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

by Sisavath, Sam

  Fortunately for both of them, the creature was still far enough away that Smith didn’t have to rush. The knife was out and in his hand before the undead thing even did ten yards. It wasn’t exactly moving slowly, just awkwardly. He guessed that was what happened when you only had one good leg and a stump for the other one.

  Not that the ghoul let its disability stop it. It scrambled up the hillside, eyes snapping from Smith to Blake and back again, as if it couldn’t quite decide which one of them to attack first. Finally, its hollowed-out black eyes settled on Smith—or maybe the silver-coated knife in his hand. It could probably smell the material, but if it was afraid of it, the ghoul didn’t stop. It kept coming.

  “Stay here,” Smith said as he got up.

  “Silver?” Blake asked.

  “Uh huh.”

  “Where’s mine?”

  “I don’t know. Back at the police station?”

  “You couldn’t have grabbed me one?”

  “You didn’t ask.”

  “Still...”

  Smith scooted down the hill to meet the creature. It reached for him, and Smith lopped its right hand off at the wrist. Black blood spurted, but Smith managed to avoid the liquid as the creature toppled harmlessly to the side, then rolled back down the hillside—

  Fuck, Smith thought as he smelled it.

  Not the ghoul he’d just killed (re-killed?), but even more stink.

  A lot more.

  Three more ghouls, appearing out of the night at the base of the hill. These three had all their limbs and were scampering up the sloped ground, propelling themselves toward Smith with hands and legs working in unison. They looked more like crab monsters than things that used to be bipedal humans.

  “Oh, shit,” Blake whispered behind him.

  That sounds about right, Smith thought as he clutched the knife handle. Thank God for silver, otherwise he’d be forced to make a hell of a lot of noise to deal with these things.

  The question, Where the hell did they come from? flashed across his mind for just a brief second before the threat of the moment took over and he stopped thinking and simply acted.

  There were just three more of them, which he was grateful for. Any more, and he might question if he could handle them with just a knife. A small knife, at that. He couldn’t have used the SIG even if the bullets were silver; the gunshots would have alerted the ranch behind him, and that would ruin the element of surprise Smith was clinging to.

  “Stay where you are,” Smith said without looking back at Blake. He heard movement back there as, he guessed, she rearmed herself with the Benelli.

  “There’s three of them,” Blake said.

  “I can deal with three.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  The ghouls didn’t show any tactical sense as they clambered up the hill toward him. There was no tact, no subtlety to their approach. Which was exactly how ghouls operated. They were base creatures that existed on primal instincts. They needed to feed, and he was the closest meal.

  Well, he and Blake. But at the moment he stood between them and her, and if they even had eyes for her, he couldn’t see it in the almost rabid look on their pruned black faces as they zeroed in on him.

  They were ugly. They’d always been ugly. It’d been years since The Walk Out, even longer since The Purge, but these things always reminded Smith that no matter how “normal” things seemed out here, they were far from what used to be. The world was irrevocably changed, and this was just a reminder of that sad fact.

  “Smith?” Blake said from behind him. She sounded worried for some reason. Was she afraid he couldn’t handle three ghouls?

  “Don’t do anything,” Smith said. “I’ll handle—”

  The boom! of a shotgun blast left his ears ringing, and Smith spun around, ready to scream at Blake.

  Except nothing came out of his mouth, because he knew why she’d fired. She didn’t have a choice, because there were ghouls climbing up the other side of the hill toward her.

  There were three of them.

  No, not three.

  Four—five—more.

  Blake was already on her feet and trying to keep her footing as she backed down the slanted ground toward him. The Benelli was a semiautomatic, so she didn’t have to rack the forend to reload the weapon. It was already reloaded, and all she had to do was pull the trigger to fire again.

  Which she did now, and a ghoul about five yards from her stumbled as its head disappeared in a shower of buckshot. Not that that stopped the creature, as it continued to stagger after Blake, even minus a head.

  Smith wished he could have said he’d never seen a sight like that before, but it would have been a lie. His time with Black Tide had exposed him to a lot more horrific sights, and this wasn’t even close to some of those.

  Even so, it took him a second or two—or five—to get a handle on what was happening.

  Not only were there ghouls behind him, but they were now in front of him, too. The creatures were coming at them from two sides. And whether they had purposefully tried to outflank them or not, that was exactly what had happened.

  And oh, now that Blake had fired her shotgun—twice—it was a good bet the folks at the ranch were awake. If the Judge’s men didn’t know what was happening out here, they would get a pretty good idea very soon.

  And just like that, Smith’s element of surprise went out the window.

  Seven

  It had never occurred to him that the shotgun he’d handed to Blake back at the police station might not have been loaded with silver buckshot. He’d just assumed they weren’t. After all, why would they be? Silver wasn’t exactly readily available before The Purge, and that hadn’t changed after. His instincts were proven correct when Blake blew the ghoul’s head off and it kept coming after her.

  Well, this is going well.

  It wasn’t, of course, but the snarky part of Smith couldn’t help but take it all in with a sense of resignation: The whole week hadn’t gone very well, so why would tonight be any different? Sure, he’d managed to skirt around Gaffney without getting shot and had even managed to thin out the Judge’s ranks some, but he had no illusions his luck was going to continue all day.

  As it turned out, he was right.

  Another boom! as Blake fired a second time, creating a hole in the sunken chest of the same ghoul that was charging her and sending the creature reeling backward on its heels. Not, Smith noticed with some amusement, because the blast had ended its life, but because the force of the 12-gauge shell had knocked it to the ground.

  Not that Blake had any time to celebrate her sorta-victory. The other ghouls were already swarming, appearing over the top of the hill in front of her.

  Christ, there were a lot of them. At least six that Smith could see, but the air was thick with their stench, telling him that there were a lot more in the area than just the ones he could pick out with the naked eye—

  The hairs on the back of his neck stood up and Smith spun around, knife at the ready, as one of the three ghouls charging him from the base of the hill finally reached its target. He slashed, catching it across the bony chest. Normally that wouldn’t have stopped an attacking man, but this wasn’t a man. It was a ghoul, and to the creature, anything with silver was kryptonite.

  It collapsed in front of Smith, going from lively (well, in a way) to lifeless in the blink of an eye. Frail legs ceased moving, and its thin body, the appearance of a malnourished child, tumbled to the grass in a heap of clacking bones.

  Smith stepped to his right as the remaining two ghouls kept coming, even as Blake’s shotgun boomed once again behind him. Smith tuned her out and concentrated on the ghouls in front of him.

  He stabbed a second undead thing in the face, the knife going right through the twin holes that used to be its nostrils and nearly out the back of its skull. Its bones were so weak, like papier-mâché, that it hadn’t taken very much force at all. Unfortunately, that wasn’t an advantage for Sm
ith, because he’d struck with too much force and the knife went in too far and became lodged in the falling body, leaving him exposed as—

  The third ghoul reached for him, icy cold fingers scraping against his right cheek as Smith jerked his upper body back to avoid it. He tried to pull the knife out of the second ghoul, but it was embedded too deeply, and ended up dragging the scraggly body with him instead. Thank God it was so light and weak, and it was like carrying a fake biology class skeleton instead of a real body, one that had some heft to it.

  Smith lifted his right boot and kicked it against the dead ghoul’s chest—

  Boom! from behind him, closer this time, as Blake fired again—

  —and shoved it back, finally releasing the knife just as the third ghoul staggered toward him. It was having some difficulty maneuvering the incline up the hillside. Smith was too, but not nearly as much since he had two perfectly good working legs. The ghoul, on the other hand, was dragging its right leg behind it. Its face was smashed, like it’d been broadsided by a Mack truck before tonight. There wasn’t much left of its face at all except for two hollowed holes that used to house eyeballs, but no longer.

  Goddamn that’s one ugly motherfucker, Smith thought even as he lunged at the ghoul and stabbed it in the chest, putting it out of its misery once and for all.

  His right hand, gripping the knife tightly, was covered in black sludge. He wasn’t sure when that had gotten there. Probably when he’d stabbed one of the ghouls in the face, or maybe when he sank the knife into the third one’s chest—

  Boom! Boom!

  Blake, behind him, firing away.

  Smith turned around just as she stumbled blindly into him. She was scrambling backward, not looking where she was going, only knowing that anywhere was better than the top of the hill where skeletal shadows were appearing, undeterred by however many shotgun blasts she’d sent their way.

  “Smith!” Blake shouted. “I’m almost out!”

  “Run!” Smith shouted.

  She glanced over at him, eyes wide. “What?”

  “Run!”

  “Run?”

  “Run!”

  Smith ran, and Blake followed.

  He hopped over two of the bodies, nearly lost his footing and fell on his face when he landed, but somehow managed to stay upright. Barely. The hill wasn’t very high, but it seemed to take way longer to get down to the base than it’d taken when they were climbing up it earlier.

  “Smith!” Blake shouted.

  Smith glanced over at her, running alongside him. She was reloading, shoving shells into the Benelli as she ran. And doing it very well, too, as if she’d done it many times before. For all he knew, she had, not that he wasted breath asking for confirmation.

  “Where are we going?” Blake shouted.

  “I don’t know!”

  “You don’t know?”

  “I don’t know!”

  He shot a quick look over his shoulder at the dark figures pursuing them.

  Five—six—ten.

  He spent a second or two trying to comprehend their presence. How were there ten ghouls out here? And what were they doing out here in the first place? Did it have anything to do with the ranch? The creatures were drawn to human presence, but why hadn’t they attacked until now? Or did he and Blake just have the misfortune to stumble into their path while they were about to do just that? Why—

  Two of the ghouls stumbled and lost their footing and began rolling down the hill. The sight would have been comical in any other situation, but not tonight.

  “Watch out!” Smith shouted, pushing Blake out of the way.

  He must have put too much effort into his shove, because she went down sideways on the grass even as one of the ghouls rolled between them and landed at the base of the hill. The creature unfurled its elongated limbs and snapped back up to its feet, turning just as Smith jumped down the last few yards and stabbed it in the forehead with the knife.

  Boom! from behind him.

  Smith spun around as Blake fired again—boom!—and tore a hole the size of his fist through the sunken chest of the second ghoul that had rolled down the hill after them. It staggered back but didn’t go down.

  She fired a third time, and the creature’s head, already missing one side of its skull, vanished in a shower of buckshot.

  “Blake, run!” Smith shouted.

  She did just that, turning and following on his heels even as the rest of the ghouls came down the hillside after them. Another one tumbled down like a boulder, but the rest somehow managed to remain upright. They were fast, their lack of weight giving them additional speed, but Smith was in great shape, and so was Blake. He had no doubt they could outrun the creatures. Besides, even if they couldn’t, he still had the knife.

  Smith clutched the blade, wishing badly he had silver bullets to use instead. A knife was fine, but he would have preferred to take out the ghouls from a distance instead of having to get up close and personal. All it would take was a bite or a scratch, and he could have easily been infected. Smith knew about men and women that went around the country killing ghouls as a profession. They called themselves slayers. It was a hell of a way to make a living and took some balls. Or a death wish.

  “Smith!” Blake shouted.

  “What?” Smith said.

  “This is my last shell!” she said even as she shoved that last shell into the Benelli. She’d been carrying the spare rounds for the weapon in a pouch; that same pouch was bouncing freely and empty against her waist now.

  He hadn’t seen it before, but there were speckles of black goo on Blake’s chin and cheek, and more clinging to the front of her clothes. He hadn’t realized how close the ghouls had gotten to her until now, but they’d been near enough for backsplash from the shotgun blasts to rain thick, coagulated blood on her. She looked okay, though, and was keeping up with him just fine. In fact, she was barely breathing hard.

  No, that wasn’t true. She was starting to breathe hard.

  And so was he.

  Smith threw another glance over his shoulder.

  There were six of them that he could see immediately, more in the back that he could only glimpse because they were either crawling or hobbling, having lost limbs—some, their heads—to Blake’s shotgun fire earlier. The ones with all their appendages were still coming but not catching up. They were fast, but Smith and Blake were faster.

  For now, anyway. Sooner or later, they were going to get tired. They were only human, after all.

  Meanwhile, the ghouls…

  Not humans. Not anymore.

  That was fine, though. Smith wasn’t panicking. At least, not yet. He still had the silver-coated knife, and Blake, her shotgun. True, the Benelli wasn’t going to kill a ghoul, but it could slow them down, especially if the buckshot was aimed at the right locations—like their legs. Ghouls could keep coming without legs, but they wouldn’t be nearly as fast anymore.

  “Blake!” Smith shouted.

  “What?” she shouted back.

  “Get ready!”

  “Get ready for what?”

  “Aim for the legs!”

  “What?”

  “Aim for the legs!”

  She squinted at him even as her breath hammered out between pale lips. “Are you crazy? Just keep running!”

  “We can’t outrun them forever!”

  She opened her mouth to argue—but stopped short. She understood exactly what he was getting at. It had taken a few seconds, but she got there eventually.

  “Shit,” Blake said.

  “Ready?”

  “No!”

  “On the count of three!”

  “Wait, wait.”

  “What?”

  “Is that one-two-three, or three-two-one?”

  Smith couldn’t help but laugh. “One-two-three.”

  “Okay. Gotcha. Just wanted to make sure.”

  “You sure, now?”

  “Yup.”

  “Sure, sure?”

  She
rolled her eyes at him. “Just do it, smartass!”

  Smith grinned, then glanced back again to check on their pursuers. He couldn’t smell them anymore. The air was too crisp, too clean, and the creatures hadn’t managed to taint all of their surroundings yet.

  Four of the ghouls were getting closer. Close enough that Smith could see the black of their eyes widening at the sight of him looking at them.

  Damn, they’re ugly.

  “One!” he shouted.

  He glimpsed Blake clutching the Benelli next to him, getting ready. Like him, she didn’t break stride for one second.

  “Two!”

  Smith mentally prepared himself, and thought, I hope this works.

  “Three!”

  Eight

  Smith acted first, stopping on a dime and spinning around. The knife was already back in its sheath on his left hip even before he drew the SIG Sauer with his right hand. The gun came out smoothly, like it always did. The move was instinctive, like breathing. He could have done it in his sleep, with his eyes closed, and without any feelings in any of his extremities.

  He shot the first ghoul while it was about fifteen yards away, and the creature stumbled as its right leg buckled underneath it, the tibia bone cracking audibly as the 9mm round shattered it on impact. The nightcrawler pitched forward and slammed into the ground on its face, and was instantly attempting to pick itself back up. He fired again, striking it in the kneecap of its other leg, and the creature fell back down on its chest.

  Smith felt queasy watching it, once again, attempt to get up. Instead, it began dragging itself forward with its hands, its head angled and eyes glaring back at him almost accusingly.

  He retreated even while focusing on the next ghoul as it ran past the first one.

  Boom! from his right as Blake fired and the left leg of the second undead thing vanished in a shower of buckshot. The creature collapsed to the ground. Like the one Smith had fallen, this one quickly attempted to pick itself up but found the task difficult now that it only had one functioning leg to work with.