How long, though? Two minutes? Three? Five?
It was more than a few seconds, that much was a certainty. The old man had had his forefinger in the trigger guard and on the trigger the entire time but hadn’t begun the pull. That required applying pressure to the trigger, then following through with the full pull.
One second. That was all it should have taken. One second.
Except the old man had been holding his pose, finger lazily in the trigger guard but not in the process of pulling the trigger, that when the Judge finally screamed “Shoot him!” it took a moment for the command to register. It took, from what Smith could tell, about two and a half seconds longer than it should have for the old man to pull the trigger.
In fact, the old man took so long that Stephens already had his gun out of its holster by the time the old man finally acted and pulled the trigger.
Stephens was fast, but he wasn’t fast enough.
Smith shot him in the forehead even as the man managed to get his Glock out and began lifting it to take aim. That was his mistake. Aiming. Smith didn’t have to do that. He’d learned how to shoot without wasting time lifting the gun once it cleared leather. He simply drew and fired from the hip.
Stephens didn’t get off a shot, but the old man did, even as Smith was swiveling around to face him. The shotgun fired buckshot, and Smith heard rather than felt the multiple balls of steel as they whistled around his head and body. Some struck him in the left shoulder, spinning him slightly, but Smith didn’t let go of his gun.
Bang!
The old man didn’t go down from the first bullet, but instead staggered backward, appearing more shocked than hurt. The shotgun dipped slightly, and he was trying to raise it back up when Smith shot him again, this time in the middle of the face. The head snapped back, and the body collapsed, but Smith was already turning to face the Judge.
The fat man remained sitting in the armchair with Aaron perched on his right knee. The boy still had his eyes shut just as Smith had told him. In fact, Smith could see his face scrunched up in a tight ball even as the kid shivered on the Judge’s knee.
The Judge looked to his right at Stephens’ crumpled body, before glancing left at the old man on the other side. He was breathing hard. Smith could hear every loud heave from all the way across the living room.
“Don’t shoot; you’ll hit the boy,” the Judge said even as he lifted his left hand toward Smith, the palm turned up. All the while, his right hand was coming out from behind Aaron’s back.
Smith didn’t know what was in that hand and he didn’t particularly care.
Bang!
The Judge’s head snapped backward and bounced against the armchair’s plush upholstery and froze in place, the blood that had sprayed out the back of his skull causing him to stick to the chair behind him.
Aaron fell off the Judge’s suddenly slack knee and to the floor. He picked himself up and glanced around—at Stephens, then the Judge, then the old man—before looking across the room at Smith. He was breathing hard, his chest heaving.
“Get over here, boy,” Smith said.
The boy got up and ran over just as light appeared outside the window behind the Judge’s unmoving body.
Lanterns. LED lanterns.
And men holding them were rushing toward the house.
Smith didn’t bother reloading the Glock. He’d fired four shots and still had eleven left in the magazine. The pistol felt a little light in his hand, but maybe that had a little something to do with—
Aaron grabbed at Smith’s hand, and Smith was about to turn around and ask him what he was doing when he almost fell down. Apparently, the kid had either sensed it or saw him about to topple right over, and took action.
Smart kid, Smith thought as he collapsed to his knees in the middle of the living room. Aaron crouched next to him, staring at him with those big brown eyes of his. He didn’t say a word because he couldn’t, but there was no missing the fear in his eyes.
Not for himself, Smith saw, but for Smith.
Shit, I’m bleeding.
He’d been bleeding since the old man let loose with the shotgun. As he replayed the shootout in his head, Smith guessed he should have taken out the old man first and neutralized the pump-action. But he’d gotten it into his head that Stephens was the more dangerous one and needed to be dealt with. He’d committed. Maybe he was right. Maybe he was wrong.
All he knew was that he was still alive.
He had buckshot in his left shoulder and along the length of his arm, and maybe a few of the pellets had taken chunks from one of his cheeks. And he was bleeding. He’d been bleeding since he fired the last shot but just hadn’t felt or recognized it until now that the danger was over.
No, the danger wasn’t over. The danger was just getting started.
Smith stumbled up from the carpeted floor with Aaron clutching his arm. He felt the boy trying to tug him back down, but Smith was bigger and stronger, and dragged the both of them up to their feet.
“It’s okay,” Smith said. “Go hide behind the sofa.”
The boy stared at him.
“Go,” Smith said.
The boy didn’t move, and he didn’t let go of Smith’s arm.
“Go,” Smith said again. Louder and with more authority, but not quite screaming. Or, at least, he didn’t think he was screaming. But he had to get the boy to do what he was told because—
Smith glanced toward the windows as the halo of lights grew closer.
They were in the front yard now but advancing slowly. No doubt they’d been stationed in some of the houses across the street this entire time, waiting for the Judge’s orders to advance, if necessary. Because all of this was a trap, and he’d fallen for it.
You’re right, Peters. I’m not nearly as smart as I think I am.
Smith counted three lanterns moving toward him now…
When he looked back at Aaron, the boy was already scooting behind one of the big sofas across the living room, on the far wall. It was a big couch, but it wouldn’t stop a bullet. Still, it was better than having the kid standing in the middle of the room while hot lead was flying around.
“Stay there,” Smith said.
Aaron poked his head out from one end of the furniture and bobbed his head up and down. He was well-hidden in the shadows of the living room, but Smith could just see enough of his face—and those big brown eyes—to know he was still scared.
Smith didn’t blame him. Hell, he was scared.
“Judge?” a voice called from outside.
Smith hurried to the door, but not before snatching up the shotgun from the old man’s lifeless hands. The old bastard had managed to hold onto it even after he fell.
“Judge! You in there?”
Smith hobbled to the front of the house, then slid up against the wall. He checked the shotgun. It was a nice weapon: a Remington 870 pump-action 12-gauge. Five-round capacity, so four shells left inside. He was pretty sure the old timer had more ammo on his person, but Smith hadn’t bothered to search him. Besides, he still had his holstered pistol, not to mention the spare SIG Sauer behind his back. He had plenty of bullets to deal with however many were out there.
Probably.
“Judge!” The same voice, sounding a little closer now, but not too much closer. They were still taking their time, erring on the side of caution.
“He’s dead!” Smith shouted back.
He didn’t peer out the window behind him, but he could hear the sudden shuffling of boots moving around out there in response. Not quite panic, but realization that someone was still alive inside the house who may not welcome them with open arms.
“Keep on coming closer, if you wanna join him!” Smith shouted.
He thought he sounded pretty good. Not just confident but loud and brash, and not at all like the hurt and bleeding (Christ, where was all the blood coming from?) man he really was. He hadn’t bothered to catalog where the buckshot had managed to hit him, but enough had to make ev
ery word he shouted feel like it might be his last.
He blinked through something dripping down his left eye—
Blood. He was bleeding from the forehead.
Smith reached up and swiped at the wetness, then wiped it on his pant legs. His side, where Gramps had shot him yesterday, felt fine. Or maybe that was just all the new pain overwhelming the old one.
Either/or.
Smith fished out the bottle of painkillers and downed two more, even as someone outside shouted, “You’re a dead man!”
“Not as dead as your Judge!” Smith shouted back.
“How do we know he’s really dead?”
“You hear him shouting back at you, genius?”
Silence.
Smith imagined the man outside—and however many he had with him—trying to decide if Smith was lying or not. But then, the Judge hadn’t answered, so why would they think he wasn’t dead? Or incapacitated?
That was what Smith was counting on, anyway. He wasn’t sure if he could take on three or four men right now, in his current condition. For all he knew, there were more than that outside.
Five? Six?
Ten?
Crap. He hoped it wasn’t ten.
“He’s dead!” Smith shouted, mustering every ounce of energy he had left to broadcast the sound of his voice. “So’s Stephens! So’s the old man!”
“Randolph?” the same voice replied.
Randolph, huh? Smith thought, looking over at the old man lying nearby.
“That’s right,” Smith said. “But he was nice enough to give me his shotgun before he went. Stephens, too, with his Glock. Not to mention all their spare ammo. So if you boys wanna come in, go right ahead! I got plenty of bullets for all of you, and then some! It’s a big, dark house! Let’s play!”
Silence again from his would-be attackers. Smith strained to listen but couldn’t hear whispers or even the sounds of moving boots anymore. Whoever and however many they were out there, they had found spots to camp. Unless…
The back door.
Smith’s eyes snapped to the oval-shaped opening that connected the living room with the kitchen. The same entryway he’d come through earlier, only to find the Judge waiting for him. It would be just as easy for whoever was out there to circle around the property and come through it. He had.
“Come on in, boys!” Smith shouted. “Let’s get this party started! The Judge is dead—long live the Judge—and I got more bullets for the rest of you! Come on! I’m bored! Don’t keep me waiting!”
Again, there was no response.
Smith kept his eyes on the kitchen door, expecting figures to run through at any moment. Aaron was hiding behind the couch nearby, and the kid hadn’t poked his head out again after the first time.
Smart kid, Smith thought, wondering what Mary would say to him if he got the boy shot up while trying to rescue him. Not that he’d have to worry about Mary, because if Aaron got shot up, chances were Smith would be, too.
That is, if he didn’t die from his wounds before then.
He wiped at more blood dripping down his forehead and to his left eye. There wasn’t a lot of blood, but the constant drips were annoying. He didn’t even want to see what the rest of him looked like. There was a mirror across the living room, but Smith purposefully avoided it. He felt like shit already; he didn’t necessarily need, or want, visual confirmation.
“Well, come on, then!” Smith shouted. “Don’t keep me waiting, boys! The night’s just getting started! Let’s have some fun! All these bullets are heavy! Help me get ridda some of them, will you?”
Finally, Smith heard movement from outside.
Here we go.
He tightened his grip on the Remington, reminded himself he only had four shells left, when the realization hit.
The sounds weren’t coming toward him, they were going away from him.
The would-be attackers were retreating.
Smith risked a quick glance out the window, just in time to spot a pair of figures fleeing down the street to the right—while a third went left. Smith might not have seen them—it was way too dark outside—if all three weren’t carrying their own light sources. None of them looked as if they were trying to outflank him or maneuvering around to come through the back.
They didn’t look like they were doing that, anyway.
He leaned back against the wall and waited, his ears listening for noise from the front of the house while his eyes remained fixed on the kitchen doorway.
A minute of silence followed.
Then two…
Aaron poked his head out from behind the couch, brown eyes searching for, found, and settling on Smith’s.
“Not yet,” Smith said.
The boy nodded and vanished back behind the sofa.
Three minutes of silence…
Five…
Smith’s legs were getting tired, so he walked over to the armchair where the Judge was slumped, and pushed the fat man out of it. There was blood on the upholstery and even more on the headrest, but Smith didn’t care and sat down. The armchair was perfectly turned to face the kitchen, which, Smith guessed, the Judge had done so he could dramatically welcome Smith to the living room.
He leaned over and switched off the LED light resting on the nightstand next to him, and the room quickly faded into darkness. He put the shotgun on his lap, his forefinger still in the trigger guard, and waited.
It was a long wait.
A quiet wait.
And more importantly, an uneventful wait.
Sometime in the middle of the night, Smith woke up with a start.
Shit!
He’d fallen asleep.
He’d fallen asleep.
Fortunately, it hadn’t cost him his life, because there was no one in the living room with him except Aaron. The boy was curled up in a ball on the floor at Smith’s feet and snoring lightly. Smith didn’t know when he’d come out from hiding or how long it’d been since he lost consciousness.
Smith was still bleeding, but the blood had caked along one side of his face. His sides throbbed, as did all the other parts of him that had taken buckshot.
But he was alive.
Still kicking.
Okay, maybe not kicking, but breathing.
And for now, that was good enough.
Twenty-Seven
“You’re one stubborn man, you know that?”
Smith smirked. “That’s no way to talk to a patient, Doctor.”
Amy matched his smirk with one of her own. “You’re lucky you’re even a patient. You should be dead. Ten times over. What were you thinking, coming in here like that?”
“He was waiting for me. The Judge. He had men watching your place.”
Amy shook her head. “I didn’t know anything about that.”
“I know. I’m not saying you did.”
“Okay. I just wanted to get that out of the way.”
“Relax. It’s out of the way.”
The doctor nodded, and he saw the relief on her face. Maybe she had thought he’d blame her for the ambush, but Smith didn’t. It had never even occurred to him that she was a part of the scheme, which meant he was either a very good judge of character or a really, really poor one.
“What happened?” Smith asked as he sat up on the cot.
He was back in her clinic, and the fact that he wasn’t handcuffed or, well, dead meant everything had mostly worked out for the best. Smith’s last memory was of falling asleep with Aaron at his feet.
There, his gun, still in its holster on a table next to him. That reinforced his belief that everything had, somehow, worked out for the best. Or, at least, worked out in his favor even though he didn’t have a clue how.
“Roger and the junkyard gang took Gaffney in the afternoon,” Amy said. “By then, the others had left.”
“‘Others?’”
“The Judge’s men. The ones you didn’t kill.”
Smith couldn’t help but grin at that.
“The
y took everyone with them that wanted to go, but left everyone who didn’t,” Amy continued.
“Including you?”
“Me, Aaron, and 50 percent of everyone here.”
“50 percent?”
Amy nodded. “I know it’s hard to believe, but other than the Judge being a royal asshole, Gaffney isn’t all bad.”
“I don’t find that hard to believe at all.”
“You don’t?”
Smith shook his head. “I’ve been out there, Doc. It’s not all games and lollipops. I get why people would prefer the comfort and safety of a place like Gaffney.”
Amy gave him a surprised look before going back to cleaning her hands in a bowl. “That’s ironic, coming from you.”
“Why?”
“You seem like the kind that prefers to be out there than in a place like this.”
“I do.”
“So what are you doing in here?”
“Trying not to die.”
He felt good. He didn’t know why, but it was as if he’d woken up from a long sleep and every part of him was refreshed. Sitting up on the cot wasn’t too much trouble except for the pain vibrating from his midsection and almost the entire left side of his body. All Smith had to do was glance in those directions to know why: He was wearing a hospital gown, but it didn’t do anything to hide the bandages underneath, from his thigh all the way up his side, to his jaw and cheek.
“You want a mirror?” Amy asked.
Smith shook his head. “No.”
“Good choice.”
He smiled. He didn’t have any illusions that he was a mess.
But he was also still alive, if just barely. And for now, just barely was good enough.
“They came to see you,” Amy said. She was cleaning up a counter with a rag.
“Who?”
“The mother and son.”
“Oh.”
Amy glanced down at her watch. “Mary said she’d come back in an hour to see how you were doing.”
“Are they okay? The boy?”
After The Purge, AKA John Smith Box Set | Books 1-3 Page 47