidearm of his more than once, and he didn’t seem like a bad guy. Then again, Smith had met plenty of people who hadn’t seemed like bad guys but had proven otherwise.

  “I hear a pitch coming,” Smith said.

  Hobson cracked a grin before tossing a quick look back at Mary as she continued helping Aaron pack their things for the upcoming trip. Then, turning back to Smith, “We could use a man like you back at Gaffney.”

  “And what’s a man like me?”

  “Someone who knows how to handle a gun.”

  “This town of yours needs a lot of people who can handle a gun?”

  “It doesn’t hurt.”

  “Sounds like a dangerous job.”

  “It is.”

  “So why would I want it?”

  “You mind danger?”

  “I don’t go looking for it.”

  “That’s not what Mary told me.”

  “That’s her interpretation. Who am I to tell her she’s wrong?”

  “The only reason others get to live in peace is because there are men like you and me willing to pick up a gun and give it to them.”

  “Is that what you do in Gaffney? You uphold the peace, along with this Judge character?”

  “The Judge is the reason we even have Gaffney in the first place.”

  “If you say so.”

  “So that’s a no, I take it?”

  Smith shook his head. “I have places to go.”

  “Mary told me you guys were headed north.”

  “That’s right.”

  “What’s north?”

  “Not south.”

  “You’re an interesting man, Mister Smith.”

  “I’ve been called worse,” Smith said.

  Hobson chuckled before turning around. “All right, everyone, let’s mount up!” Then, looking back at Smith, “Last chance.”

  “Thanks, but no chance.”

  “All right. Good luck out there, then. Try not to get into any more trouble.”

  “Whatever you say, sheriff.”

  “Sheriff? What gave you the impression I’m a sheriff?”

  “So you’re not the sheriff of this Gaffney?”

  “No. The Judge is the only authority in Gaffney. The rest of us just work under him to help uphold the law.”

  “Sounds like an interesting character, this Judge of yours.”

  “He’s something, all right.”

  “Is that good or bad?”

  The older man flashed Smith something that almost looked like a grin but wasn’t quite one. Smith wasn’t sure what it was, though.

  “That’s for history to decide,” Hobson said as he walked back to his horse.

  Smith looked after Hobson, trying to figure out what all that was about, when Mary and Aaron walked back to him. She looked a bit sheepish, as if she was feeling guilty about something.

  Before she could say something—she was going to apologize, he guessed, though he didn’t know why or want one—Smith said, “Good luck.” Then quickly, to the boy, “I got something for you.”

  Smith went over to his pack and unzipped it, then returned to the boy with a small can of SPAM. He’d picked it up about two weeks earlier and hadn’t had the courage to try eating it yet. The boy’s eyes lit up at the sight of his gift.

  “Try not to eat it all in one sitting,” Smith said, handing the can to the kid, who grabbed it happily.

  Mary pursed a smile at Smith. “Thank you,” she said, and she didn’t have to tell him that it was for more than just the SPAM.

  Smith nodded. Then he leaned closer to her and whispered, “Keep the Glock in your jacket pocket. When you get to Gaffney, hide it somewhere safe. Don’t let them know you have it. Okay?”

  When he pulled back, Mary gave him a concerned and slightly puzzled look.

  “Just in case,” Smith said, in a softer, quieter voice.

  She nodded. “I will.”

  “Don’t let them know.”

  She sneaked a look back at Hobson and the others, far enough from them that Smith didn’t think they could be eavesdropped on. She said, matching his pitch, “You think they’re dangerous?”

  “No, but you can never be too careful.”

  She nodded again, and said, in a louder voice, “Be careful out there, Mr. Smith,” before taking Aaron’s hand and joining the others.

  Mary climbed onto the older man’s horse to ride double behind him, while Aaron did the same thing with the younger one. Hobson didn’t say anything else to Smith as he turned and headed off, with the others following.

  All except Travis, the redhead, who tipped his cap at Smith. “See you around, tough guy.”

  Smith narrowed his eyes back at the man. “You should hope not.”

  Travis chuckled before turning and riding off. He caught up to the others in no time.

  Mary glanced back once or twice, and she might have done it a third time or more, but Smith had already picked up his pack and continued walking. He thought Aaron might have waved at him, but the kid could have just been adjusting his arm to get a better hold on his rider to keep from falling off.

  Smith wasn’t s
ure where he was going, but continuing north sounded like a good plan. The worst that could happen was he ended up in Canada. He’d probably need to pick up a thicker jacket along the way.

  Or a big wool coat. Maybe two.

  Either/or.

  Eight

  Was letting Mary and the boy leave with those men the right thing to do?

  Hobson had looked all right, and he was in charge, so…

  …maybe…

  He was still debating with himself when he saw the smoke.

  There wasn’t a lot of it, but in absence of anything that even remotely signaled the existence of other humans out here besides himself, it was unmistakable.

  The other reason Smith kept walking toward the smoke and its source was because they were in front of him. It hadn’t been more than a couple of hours since his run-in with the posse from Gaffney, and Smith wasn’t looking for more potential headaches. But the smoke was directly in front of him, and he was going there anyway, so Smith thought, What the hell.

  Then: Famous last words.

  It was a house in the middle of nowhere—literally in the middle of nowhere, with nothing around it but hills and flat land—burning underneath the bright sun. There was no reason for something like this to be out here, but there it was.

  Who the hell builds a house all the way out here?

  Someone who doesn’t want to be found, obviously. Or messed with.

  Smith stood over one of the many hills that dotted the landscape like camel humps, looking down at the building as fire engulfed it. He couldn’t tell what kind of house it used to be or how big. There wasn’t anything that looked like a barn or supply shed nearby, so it was a lone structure.

  All of that struck him as odd, but Smith had seen plenty of odd things lately.

  There was no way to save the place. The fire was in full rage mode and probably had been all morning before Smith even stumbled across it. Anyone caught in that blaze was long gone, along with everything else inside it.

  He might have kept on walking past the fire if he didn’t catch a glimpse of the black horse grazing on some sporadic sprouting of grass about 200 yards on the other side of the burning house. There was no rider that Smith could see, but the animal was wearing a saddle and dragging its reins in the dirt behind it.

  Smith confirmed all that with his binoculars. He couldn’t find any signs of the horse’s rider, and there wasn’t a body nearby. The house, too, was clearly gone. No signs of violence that he could detect, just a fire devouring everything there was to feast on. It wouldn’t take long before it ran out of fuel out here.

  None of that explained the presence of the horse. It shouldn’t be out here. Just like the house.

  But there they were.

  Was it a trap?

  He didn’t think so. Nothing about it smelled like a trap. If anything, it looked to him like the ending of something. What that “something” was, he had no idea. And, frankly, couldn’t care less.

  Smith would have been perfectly content to keep walking, arriving at wherever and whenever he eventually found himself, regardless of however long it took to get there. But he had to admit: a horse would save a lot of time, not to mention exertion. It wasn’t like Smith was averse to physical labor, like endless walking, but, well, why not take advantage of something like a horse?

  After all, it was right there for the taking, so who was he to turn it down?

  Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, right?

  Literally, in this case.

  He jogged down the hill and walked toward the horse at a slow and unhurried pace. Smith kept an eye on the flat land around him, waiting for someone to pop up and declare the horse theirs and that Smith was out of luck.

  But no one popped up.

  It was a nice black mare, with a magnificent mane that gleamed under the sun, but Smith wasn’t good enough with horses to know what kind of breed it was. It didn’t look afraid of him as he neared it. In fact, it only lifted its head to glance in his direction once before going back to grazing. It wasn’t jittery or threatened by his presence, both of which were good signs. Smith could count on one hand the number of times he’d even ridden a horse, so he was glad he wouldn’t have to “tame” this one.

  Smith took another long look at the burning house to his left. Closer, he still couldn’t see anything that looked like a body, or hints of a fight. In fact, there was no evidence of foul play at all, as if God himself had sent a thunderbolt down here to vanquish the place.

  Of course, that was silly, but anything was possible these days. After all, who thought blood-sucking monsters were even a thing just a decade ago?

  Smith continued to approach the horse cautiously, fully expecting it to take off at any moment. Except it didn’t. It knew very well that he was getting closer, because it kept lifting its head to give him a What do you want? glance before going right back to grazing what little grass there was in this part of the country. Soon, the animal would move on, because there would be nothing left to eat. It was a good thing Smith had stumbled across it when he did.

  “Hey there, horsey,” Smith said. “And where might your owner be? He’s not in that house burning to death, is he? Because if he is, that means you don’t have an owner anymore. So I’m thinking maybe we should team up. Have you ever been to Canada?”

  The animal continued chewing on bits of grass as if he wasn’t there or even talking to it. Smith took that as a further good sign and walked the rest of the way over.

  The horse remained where it was when he put a tentative hand on its mane, then still didn’t move very much as he rubbed it down. It had a saddle and an empty scabbard for some kind of rifle, but as far as Smith could tell, its owner hadn’t been shot off because there was no blood anywhere on the animal or around the area where it was standing. Of course, that didn’t mean it hadn’t wandered away from the burning house. He was just close enough that Smith could feel some heat from the flames radiating across the distance.

  He leaned in closer to get a better look at the horse’s saddle. It was brown and had a flowery pattern across, and with the word LUCKY on the side, flanked by a pair of stars.

  The question was, was Lucky the horse’s name or its owners? And did Smith care?

  Not really.

  “Where’s your owner?” Smith asked the horse.

  The animal wasn’t talking and continued chewing the sparse grass.

  “Not in the mood for convo, huh? Hey, I don’t blame you. I’m not much of a conversationalist, I know. Hell, people say I downright suck at it, actually. So we should get along just fine.”

  Smith wrapped one hand around the saddle’s horn and cautiously eased one boot into a stirrup.

  “Don’t take off on me now, okay? I’m just gonna climb on.”

  He started lifting himself up.

  “Easy does it, horse. Easy does it…”

  The horse lifted its head and turned to look at him as he settled into the saddle, but it was an expression of annoyance more than fear or something that would convince him it was about to buck him loose.

  When it went right back to chewing on the plentiful grass, he knew he’d found himself a ride.

  Smith leaned down and rubbed the horse’s head. “Oh yeah, we’re gonna get along just fine, you and me. Just fine.”

  He picked up the reins and glanced over at the burning house. He might have been able to figure out what had happened to it—and maybe even why—if he got closer and did some cursory investigation.

  But Smith didn’t care enough to do that.

  He had a horse and an open road ahead of him, and Canada wasn’t going to come to him.

  “Let’s go see Canada,” Smith said. “You like cold weather? You’ll love it.”

  Smith began turning the horse around, when the loud echoing crack! of a gunshot sent him tumbling back down to the ground.

  Nine

  He’d been shot.

  Shit, he’d been shot.

  And it hurt.
>
  But maybe it would have hurt even more if the round had hit where the shooter was aiming at. Which, from what Smith could tell by the blood dripping down the left side of his face, was probably his head instead of the temple, where the bullet had grazed instead and stripped away some flesh and scraped the skull underneath.

  There was pain, but it was more of a stinging pain and not the You’re going to die at any second type, which was less preferable.

  The last time he’d been shot, it’d taken him a good two months to heal. And that was with a lot of rest and food and water. This time he didn’t have that option; this time—

  —he was still in someone’s crosshairs!

  Smith was picking himself up from the ground, trying to blink the blood out of his left eye, when Lucky took off. Not that he blamed the horse. Someone had just taken a shot at them—at him, specifically, but the horse wouldn’t necessarily know that—and it was trying to save its own hide by getting out of the line of fire.

  He didn’t blame the animal one bit, even if he was a tad annoyed.

  Smith was straightening up, reaching to feel the bleeding along the side of his head to see just how bad it was, when he heard the crack! of a second rifle shot, followed by the round pekking into the ground about a foot behind him.

  It might have gone right through his chest or head or some other part of him if he hadn’t been swaying back and forth, trying to get his feet under him like a drunk coming home from a bar. That lack of balance had probably saved his life.

  Any thoughts he might have had about catching up to the horse and riding out of the line of fire disappeared when Smith located it, a good thirty—now thirty-five—yards away from him, and getting smaller.

  Damn, that horse could run!

  Smith ran after the horse because the mare was headed away from the shooter, which was exactly where Smith needed to be, too. The shots had come from the south, and Smith would put every cent he didn’t have that the shooter was perched on one of the hills Smith himself had been standing on not very long ago when he first glimpsed Lucky. It was the highest point in the area, and anyone who understood anything about shooting would take it in a heartbeat.