Mist City (After The Purge: AKA John Smith)

by Sam Sisavath

  They’ve definitely done this before.

  Whatever this was, it had something to do with the still-pervasive stench of death that lingered around him. Even breathing through his mouth couldn’t completely get rid of it. The odor was now in his hair and on his skin and making his cheeks itch.

  He didn’t scratch the itch, of course; his hands were too busy pressing against the wall, steadying him while he perched on top of a big aluminum cabinet. It was the tallest and steadiest piece of furniture in the entire stairwell that he could reach without having to fumble his way in the dark, and it was perfectly situated along the side of the second-floor landing while staying out of view of the open doorway. Unfortunately, while that meant Allison couldn’t see him from the hallway, he couldn’t see her, either.

  But Smith didn’t have to; he could hear her voice and feel her presence.

  She was close.

  So, so close.

  And that shotgun…

  “Ma,” a new voice finally spoke up. It was Matt. “Is he still in there?”

  “Yes,” Smith heard Allison say. “He won’t come out.”

  “So what are we gonna do?”

  “What are we going to do.”

  “Yes, ma’am. What are we going to do?”

  Allison didn’t answer right away. Smith pictured her thinking, trying to decide how to get him out. He still didn’t think she would come in after him. It was simply too risky to step into a dark stairwell. Smith wouldn’t have done it if he’d had a choice. She did.

  He wasn’t sure how long it took—A few seconds? Half a minute?—but eventually Allison said, “Go get the fire extinguisher, Matthew.”

  The fire extinguisher?

  As if reading his mind, Matt said, “The fire extinguisher, ma’am?”

  “Yes, Matthew,” Allison said. “Go get the fire extinguisher. If he won’t come out voluntarily, we’re going to have to smoke him out.”

  Oh, fuck me, Smith thought as he listened to Matt’s eager footsteps as the boy jogged away. Smith didn’t think for a second Allison had gone with him.

  She confirmed it by saying, “You heard what I said in there? Since you don’t want to do this the easy way, then fine, we’ll do it the hard way.”

  Like I have any damn choice, lady. Drop that shotgun, and we’ll see how tough you are.

  Of course she wasn’t going to do that. Right now, she had him by the balls.

  By both fucking balls.

  Smith came up with different scenarios where he could be “smoked” out of the stairwell, and every one of them involved fire. Which was the only reason she had sent Matt off to fetch the fire extinguisher.

  Were there other possibilities? None that he could think of.

  It wasn’t really the prospect of dying in a fire that he had to worry about; the biggest threat about being stuck in a building during a fire was never the fire itself. The flames were always a secondary concern, as most people generally died of smoke inhalation first long before the fires got to them.

  Smith didn’t fancy going out like that. Which meant he could either wait for Matt to come back and for Allison to put her plan into motion, or…

  He looked down at the piles of boxes and furniture.

  The sofas would be the softest targets. There was no way of telling what was inside those boxes or what else was waiting that he couldn’t see in the semidarkness. For all he knew, there were more shelves like the one he was squatting on right now, or the bookshelf he had knocked down earlier.

  One wrong sharp edge and he was done for.

  Or worse: if he wasn’t done for, he would end up at the bottom bleeding out.

  Yeah, that’s definitely worse, Smith thought just before he jumped off the cabinet, aiming for the hideous lime-green couch below.

  He hit the soft cushion with both feet (Bingo!) and bounced up slightly, the springs underneath the upholstery doing their job. The sofa was already starting to topple with his added weight when he hopped onto its tilting armrest and dropped off the edge.

  He landed on the smooth side of some kind of tabletop that was already pointing at an awkward angle and lost his footing immediately. As he slid uncontrollably down the length of the surface top, he reached for something to grab, which was difficult with one hand still holding onto the aluminum baseball bat. It was his only weapon so far, and Smith didn’t want to lose it.

  His fingers were nearly decapitated by the insides of a box spring mattress, forcing him to let go quickly. Smith stuck out his legs as he continued to fall, hoping that the soles of his Merrells would take the brunt of whatever was waiting for him down there.

  God, don’t let it be sharp. Don’t let it be sharp!

  Smith hit something soft and continued sliding downward. Boxes fell on top of him as he skidded farther down, but they were holding nothing too dangerous—clothes, paper, some office supplies. A stapler bounced off the side of his head, just close enough to his wound to make him wince and remember what had happened earlier with the teddy bear, and something sharp pricked painfully at his left arm through his shirt.

  He kept crashing into things—more furniture, more boxes—and bounced off others.

  But he was still going down, so he hadn’t been impaled or gotten tangled in anything yet.

  Down and down we go! Where I land, who knows!

  He wondered how long it would take Allison to realize what was happening. If she continued to be cautious, it would be a good while before she figured it out. Heck, she might even think he was trying to trick her into coming into the stairwell before Matt came back with that fire extinguisher and whatever else she would need to “smoke” him out.

  He stopped thinking about Allison and that gorgeous body of hers when he landed on a floor of glass that instantly cracked underneath his weight. It hurt, but it would have hurt a lot worse if the glass had shattered into pieces and those shards had pierced him. But they hadn’t, and they didn’t.

  Smith rolled off a big-screen TV lying flat on the first-floor landing. The screen had cracked when he impacted it but hadn’t shattered into a few hundred pieces as he feared. Thank God for that.

  Thank God!

  He got up on his knees, the baseball bat still gripped tightly in one hand, and looked up toward the second floor. Not that he could make out very much except all the boxes and furniture and shelves between him and up there. He could see how the setup would have made for an effective barrier to anyone wanting to climb up to the upper floors. It wasn’t impossible, but he imagined it would have been hazardous and loud work.

  Getting down, on the other hand, while just as hazardous, had been easier. At least he was still alive, even if every part of him ached. He couldn’t see well enough to know if he was bleeding—he didn’t think so, though—but it did feel as if every bone in his body were bruised and every socket out of place.

  Smith stumbled to his feet and looked for an exit, spending a few seconds to check the bandaging on his forehead to see if his wound had started bleeding again. His fingers came away dry. So far, so good.

  There was still the pervasive smell of death circling him, though. That wasn’t so good. It was in every inch of the building and now on him, too, clinging to his hair and face and clothes. The only way to get rid of it was to get the hell out of this place.

  He was hurt and aching, and he stank of death.

  But he was still alive.

  At least he was still alive!

  Hallelujah!

  Unlike the second-floor stairwell door, there wasn’t anything blocking the one into the lobby access area. All Smith had to do was push some furniture and an old fridge out of the way to get to the door. That achieved, he swung it open and rushed outside, desperate to get out of the darkness and the stench of death that filled every inch of it.

  In his mind, he fully expected Allison to follow him down and try to shoot him. Or maybe she might attempt to pick him off from upstairs. Except she did no such thing. The woman had been incredibl
y patient as she stalked him through the second floor’s hallway in the dark and even more (annoyingly) cautious while he waited for her to step into the stairwell so he could jump down and surprise her.

  Too smart. Too beautiful.

  And way, way too crazy for me.

  Smith was convinced Allison and her “children” had been living in the Private Store-It for a while now. It was a sanctuary for them, a way to ward off the dangers of the outside world. Smith didn’t blame them for resorting to whatever it was they had resorted to. A woman like Allison, with two young kids to take care of, wouldn’t have stood much chance out here. What would have happened if they’d encountered the three Bozos Smith had taken out last night?

  No, he didn’t blame Allison for any of this. In their shoes, he might have done the same thing. But just because he didn’t have any ill will toward them, it didn’t mean he was going to stick around to tell them that.

  Smith wasn’t surprised to see fading sunlight outside the lobby’s glass doors when he stepped out of the stairwell. There was still some daylight, which was a relief. Smith had no issues with nightfall; even now, with only a baseball bat, he was used to moving around at night when necessary. It didn’t mean he did it on a whim, but darkness no longer held the same kind of dread it once did when he was younger.

  The front doors were locked like last time, but Smith had no qualms about smashing the shit out of one of them the second go-round. He used the baseball bat he’d brought down from the second floor with him, taking out the glass in one of the doors, then slipping outside into the still-swirling mist, careful not to cut himself on the shards still sticking to the frame. It would have royally sucked to have survived his jump through the dark stairwell only to cut himself to death now.

  Once outside, he hurried away from the spot where the teddy bear had nearly caved his head in. There was a big crater on the sidewalk where the toy had landed, and he was reminded again of just how close he’d come to being killed. He remembered hearing from Matt that Allison was busy out here cleaning up the mess. She’d done a decent job, but Smith could still make out drops of blood, though he might not have noticed them if he didn’t already know where to look.

  He glanced up at the rooftop, just to make sure Allison hadn’t retreated up there in an attempt to intercept him with that shotgun of hers. But there was no one up there, as far as he could tell. Then again, there hadn’t been anyone up there earlier before the teddy bear incident.

  He jogged toward the small door next to the main front gate and hopped it. The place looked just as deserted as it had when he first arrived, which was probably what Allison counted on.

  She was most definitely a clever woman.

  And beautiful, too…

  Goddammit. Stop thinking with your little head!

  Smith jogged away from the Private Store-It. Not quite running but not walking, either. He passed the same destroyed sign up front with the pickup parked next to it. He hated losing his pack and supplies and hated the naked feel of the empty holster on his right hip even more. The equally empty sheath was more tolerable, but it was the missing gun that really gnawed at him.

  When he was finally across the street and on the sidewalk, with the elevated highway in front of him, Smith allowed himself to catch his breath. He sucked in the mist-filled air, as clear and refreshing as anything he’d tasted since. It was almost as good as the fresh air of Black Tide Island during all those months of basic.

  He looked back at the chartreuse-colored building and thought he might have glimpsed a figure on the rooftop. It was there one moment and gone the next, and Smith didn’t completely dismiss it as being a figment of his imagination.

  Mist City was still living up to its name, and he didn’t want to think about being stuck out here at night, because there was no way in hell he’d make it to the city limits on foot before nightfall. That was fine. There were plenty of buildings to shelter in. He just needed to find the right one.

  Smith remembered the Archers from earlier and began jogging toward it. There would be guns there. Hopefully. The bat swinging at his side was a good weapon, but there was nothing like a gun…or two.

  …or three…

  Seven

  Smith stopped to check a half dozen cars in the parking lot of the Archers before he proceeded into the store. There were more vehicles, but he didn’t have the time to search all of them. It was wasted time anyway, because he didn’t find anything useful; not that he expected to. Anyone who had gone through Mist City in the years since The Purge before him would have already taken anything worth taking. That included the Archers itself, but Smith had to be sure. Besides, even if he couldn’t find anything inside, there would be a room he could use to wait out the night.

  The outdoors outlet had four doors at the front, both leading into a middle waiting area, with two more doors on the other side. It was a pretty common setup for an Archers. There were signs that people had attempted to barricade the doors, but no hints if they had been successful or not. Shards of glass clung to all six door frames, which meant there would be no way to “close up” the store if he needed to defend them. He noted the absence of fresh prints—booted or otherwise—which was a relief.

  Smith gave the darkening skies hovering over the parking lot another glance before he headed into the store. He had, as far as he could tell, an hour max before nightfall. He would need more than that to give the Archers a thorough search. If push came to shove, he’d already decided he would sleep in the building. There was bound to be a room somewhere to spend the night. He didn’t want to, of course, but these days, he was used to not getting what he wanted.

  He stepped into the waiting lobby, crunching broken glass underneath his Merrells. He made a mental note to look for a new pair, along with some socks, food, supplies, and…well, pretty much everything he had lost back at the Private Store-It.

  Most of all, he needed a gun.

  He kept the bat at his side, tightening up his grip for an easier one-handed swing, if necessary. There was more glass inside the store, spread generously across the tiled flooring. He sniffed the air and liked what he found—which was nothing. Well, there was the usual smell of abandonment and some decay, along with plenty of dust flitting across the dwindling light around him, but none of the familiar stench that usually accompanied the presence of a ghoul nest.

  Just to be sure, Smith didn’t move for the next five minutes, allowing his eyes to adjust to the (fading) natural light in the building and for his nostrils to take in all the available smells. Jayhawk merchandise hung off racks around him, with long counters featuring glass displays on top offering discounted watches, sunglasses, and glittery sports memorabilia flanking him. The gym equipment was on his left, with more clothing in front of him, and rows of unattended cash registers to his right.

  Softening light flooded into the store from high windows around the Archers, giving him plenty to see with. For now. He was down to thirty minutes, give or take, before he wouldn’t be able to see much of anything with the naked eye. At least, not without some difficulty.

  That was all the incentive he needed to get moving. He ignored the clothes and went straight for the outdoors section on the right side. Every Archers he had ever been to was laid out exactly the same, with the shoes and sports equipment dominating the left, the camping gear and coolers at the very back, and the fishing and guns on the right. The clothes made up the center part of the buildings, but those were luxuries he could forego at the moment.

  He passed aisles of baby blue Kansas City Royals jerseys and shirts, followed by racks of red and blue Kansas Jayhawks merchandise, before finally reaching the fishing aisle at the very end. The guns would be near the back, slightly hidden from consumers who didn’t already know they were there or were looking for them.

  Smith was optimistic he could find something useful. It was very much possible that all the firearms would all be gone, but he doubted it. These days, even in the more gun-restricted northern
and western states, there were still more weapons lying around waiting to be picked up—in homes, but mostly inside stores—than people to do the picking up.

  A handgun. A shotgun. He would be satisfied with anything as long as it made a loud noise when he pulled a trigger.

  Hell, anything with a trigger would work.

  Not surprisingly, the counters at the front of the gun section were in pieces, with glass everywhere among the leftover firearms. But there were leftover firearms waiting for him, and Smith reached for a pump-action shotgun on the floor. But the real prize were the six handguns scattered behind the counters.

  Yes!

  It wasn’t the haul to end all hauls, but it was a lot more than he had expected. The Archers had to have housed hundreds of firearms before The Purge, and these were the only ones left that scavengers hadn’t already taken. There were bound to be more in the back, in the warehouses, but Smith was wary about going back there if he didn’t have to.

  It was a good thing he didn’t have to now.

  There were no Glocks among the pistols, but there was a pair of SIG Sauers—a full-sized P220 and a P210. Smith would have opted for the lighter P220 as his primary piece, but it was chambered for .45, while the other one used 9mm, the more popular and more readily-found caliber of ammo. He took both guns anyway, slipping the smaller P220 into his holster while the heavier SIG went behind his back.

  Ammo was more plentiful, which made sense. Bullets were heavy in bulk, and most people didn’t carry more than they needed. Smith sifted through the boxes before locating the right ones. He helped himself to a right-size tactical pack from a nearby aisle and shoved the rounds into it, along with some spare magazines. He didn’t bother with the other handguns; two were more than enough, and he needed the space for food and supplies. You couldn’t eat guns or bullets, and they were heavy as hell to lug around.

  Just thinking about eating made his stomach growl. The last time he’d eaten was this morning, before arriving in Mist City.