Mist City (After The Purge: AKA John Smith)

by Sam Sisavath

  And what about Freddy’s partners-in-crime?

  Them, too, if necessary.

  The irony of it was that this was why he’d purposefully avoided people, because it always led to unnecessary entanglements. After Black Tide, after what had happened in Darby Bay, Smith had promised himself to steer clear of trouble.

  Of course, that was easier said than done, especially these days when it seemed like every other person he ran into wanted either to kill or maim or in some way harm him. It was dangerous out here. He’d known that when he took off his uniform and never looked back. He’d tossed away his loyalty and abandoned his friends, men and women who had gone through some of the toughest times with him. They’d always relied on one another, but Smith had decided he’d had enough.

  Sometimes, when it was very quiet out here—like it was now, except for the constant thump-thump-thump of his boots on the hard highway—he wondered what they thought of him. Did they even know he’d betrayed them? Maybe, one of these days, Smith would run across a friend from the old days. When that happened, would they understand when he tried to explain his reasons?

  Hell, did he really knew why he’d left?

  Yes, he did. Darby Bay. That goddamn city had changed everything. It had also taken everything from him.

  Now he was out here, alone. What did they call someone like that?

  A vagabond? Was that it? It sounded way too nice. Too…elegant.

  The easiest thing for him to do in order to avoid a problem like this in the future would be to find a town somewhere and settle down. No more wandering. No more getting into trouble. It could work if he tried hard enough.

  All he had to do was try hard enough.

  Oh, who was he kidding? Smith knew what he was capable of, and just throwing his things down and shacking up with some woman wasn’t one of them. But then again, maybe he just hadn’t found the right woman yet. Maybe if he did—

  Yeah, right.

  It didn’t matter how hard he tried to convince himself. It wasn’t going to happen. It wasn’t him. It had never been him. He was, as his mentor used to say, a square peg trying to fit into a round hole. He’d done his best to fit in at Black Tide, but he’d never truly felt at home.

  But he’d tried. God only knew, he’d tried. (“Adapt or perish,” someone famous once said.)

  And for a while, it’d almost worked.

  Almost.

  Then Darby Bay happened.

  Fucking Darby Bay.

  The first drops of wetness hit him on top of his head. Smith stuck out his hands as rainwater collected in his palms. A drizzle. Not quite a rainstorm, but he had a sense that was coming, even if he couldn’t see the clouds up there with all the mist in the way.

  Instead of slowing down and seeking shelter, Smith picked up his pace.

  Freddy’s gang had a head start on him, but Smith thought he could catch up to them.

  If not today, then tomorrow.

  Or next week.

  But eventually, he would catch up to them.

  Eventually…

  Twenty-Two

  As it turned out, it didn’t take him a week, or two days, or even one day to catch up with Freddy.

  It took him all of thirty-two minutes.

  That was how long it took Mist City to go from drizzling on Smith’s head to dumping buckets of water on top of him.

  He wasn’t the only casualty of the sudden thunderstorm, as it turned out, but Smith didn’t know that when he started hunting for a vehicle to escape the driving rain, only to get a whiff of cooking meat in the air. It came from nearby, but it took Smith walking over to the shoulder of the highway before he could pinpoint its location to the underpass underneath him.

  Directly underneath him.

  Smith hopped the guardrail and slid down the slanted side of the highway before eventually touching down in a large puddle of water gathering on the sidewalk pavement. That wasn’t his intention, but he’d moved too fast, the thought of suddenly catching up to Freddy (but more importantly, Donna) getting the best of him. As seemed to be the case for the last few days, he realized his mistake much too late.

  Because there they were, camped out underneath a dry patch of the underpass. The smell was meat roasting over a hastily-put-together firepit that a man with long blond hair tied in a ponytail was tending.

  Two other men sat nearby, along with a fourth figure.

  Donna.

  The girl turned her head as soon as Smith splashed water under his boots, and though it was slightly dark underneath the underpass, with sheets of water coming down on both sides of the opening, he saw the whites of her eyes as clear as day.

  Smith wasn’t sure who was more surprised: Donna at seeing him there, or Smith that he’d done something so stupid.

  Again.

  The two men glanced over about a second after Donna did, and they launched up from their “seats”—an overturned pail and a large boulder. The blond at the firepit also stood up, a furry animal skewered on a long stick he was holding in one hand.

  As with Donna, they were shocked to see him there, standing just inside the underpass with rainwater dripping from his wet clothes.

  In the next five seconds or so—time had slowed down, and Smith couldn’t be sure how long it actually lasted—Smith decided that the big, burly man standing next to Donna was Freddy. He looked like a Freddy, too, with short red hair and a red goatee. He wore a gun belt—as did the other two—and he was holding a metal spork in one hand and an opened bag of MRE in the other. Early fifties, his face pockmarked with childhood acne.

  He was also an ugly and mean-looking motherfucker.

  The one behind and slightly to the right of Freddy—Donna, still seated, maybe paralyzed with disbelief, was to Freddy’s left—was tall and lean, and wearing a St. Louis Cardinals bomber jacket. The bright-red color of the clothes made him almost glow in the semidarkness of the underpass, but it was his face—and those hard, squinting eyes—that Smith noticed the most.

  The blond at the campfire was the youngest one of the three by far. Early twenties, and he had been sitting on an overturned shopping cart, which was also where a camo-painted AR rifle leaned against at the moment. Blondie’s “dinner” had a sharp face and a fur-ridden body, but Smith would be goddamned if it didn’t smell good anyway.

  However long the moment lasted—Five seconds? Ten? An hour?—it ended when Donna stood up.

  Smith drew first.

  He shot Freddy in the head, then was turning even before the redhead had collapsed—Donna screamed somewhere between the time Smith pulled the trigger and Freddy began falling—toward the one with the squinty eyes. He didn’t have to move very much because Squinty was right behind Freddy.

  Smith shot Squinty next, striking the man somewhere in the midsection. Smith would have gone for a headshot on Squinty, too, but Freddy’s falling figure drew Smith’s eyes slightly, and in the split second before he pulled the trigger a second time, he decided to go for the safer shot.

  It was a mistake.

  Another one.

  Squinty stumbled, grabbing at his stomach, but he didn’t go down.

  Smith’s attention immediately turned to the third man. Blondie had already dropped his rat-on-a-stick and was reaching back for his rifle. That was a mistake. Had the man gone for his holstered sidearm, he might have stood a chance against Smith. Might. But the point was moot, because he went for the AR leaning against the cart behind him instead.

  Smith shot him in the ass. Then, when the man jerked backward, shot him a second time in the back of the skull.

  Donna screamed again.

  Smith looked over just in time to catch Squinty sliding behind the girl. He wasn’t completely behind Donna when Smith finished his slight turn, and Smith could have probably squeezed off another shot, but he didn’t take the chance.

  That, as it turned out, was yet another mistake.

  Unlike Blondie, Squinty had gone for his sidearm, and the pistol was in his hand wh
en he snatched Donna and pulled her in front of him. The girl, already hurt in the shoulder, was grimacing in intense pain as she was grabbed roughly.

  Smith twisted and leapt out of the underpass just as Squinty fired once, twice, three times in his direction. Searing pain erupted from his right side as Smith landed on the patch of wet grass he was aiming for. The only other option was to slam into the hard concrete pavement.

  He rolled away, the heavy pack strapped to his back, making it harder than it should have been.

  A fourth round smashed into the concrete in front and about three inches from Smith’s moving head, kicking chunks of cement into the wet air.

  Before Squinty could get off a fifth shot, Smith rolled his way out of the underpass opening, even as the rainstorm pummeled him with freezing-cold water. He scrambled to his feet and looked back to make sure Squinty didn’t have a clear shot. He didn’t.

  Stupid. So, so stupid!

  Smith stood under the rain, gun in one hand, and checked his side. He was bleeding down there, blood dripping to the flowing rainwater at his feet.

  Dammit, he should have risked it. He should have gone for the headshot on Squinty back there after Freddy.

  Dammit.

  Dammit, dammit, dammit.

  Smith shrugged off the pack and let it drop to the soaked ground next to him. There was a slash across the fabric, near the middle, that hadn’t been there before. Smith didn’t know how that bullet had missed him but got the backpack. At that moment, he was glad he hadn’t dragged Margo’s AR with him. The rifle would have made that mad dash out from the underpass almost clumsy as hell. Or, well, clumsier than it had been.

  Smith didn’t bother swapping out the half-empty magazine in the SIG with a fresh one. He had plenty of bullets left in the mag to finish the job. Instead, he waited for Squinty to pursue, but there were no signs of the man.

  But of course there wouldn’t be. Why did Smith think the man would come out here, in the cold rain, when he didn’t have to?

  He’s smarter than you, but that’s not saying much, is it?

  Smith sighed. So many mistakes in such a short amount of time. It was a miracle he was even still alive!

  But he was. Somehow, he still was.

  “Hey, you still alive in there?” Smith shouted.

  He waited for a response, but there was none. He wasn’t even sure if Squinty could hear him over the pounding rain. But maybe the thunderstorm was just loud to Smith’s ears; after all, he was the one outside in it and not safely tucked away—and dry—under the highway.

  No, not entirely “safe.” Smith might not have gotten in a killing shot, but he’d wounded Squinty. The man was bleeding even while he was making his move toward Donna, so there was that.

  Of course, unless Squinty decided to drop dead in the next few minutes—Or hour. Could Smith outlast the man for an hour?—then Smith wasn’t sure what good that did—

  “Yeah, I’m still alive!” a voice called out.

  Smith couldn’t be certain, but it sounded like the second voice he’d overheard on the highway during the ambush earlier this morning. The same voice that had been encouraging Freddy to get the hell out of there.

  “How’s the weather out there?” the man shouted.

  Smith smirked. Smartass.

  “Got you good, didn’t I?” the man continued. “You’re really bleeding out there! Bleeding like a faucet!”

  That was partially true. Yes, Smith was bleeding, but the wound wasn’t as bad as it appeared. It just looked worse than it was, with the blood dripping from his shirt and down his pants to the stream of water flowing into the underpass next to him, thanks to the slanted construction he was standing on.

  Smith took a moment to pull up his shirt and checked the wound anyway. There was a hole about half an inch from his side, but it didn’t feel like the bullet had hit any vital organs. Or his intestines, thank God. An inch more to the left, and it might have done just that. Then again, an inch more to the other side, and it would have missed him entirely.

  But he’d take it. Squinty had had him dead to rights, and if Smith had hesitated for just another heartbeat, he might be dead right now instead of just shivering in the rain while dark-gray clouds continued to gather above him.

  And it was cold. He was drenched from head to toe, and even the SIG felt slick in his hand. He changed up his grip, then had to keep flexing his fingers every ten seconds or so to make sure he still had a good handle on the pistol.

  “Hey, you still alive?” Squinty shouted, his voice as echoey now as it had been the last few times. He also sounded way too strong and confident for Smith’s liking; that could only mean he, like Smith, wasn’t as hurt as Smith had hoped.

  “Yeah, I’m still alive,” Smith shouted back. “Real manly thing to do back there, using the girl like that!”

  The man laughed. Or he might have coughed.

  No, Smith was sure that was a laugh, but the continuous pounding of rain and faraway cracks of thunder made it difficult to interpret the tone with any certainty.

  “A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do!” Squinty shouted.

  “What man?” Smith said. “I didn’t see any man in there.”

  “Hardy har har, that’s a nice one. You got a name?”

  “Why don’t I tell you in person?”

  “Yeah, why don’t you do that?”

  “I mean it,” Smith said. “Mano a mano. You and me. Guns in our holsters. What do you say?”

  “Mano a mano means hand-to-hand, idiot,” Squinty said.

  Smith grunted. He hadn’t known that. Maybe the guy was lying?

  He said anyway, “You don’t say?”

  “But why don’t you do that?” Squinty shouted. “Come on back inside. Just you and me. Dry and across from one another. Let’s finish this.”

  “I will if you let the girl go.”

  “You come in here first.”

  “Let her go first.”

  “Nah. You come in here first.”

  Smith sighed. He thought about his options.

  He could always climb back up the highway and cross over to the other side, then slide down behind Squinty. Of course, Squinty would probably realize Smith was doing that—or something else tricky—when he stopped responding to the man’s taunts for too long. The man didn’t look like a total idiot. Worse, he’d instinctively used Donna as a human shield, and Smith guessed the man wouldn’t care at all if the already-wounded girl died during their little standoff. It wasn’t like she was his daughter.

  The only other choice was to take off. Leave Squinty with his two dead friends and…

  Donna.

  There was no way he could just leave the teenager now. But he also couldn’t stand out here all day. If the rain didn’t kill him, getting sick from being drenched would. A cold might not be the worst thing, but he knew of people who had died from more “innocent” sicknesses these days.

  No, he had to make a decision.

  Stay or leave.

  Stay or…

  Oh, who was he kidding? He couldn’t leave.

  He slipped the SIG back into the holster, took a long breath, and stepped back toward the underpass opening.

  Twenty-Three

  Squinty laughed.

  But at least he didn’t shoot Smith as soon as he showed himself. It was a lot more than Smith could have hoped for.

  “You must be fucking insane,” Squinty said. “Either that, or you have brass balls. Which one is it?”

  Smith smiled. He had to force it out, because Squinty was right. He must have been fucking insane, because he sure as hell didn’t have brass balls. Who would have done what he just did? No one, that was who. Every other person in the universe was too smart to pull a stupid stunt like this.

  Everyone, except him.

  What was one more stupid choice in a week full of them?

  Squinty’s eyes went from Smith’s face to his holstered sidearm, then to his hands hanging at his sides, and finally
to the blood dripping from Smith’s waist. Smith was hoping that it still looked worse than it really was, because he felt fine. Or maybe that was just his mind playing tricks on him. Adrenaline had a way of convincing you that you weren’t bleeding to death, even if you were.

  Smith’s state did make Squinty slightly relax, not that the man let Donna go or came out from behind the already-injured teenager. He continued standing behind the girl, even bending his legs slightly to make sure she was completely in front of him and he was shielded. He was taller than her, so that must have taken some effort, especially since, like Smith, Squinty was also bleeding from almost the same exact spot.

  And there was Squinty’s Glock—it was in his hand and aimed squarely at Smith’s face.

  And yet, the man didn’t pull the trigger.

  Why didn’t he just pull the trigger and get it over with? Maybe he really was shocked by what Smith had done and was still trying to process every little bit of it before making a decision.

  Even he can’t believe you would make such a stupid move, buddy.

  “You still need the girl?” Smith asked.

  He didn’t look at Donna when he said it. His eyes were focused entirely on Squinty’s, well, squinting eyes, though of course he couldn’t completely ignore the girl. Or the sheer terror on her face as she stared back at him, her chest heaving against her clothes as Squinty clung to her, one forearm wrapped so tight around her throat that Smith wasn’t sure if the poor girl could even breathe. Her face was turning a shade of blue, but that could have just been from the pain. Fortunately, Squinty’s forearm wasn’t pressing down against the spot where she’d been shot and bandaged. In a world of bad news, that was the best he could find.

  “I can just shoot you right now,” Squinty said. His forefinger was in the trigger guard, and he could do exactly that.

  Except he didn’t.

  Instead, Squinty flexed the rest of his fingers around the Glock’s grip. “Bang. One bullet, and I put an end to this.”

  “Yeah, you could do that,” Smith said. “Or you could let the kid go and try your luck.”