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

by Sisavath, Sam

  “The Judge.”

  “What about him?”

  “I’m going to kill him.”

  “Just like that?”

  Smith shrugged. “Why not?”

  “Is that why he’s so heavily guarded all of a sudden?”

  “How heavily are we talking about?”

  “There were at least a half dozen men with him when I last saw him before nightfall. It was the first time I’ve seen him with so many guns.”

  “…before nightfall.”

  That would have been more than enough time for the Judge to have found out that his ambush of Smith and Mandy hadn’t gone according to plan. The sniper, Roman, had managed to kill Mandy—his primary target—but Smith had slipped free. Smith wouldn’t have been surprised to know the Judge had men watching the junkyard; those same men would have seen Smith arriving in the Jeep with Travis. The fat man might not have known Smith would come back for him, but he was apparently not taking any chances.

  Smart fucker.

  “How many men does the Judge have?” Smith asked, Roger’s “ten or more” still echoing inside his head. “How many guns can he count on to do his dirty work?”

  Amy thought about it, before glancing back at Hobson’s body. “Now?”

  “Now.”

  “Thirteen.”

  “Thirteen?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  Oh, nothing. I’m just trying to figure out how many I’m going to have to kill to get to the Judge.

  Smith said instead, “You sure about that number?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does it include Travis, Kyle, and Roman?”

  Amy’s eyes widened slightly. Was that surprise? Yes, it looked like surprise. But surprised by what?

  “Are they dead?” Amy asked.

  “Let’s assume they’re no longer in the mix. How many guns does the Judge have left now?”

  “Without those three? Then ten.”

  “Ten? You sure about that?”

  Again, Amy seemed to think about it. “I think so.”

  “You think so?”

  “People come and go. I can’t keep track of everyone.”

  “I thought that was your job.”

  “One of my jobs.”

  Smith nodded. “Fair enough.” Then, because it just occurred to him, “You’re not married to any of them, are you?”

  “What?”

  “I heard the Judge likes to marry people off.”

  “God, no.”

  The way she had said it, “God, no,” made Smith think he’d chosen correctly to come to Amy, not just for information on Mary and Aaron but to gather intel about what he was up to.

  At least I was right about one thing tonight.

  “About my friends,” Smith said. “Where would they take Mary and Aaron?”

  Amy shook her head again. “I don’t know.”

  “You must have some ideas.”

  “I don’t. I’m sorry.”

  “How long have you been in Gaffney?”

  “Long enough.”

  “How long?”

  “Two years.”

  “And you don’t know where they would take Mary and her son? You don’t even have a single clue?”

  Amy opened her mouth to answer, but nothing came out. She closed her mouth back up and seemed to think about it for a moment instead.

  A moment turned into ten seconds.

  Then twenty…

  “Anything,” Smith said. “Tell me anything.”

  “The ranch,” Amy finally said.

  “What ranch?”

  “Where they take people for what the Judge calls reeducation.”

  Now where have I heard that before?

  Ah, right. Blake.

  “Where’s this ranch?” he asked.

  “It’s nearby.”

  “How near—”

  The click of a door opening, followed by the sound of a man’s voice calling out, “Doc. You in there?”

  Smith quickly stepped to his left, far enough that he was suddenly hidden behind the half-open curtain that separated the lobby and back of the clinic. The plastic sheet went all the way down to the floor, so he was assured his boots weren’t showing as whoever was on the other side walked over, the sound of their footsteps loud enough to wake the dead.

  “Doc?”

  “Yes,” Amy said, looking from Smith to the male figure approaching her.

  “I heard voices,” the man said. “Who were you talking to?”

  “Voices?”

  “Yeah.” Then, with slightly more alarm in his voice, “Who were you talking to?”

  “No one,” Amy said. “I was talking to myself.”

  The voice belonged to Dunham, the man Smith had seen standing guard outside the Judge’s chambers back at the courthouse yesterday. He was still wearing the same faded Cornhuskers cap and had one palm resting on the butt of his holstered pistol as he stepped past the curtain and into the back room.

  “You were talking to yourself?” Dunham asked.

  “Yes,” Amy said. “I—” she continued, when her eyes shifted slightly to the right—right at Smith.

  He didn’t think she’d done it on purpose. Or, at least, Smith didn’t want to think she had. It was probably a nervous tic on her part, trying to make sure if Smith was hidden well enough from Dunham.

  Whatever the reason, the results were the same.

  Dunham saw it and spun in Smith’s direction even as his hand grabbed and began drawing his sidearm. The first thing Smith noticed was the widening eyes, followed by the big nasty—and fresh-looking—scar that ran down his right cheek, starting from the bottom of one eye and ending next to the corner of his mouth. The man hadn’t had that when Smith saw him last time.

  The surprised presence of the scar cost Smith almost half a second. Almost. But it didn’t stop Smith from drawing first and shooting Dunham once in the chest before the other man could even clear leather.

  Well, this night’s going off the rails fast, Smith thought as he took a step toward Dunham’s body even as the man fell to his knees.

  Smith shot the Judge’s man a second time, this one in the face because, fuck it, you could never be too sure these days.

  Four

  Footsteps around him, along with the echoing clop-clop-clop of shod horse hooves. Most of it was concentrated in the roads to his right even as Smith moved deeper into the darker parts of Gaffney. It was a good thing there were no lights along most of the buildings; the town concentrated most of their limited solar-powered LED light sources along the streets.

  …a good thing there were no lights…

  In another place, another time, Smith might have felt some trepidation about that little fact. Except he didn’t tonight, because the Judge’s men didn’t seem to have any concerns about moving around loudly—very, very loudly—as they hunted for him.

  And that was exactly what they were doing: hunting. He was their prey.

  Find me if you can, boys.

  Smith thought about his brief conversation with Amy just before Dunham poked his nose into the clinic. Then, after Dunham was down for the count:

  “You have to go,” Amy had said.

  No kidding, he had thought but had answered her with, “This ranch. Give me a direction,” instead.

  “South from here. You can’t miss it. It’s the only thing out there for miles.”

  “How far?”

  “Half a mile, maybe?”

  “You’ve been there?”

  “A few times, when they needed a doctor. But they wouldn’t let me see everything.”

  “And that’s where they take people for reeducation?”

  “Yes.”

  “What else?”

  Amy had shaken her head. “I don’t know. We’re not allowed out there without guards.” Then, quickly, as they heard the clop-clop-clop of approaching horse hooves, “You have to go.”

  He didn’t go right away. First, he stared at her. “Are you going to tell t
hem I was here?”

  “I have to. But I won’t tell them what we talked about.”

  “What will you tell them?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t figured that part out.”

  “Painkillers.”

  “Painkillers?”

  “Tell them I came here looking for painkillers, but Dunham interrupted me first.”

  “Okay.” Then, as Smith turned to leave, “You used to be Black Tide too, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah,” Smith said, looking back at her.

  “What happened to you?”

  “Same as you, I’m guessing. I lost faith in the cause.”

  Amy had nodded in reply but hadn’t said anything. She didn’t have to, either. Smith could read it on her face.

  Then he left.

  Mary and Aaron.

  He was partially (Just partially? Okay, maybe more than partially.) responsible for them being here. And now, in danger. The Judge had put them in his crosshairs, and after what had transpired with Travis and the others, no doubt mother and son weren’t going to be allowed to just assimilate into Gaffney.

  That was on Smith. He’d crossed the Judge, hoping he could end the man’s tyranny with a bullet. That hadn’t worked out, mostly because the Judge had had his own plans. One that didn’t include Smith returning to town alive.

  You fucked up, fat man. You fucked up real good.

  It was up to Smith to make the man pay, but not yet.

  Not yet.

  So Smith was headed toward the south end of town. To this ranch, wherever it was. He couldn’t remember seeing anything that would indicate there was a ranch out there. Then again, he didn’t even know Gaffney existed until he had his run-in with the Judge’s posse. When he’d scouted the town earlier, looking for a way in, he hadn’t ventured out far enough south to see everything. There hadn’t been any need to.

  “The ranch,” Amy had said. “Where they take people for what the Judge calls reeducation.”

  What was that Blake had told him about the Judge’s idea of reeducation?

  “The Judge reeducates them,” she had said.

  “‘Reeducates them’ how?” he had asked.

  “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.”

  Smith didn’t like the sound of that. His mind flashed through images of concentration camps and barbed wires. Was that what he would find once he reached this ranch? Anything was possible these days.

  He listened to sounds of movements coming from his right. As long as they were on the other side of the buildings, he was in good shape. A part of him was hoping they’d confront him so he could thin their numbers some more. According to Amy, he was now dealing with ten.

  Well, nine now, minus Dunham.

  Nine was still a lot, but not as many as it had been just a few minutes ago. Smith wasn’t a math whiz by any means, but even he knew that nine was better than ten.

  Now, if he could knock that number down some more…

  Voices!

  Smith stopped on a dime and all but lunged into a dark corner between two brick buildings, his right hand immediately stabbing down toward the holstered SIG Sauer. He didn’t draw the weapon, but he let it hover, waiting as he listened to the voices get closer.

  They were approaching his position and making a hell of a lot of noises doing it, too. Either they wanted him to know they were coming, or they were just really bad at sneaking up on a target.

  “Here?” someone said. Male. Young-sounding.

  “Around here,” another voice said. Also male, also young-sounding.

  “Where, exactly?”

  “Nearby.”

  “Be more specific.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You sure you even heard something?”

  “Don’t be an asshole.”

  “You’re the asshole.”

  “Really? I call you an asshole, and you call me an asshole back? That’s mature.”

  “You’re mature.”

  “That’s what I meant.”

  “Huh?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Whatever, man.”

  Smith smirked to himself. Just what he needed tonight: A shitty comedy routine by two assholes.

  “Where?” the first asshole said. He sounded much closer than the last time Smith heard his voice. “Here?”

  “I already said nearby,” Asshole #2 said. “Now shut up. He might hear us.”

  “If he’s here. You probably just saw a cat.”

  “When was the last time you saw a cat in town?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “Where?”

  “Behind the courthouse. Ask Tom.”

  “I will.”

  “You do that.”

  Scintillating conversation, Smith thought. Simply scintillating.

  He wanted to step out of hiding and put them both out of his misery out of pure spite, for forcing him to listen to them, but he didn’t. He could hear the clop-clop-clop of multiple horses nearby, on the other side of the approaching duo. That meant more men—more heavily-armed men—within earshot. He was eager to knock down the Judge’s numbers by a few more guns, but not if it meant having to outrun horses.

  Of course, if he stuck to the back alleys, horses wouldn’t necessarily be that much of an advantage…

  “Come on,” Asshole #1 was saying. “There’s nothing back there.”

  “I heard something,” Asshole #2 insisted.

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “I did.”

  “No, you didn’t. Or else there’d be something here. But there’s nothing here.”

  “We should look some more.”

  “We already have.”

  “I mean, some more.”

  “I’m bored.”

  “You’re always bored.”

  “I’m also sleepy.”

  “You’re always sleepy.”

  “Exactly. So why are you making me walk around back here when I’m bored and sleepy?”

  The duo were standing about a dozen yards from where Smith hid in the shadows, but he could hear their breathing as well as their chatter as if they were right next to him. He could also see the shadowed barrels of their rifles across the dirty cement floor, the images elongated by the moon casting above them. He was reasonably certain he could take both out before they got off a shot, but it would have been pretty noisy.

  Mary and Aaron. Find Mary and Aaron.

  As much as he wanted to dispatch both assholes, Smith didn’t move. Right now, getting to Mary and Aaron was more important. As far as he knew, Amy hadn’t given him away. But that was just Smith having faith that she was on his side rather than the Judge’s. What if he was wrong?

  He wasn’t.

  Probably.

  Footsteps again as the duo headed back in the direction they’d come from earlier. Back to the streets. Smith remained where he was, listening to them go. They were just as loud leaving as they had been coming.

  Be a little louder why dontcha, boys.

  When he couldn’t hear them anymore, Smith continued on his way, slipping through a series of back alleys and sticking to the rear of buildings. Stores, apartments, a VFW hall. Most of them were empty, like the majority of Gaffney. There was simply too much space and not enough people to occupy them. That was another reason he was confident he could avoid the Judge’s men as he made his way south.

  A part of Smith wanted to turn back, to find the Judge instead of going after Mary and Aaron. After all, if he could take out the fat man, then all of this would be over. He could simply walk to the ranch and take Mary and her son. (Or he thought he could, anyway. It would probably not be that easy.)

  But he didn’t.

  Right now, he had to concentrate on getting Mary and Aaron back. He had to make sure they were safe. E
ven if he didn’t feel completely responsible for them being here, (Still trying to convince yourself, huh?) he had some culpability. That was all the reminder Smith needed to keep his nose out of other people’s business. How different would his last few days have been if he had stayed hidden when Peoples and his two pals showed up on the road?

  But that was a moot point now. He was here, in Gaffney, and everything that had happened the last few days—Mary, Gaffney, Blake, and—

  Blake.

  Shit. He’d forgotten all about Blake.

  Smith stopped and glanced north.

  Toward the police station.

  Blake was probably still inside it even now.

  It took him about thirty seconds to decide what to do. Mary was south, but Blake was north. And Blake was closer…

  Smith turned around and headed north. He told himself it wasn’t the blonde hair, the beautiful green eyes, or the amazing body, but who was he kidding? It was all those things. He was, after all, only human.

  Five

  Finding the police station was easy. Smith remembered it was in the center of town, which made it easy to locate even with just the moonlight to navigate with. He could have found it easier if he had access to the streets, but that was out of the question with the Judge’s men roaming around looking for him. Having decided to avoid conflict until it was absolutely necessary, Smith had to stay in the shadows.

  There were no guards outside the station, but as Smith approached it, he glimpsed a figure on the rooftop. Smith quickly slid behind cover and watched as a man with a rifle appeared near the edge of the rooftop, looked around for a bit, before vanishing again.

  The man was too far away and there was too much darkness for Smith to make out a face, but it was clearly a man. A lone guard. That was expected, given that the rest of the Judge’s guns were searching the town for Smith. Even now, he could hear them moving about the streets and the occasional doors opening and closing. What mattered was that they were behind him and not in front.

  Smith waited for the guard to appear a second time, then didn’t move until the man had vanished once more. He hurried out from behind cover and made his way toward the police station, skirting around the corners of buildings until he was at the rear.

  There was a back door, but it was locked. Smith took out his knife and waited.