After The Purge, AKA John Smith (Book 2): Run or Fight

by Sisavath, Sam

  “I know why they brought me back here, but I don’t know what they want with you. I’m guessing it’s not for the same thing they want with me.”

  “What do they want with you?”

  “Gee, what do you think, Mr. John Smith?”

  He stared at her, trying to figure out what she was trying to get at. Maybe it was the throbbing in his head or the massive amounts of pain he was fighting through, but Smith had difficulty getting any clarity.

  She must have seen the confusion on his face, because she said, “I’m a girl, and you’re a guy. Get it?”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah,” she said, and went back to paying extra attention to his wound.

  He could see the strap of her bra dangling off the corner of his eyes, but not much else. That should have been embarrassing, but it wasn’t. At least, not when he considered everything that had happened to him so far. There were no windows inside the cell, so he had no idea if it was even still night outside, though he thought it was. If surviving The Purge and the ghoul-infested years since had done anything to him, it had honed his ability to judge the hour of day to the hour by just feel alone.

  And right now, it felt like night outside their walls. Maybe past midnight. So, a few hours, give or take, since the events at the junkyard.

  Smith looked toward the iron bars. “What happened at the junkyard during the attack?”

  “Clarence and Stephens, the other guy, must have sneaked in from the back while the others were attacking the front. They took us out the same way. Me on my feet, and you on your back.”

  Smith tried to picture his unconscious body being dragged across the junkyard.

  Great. More humiliation.

  This day will never end.

  “You told me you used to live here,” Smith said.

  She nodded. “Me, and a few others. We sort of stumbled across the place. It seemed like a nice town at first.”

  “What happened?”

  “The Judge…”

  Again, the Judge.

  Who the hell was this Judge person?

  “What about the Judge?” he asked Blake.

  “He had rules,” Blake said.

  “What kind of rules?”

  “The kind that favors only a small group of people in town. Namely, anyone with a penis. Everyone else was shit out of luck. Like me. Like the other girls who ran away with me. Gramps, Mandy…”

  “They were here, too?”

  Blake sat down on the bench next to him, but not before adjusting the bra around his head to make sure it didn’t come loose. He didn’t want to think about how silly he looked, but the fabric of her underwear was a lot better than the, by now, bloodied bandages he’d been using all day.

  “Almost everyone who was at our place are originally from Gaffney,” Blake said. “Mandy led the exodus about seven months ago. Until now, we’ve had something of a truce with the Judge.”

  “How far is the junkyard from here?”

  “About ten miles.”

  “Ten miles? That’s it?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “You escaped, but you continued to stay within ten miles of Gaffney?”

  “So?”

  He looked over at her. “Ten miles, Blake. Why wouldn’t you guys keep running and never look back? Why just put ten miles between you and Gaffney if this place is the hellhole you keep saying it is? Why not a hundred miles? Or another state, for that matter?”

  “Some of us have family and friends here,” Blake said.

  “In Gaffney?”

  She nodded. “Friends, families, sisters, and wives. We can’t just abandon them. We got out, but they haven’t yet.”

  “You’re telling me they’re being held captive here?”

  “Some of them.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Not everyone understands how evil the Judge and his men are. Some of them are still here voluntarily; others don’t have any choice.”

  “That’s why you, Mandy, and the others haven’t run across the country yet.”

  She nodded. “We’re not leaving until we free everyone.”

  “And how’s that working out?” Smith was going to ask, when he heard hands clapping and looked toward the bars as a figure stepped out from behind a block of cement wall and into the open.

  Travis, his red hair easily visible in the shadowy hallway beyond their cell. He was clapping and grinning, looking as punchable now as he’d been when Smith first saw him.

  “Stop it, you guys are gonna get me all choked up,” Travis said as he walked up to the bars and leaned against them.

  He was still wearing the same black clothes and duster he’d worn during the attack on the junkyard. There were no signs of his partner, Stephens, or anyone else in the hallway, but for all Smith knew, they could be hiding just like Travis had until now.

  Smith remained where he sat, looking back at the man. He wanted desperately to run over and grab a hold of Travis’s short hair and pound his ugly face into the bars, but he didn’t have the strength to do that. Besides, he didn’t think the guy would just let him, either; and maybe that’s what he wanted: An excuse to draw his holstered sidearm.

  “That’s a nice look,” Travis said, grinning at him. “What do you call that? Bra-band? Bra-Gauze? Bra-something else?”

  “Go fuck yourself, Clarence,” Blake said.

  Travis turned to look at her. “Now that’s not nice. You used to be so nice to me before.”

  “That’s before I figured out you were a piece of shit. You and everyone that licks the Judge’s boots for his table scraps.”

  “You call them table scraps, but I call them nice, juicy three-course meals.”

  “You can call them whatever you want; you’re still a piece of shit.”

  A flicker of annoyance crossed Travis’s face. He had been playing off Blake’s comments as if he were above them, but watching his face closely, Smith knew differently. Blake’s cutting remarks were very much having an effect on the man.

  “What were you doing, hiding back there all this time like a cockroach?” Blake asked.

  “Someone had to keep an eye on you two,” Travis said. “Don’t flatter yourself. I drew the short straw.”

  “Yeah, I bet you did.”

  “Why did you bring us back here?” Smith asked the man.

  “She belongs here,” Travis said, nodding at Blake. “She just doesn’t realize it yet. But she will.”

  “When hell freezes over,” Blake said.

  Travis shivered dramatically. “Maybe soon, toots. Maybe soon.” Then, turning back to Smith, “As for you, Mr. Tough Guy, that’s for the Judge to decide.”

  Again with the Judge.

  Who the hell is this Judge?

  “You have to answer for those three you killed two nights ago,” Travis continued.

  Two nights ago? Smith thought, before realizing Travis was talking about Peoples and his partners.

  “You know what happened to them,” Smith said.

  “We know what you told us,” Travis said. “That was until we did a little more investigating. Turns out, it might not be a clean kill after all.” He shrugged. “But that’s not for me to decide.”

  “Let me guess: The Judge?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What’s he talking about?” Blake asked Smith, almost whispering the question. “Is he talking about Lucky?”

  “No,” Smith said. “Three murdering rapists that I killed two nights ago. They had it coming.”

  “Still clinging to that story, huh?” Travis said.

  “The truth is the truth.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Travis said, stepping back from the cell bars. “You’re going on trial tomorrow for those three killings, Mr. Tough Guy. You best get your defense ready, ’cause if you’re found guilty…” Travis ran his forefinger across his own throat before sticking out his tongue.

  “So do I get a lawyer?” Smith asked.

  The redhea
d shrugged. “Don’t know. Maybe if you ask nicely. Very, very nicely.”

  The man turned around and walked off, whistling as he went, and Smith thought, One of these days, Travis. One of these days, I’m going to punch you in the face…

  …then maybe shoot you in the head out of spite.

  Fifteen

  Smith was able to stand up and explore his prison. His second prison in as many days. Jesus Christ, it had been a terrible couple of days for sure. The last time he had it this bad was when he’d been shot and was laid up for a while. Before that, he’d almost gotten eaten by a cannibal and her two children.

  But at least this time he wasn’t fastened to a pole like an animal. No, he was only jailed like one; fortunately he could walk around and get blood flowing through his limbs as he tried to shake off the growing headache. He forgot about how dumb he must look with Blake’s bra around his head and was just glad he wasn’t bleeding to death.

  He was getting a better look at their prison, not that there was a lot to see. Three concrete walls, a ceiling, and a floor. Bars on one side, and when he pressed against them and tried to look up the hallway, he couldn’t see very much. There might have been one or more cells farther up the dark corridor, but he couldn’t see them from where he was.

  If they were in Gaffney—and he had no reasons to believe otherwise—then the town was being incredibly quiet outside. According to Blake, Travis and the other man, Stephens, had delivered them back to the Gaffney lines before the group broke off their attack and returned home. She hadn’t known much beyond that because they had blindfolded her before putting her on a horse. Smith had gotten on a horse too, but on his stomach like a roasting pig. Another embarrassing moment he was glad he didn’t remember.

  He had woken up about thirty minutes after they were deposited in one of the jail cells inside a police station, which was somewhere in the center of town. Not that he had any idea how big Gaffney was or how it was laid out. Besides his own occasional footsteps and Blake’s breathing, there didn’t seem to be another living soul awake in the whole town.

  Even Travis had disappeared and not come back in the twenty or so minutes since their conversation. Smith had listened carefully when the man left, and he’d heard a couple of doors opening and closing, then the jangling of keys inside locks. Sure, there was a chance Travis hadn’t actually left, and was instead lingering about to eavesdrop as he had earlier, but Smith didn’t think so. It was late, and he’d just finished the attack on the junkyard with the others, and the asshole was bound to be tired by now.

  “You should sit back down,” Blake said.

  She remained on the bench, leaning against the wall, her eyes closed. They still had the smell of lingering vomit on them, but their captors had given Blake some water to clean most of it off, along with the ghoul blood that had splashed them. Not that they were completely clean—that was going to require a bath and an entirely new wardrobe—but the smell took a backseat to the pounding headache he couldn’t get rid of.

  “You look silly with my bra around your head, pacing around like that,” Blake said.

  “I don’t think I’ll look any less silly with your bra on while sitting down,” Smith said.

  “No, you’re probably right.”

  He leaned against the bars again and peered out at the darkened corridor. There were lights somewhere down there, but not enough of them for him to see much. “We’re the only ones in here?”

  “I think so. I didn’t see anyone when they brought us through.”

  “How many cells?”

  “Three.”

  “We’re in the back?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Just wondering.”

  “We’re not going to escape, Smith. There are probably guards outside. Besides, you’re in no condition to fight even if we could get out of this cell, which we can’t.”

  “I don’t need to fight anyone. I just need a gun.”

  “Well, you don’t have one of those, either.”

  “Not yet.”

  Blake opened her eyes and stared at him. “Tell me about those three guys Travis said you killed.”

  “Travis?” Smith said.

  “Yeah, Travis.”

  “Why do you call him Travis now, but Clarence when he’s here?”

  “Because it annoys him.”

  Smith chuckled. That made sense.

  “Tell me about the three you killed,” Blake said.

  “What about them?”

  “What happened?”

  “They murdered some travelers and kidnapped and assaulted a woman and her son.”

  “Were they friends of yours? The woman and her son, I mean.”

  “No. I didn’t know them until I met up with the three men.”

  “So what happened to them? The woman and her son? Billy didn’t say anything about seeing you with anyone outside Lucky’s.”

  “If this is Gaffney, then they’re here, too,” Smith said. “We ran into Hobson and your boyfriend, Travis, earlier yesterday.” Smith paused for a moment, before continuing. “I thought it’d be safer for her and the boy to come back here with them.”

  “You let them come back with Hobson and Travis to Gaffney?”

  “I thought they would be safe here. I don’t know anything about Gaffney.” He turned around to look back at Blake. “This town. This Judge. Tell me exactly why you and Mandy and the others fled.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “All of it,” Smith said, walking back over and sitting down on the bench.

  Blake pulled her legs up until she was sitting Indian-style. She was amazingly limber for a tall woman. “When we first got here, things were good. They had food, water, everything we needed. We got into the swing of things easily; joined groups, found jobs.”

  “Jobs?”

  “Well, not jobs, jobs. Not the kind that pays a salary, anyway. Just what needed to be done. Some people were cooks, others could help with construction, that sort of thing.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I didn’t exactly have a lot of skills before The Purge. I was still in middle school when that happened. But I learned a few things here and there, enough to join the clinic in town and help out doing whatever.”

  “Doing whatever?”

  “Yeah. Whatever.” She shrugged.

  “Okay. So everything was good for a while.”

  “For a while, yeah.”

  “How long did that last?”

  “A week.”

  “Just a week?”

  “That’s how long it took the Judge to tell us what he needed from us. What he really needed from us.”

  “Which was that?”

  “Gee, what do you think, Smith?”

  He shook his head. “Why don’t you just tell me.”

  She sighed and turned around until she was leaning back against the wall again. Blake folded her arms across her chest. “Wives.”

  “Wives?”

  “They wanted all the women to be someone’s wife. Me included.”

  “You mean get married?”

  “Yup. Official and everything.”

  “Official how?” Then, remembering, “Right. Because he’s the Judge.”

  “Uh huh. There were marriage ceremonies, papers were signed, and people swore on the Bible and everything.”

  “Are you saying you’re actually married?”

  Blake turned to look at him. “Yes. You’re talking to Mrs. Travis Clarence.”

  “Hunh,” Smith said.

  She smiled. “‘Hunh?’ I tell you some asshole who calls himself the Judge forced me to marry Travis, and all you can say is ‘hunh?’”

  Smith shrugged. “I don’t know how else to respond.”

  “Apparently not.”

  “Are you guys…”

  “What? Are we what?”

  “I don’t know, Blake. You’re married to him.”

  “Yeah, by the Judge.”

  Smith shook his head aga
in. “I don’t know what that means.”

  “I don’t even think he’s a real judge, is what I’m saying. For all I know, one day he could have found a robe in a courthouse, put it on, and decided he was now a judge. Anyone can call themselves anything these days. Who’s to know?”

  She had a good point. Smith himself wasn’t John Smith. It was just a name he’d chosen because, well, people needed names. And what he did before The Purge, before Black Tide, had nothing to do with what he was now.

  “So he’s not a real judge?” he asked Blake.

  Blake shrugged. “I don’t know. That’s the thing. He could be, or he might not be. All I know is that real judges don’t go around forcing people to marry other people they don’t love, never mind having only met a week earlier.”

  “He forced all the women to marry?”

  “After a week of arriving, yes. It’s the same with everyone.”

  “They didn’t tell you ahead of time?”

  “Hell no. You really think me and Gramps and the others would have stuck around for even a single day if they had? I mean, it’s not like I think Travis is an ugly ass fucker or anything, but why would I ever marry him? Besides, I’m only twenty-one. I didn’t exactly see myself getting married at that age. Or, well, ever now.”

  “What else?”

  “What else what?”

  “I assume there’s more to Gaffney than just forcing the women to become wives. Or is that it?”

  “That’s not enough reason for you?”

  Smith gave her a noncommittal shrug.

  “But you’re right, there’s more,” Blake said.

  “Tell me.”

  “We don’t have any rights here. The Judge thinks it’s still the 1950s. We’re to cook, clean, and get ready to spread our legs for our”—she made air quotes—“husbands when they come home. Everyone who’s not one of his chosen few are slaves. That posse of his has chased down dozens of people over the years, as far as I know. Some of the ones that made it out decided to stay behind.”

  “Like you, Mandy, and Gramps at the junkyard.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Why?”

  “Why not just run away and never look back, you mean?”

  “Yes. Exactly.”

  “Because Gramps and me still have friends who showed up with us, who are still stuck in this place. I haven’t talked to them since I got out. I don’t know what happened to them. I owe it to them to find out.”