After The Purge, AKA John Smith (Book 3): Shoot Last

by Sisavath, Sam

  “Six,” Smith had said.

  “More than six,” Mandy had said.

  “How many more?”

  “At least ten,” Roger had said.

  “At least ten” wasn’t exactly a specific number. “At least” could be eleven or fifteen or fifty. Not that Smith thought the Judge had fifty men on the payroll, or whatever he was using to keep them to stay loyal to him. But “at least” could be as few as eleven and as many as twenty…or more.

  Smith needed to find out one way or another. He was good with a gun, but even he didn’t think he could take on twenty men. At least, not in a straight-up fight, which was what he preferred. At least now he had one less man to deal with.

  No, that wasn’t quite correct. Three less men to deal with, actually. He had forgotten to count Travis, the kid, Kyle, and the sniper, Roman. Travis was still alive but out of the game. (There was the possibility Travis was still alive. Who knew what Roger and company were doing to him now?)

  Smith stood next to the window on the second floor of the house across the street from Hobson’s and watched as shadowy figures arrived. There were four of them—two on horseback, the other two on foot. All men, of course. The two on foot were carrying LED lanterns, the kind with solar-rechargeable batteries that Smith had seen often out here, while the two mounted ones had similarly bright LED flashlights fixed to the barrels of their weapons—one rifle and one shotgun.

  They charged up to Hobson’s home, coming from two separate directions, almost as if they had orchestrated the approach. And maybe they had, for all Smith knew. It took them almost twenty-five minutes to respond, which was pretty fast given the size of the town and the fact they would have had to get together, figure out what had happened, and then assembled.

  And where the hell did they keep the horses, anyway? Smith still didn’t know the answer to that one. Then again, he also didn’t know where they had kept the Jeep that Travis had tried to run him down with yesterday. There had to be a garage, or stables, somewhere in town that he hadn’t seen yet.

  He concentrated on what was happening out in the darkened streets as the Judge’s men carefully entered Hobson’s home. Two of them went inside while the other two remained outside as guards. Smith glimpsed flashlight beams slicing across the home’s front windows within. It wouldn’t have taken the men long to find Hobson’s body. Smith had left him sitting on the sofa where he’d died.

  The two sentries on Hobson’s front lawn were eyeballing the street, alleys, and buildings around them. They looked jumpy, clutching their weapons. It was too dark outside, with only the moonlight and limited glows of the lanterns that the men held in their hands for Smith to see with, so he couldn’t tell if any of the faces were familiar. The men actually scanned the home Smith was hiding in a couple of times, but if they saw him, they didn’t react. He was pretty sure he was well-hidden.

  Pretty sure.

  Or maybe he wasn’t that well-hidden and was hoping to be spotted. Maybe he wanted them to come into the house so he could take down a few more of them. Knock a few of those “at least” down a couple more notches. Was that why he’d remained so close to Hobson’s place after shooting the man to death?

  Of course not.

  Probably.

  Voices, as the two that had gone into the house came back outside. The four men milled about the one-story structure, eyes scanning the area as if they expected to find him out here, as he watched them back.

  Oh, if you only knew, boys.

  If you only knew…

  Two of them climbed back onto their horses, turned the animals, then proceeded down the street. The two on foot loitered around the property, still scanning for signs of him. Smith noticed that they hadn’t removed Hobson’s body; for all he knew, they had just left the sheriff sitting where he’d been shot.

  He listened to the clop-clop-clop of shod horse hooves as they faded down one side of the block, while the lights from the LED lanterns of the ones on foot remained where they were. If they had noticed him and were planning some sneaky rear attack, he couldn’t detect it. He stayed ready anyway, a part of him still hoping they would try something.

  Got ourselves a little death wish tonight, don’t we?

  Maybe. Just maybe.

  He was surprised there weren’t armed men roaming around Gaffney looking for him. There were two of them outside and two more on horseback, but where were the others? Asleep? Guarding the Judge? If he was the paranoid type, Smith would almost think they were setting him up and waiting to spring an elaborate ambush. What was it going to take to wake all of Gaffney up? A full-blown attack?

  Maybe I should have blown up a building or two to really get their attention.

  He waited patiently, but no one tried to sneak up on him or flank the house he was hidden inside. Smith didn’t keep listening for signs of something happening anyway. When he’d entered the place earlier, it’d smelled and looked abandoned. The uncovered mattress behind him was stained with rainwater from old leaks in the ceiling, and the wallpaper was peeling. The floor crunched as he walked across it, a combination of debris and fallen Sheetrock.

  Smith didn’t move from the window or go anywhere, and about forty or so minutes later, the horsemen returned. This time they were dragging a wagon between them, with a third figure sitting on it.

  A woman. Smith could tell that much by her shape.

  The group stopped in front of Hobson’s house, and the woman climbed off, then disappeared inside.

  Amy.

  It had to be Amy, the former Black Tider turned Gaffney’s resident doctor. It made sense. Who else would be roused from sleep to take care of Hobson’s body? Unless, of course, the town had its own undertaker, but that was unlikely.

  “Most people here have multiple titles. It’s how we keep the place running,” Hobson had said.

  So it was a good bet Amy was also the undertaker when called for. The fact that she was in charge of housing as well was a little more out of the ordinary for someone of her skill set, but like Hobson had said, that was how they kept the place running.

  He watched the group return outside Hobson’s home about ten minutes later, with Hobson’s body wrapped in a sheet and carried between two of the four men. They loaded him onto the back of the wagon while Amy watched on. She was looking around the street, and for an instant or two, settled her eyes on the window Smith was hidden alongside.

  Can she see me?

  Nah.

  Probably nah.

  Then Amy looked away, said something to one of the horsemen, and they moved on. The two on foot followed.

  Smith stepped away from the window before moving silently across the bedroom. He remembered where the clinic was in relation to Hobson’s house, so it wouldn’t be hard to find again. Where else would they take the sheriff’s body? Unless he was wrong, but he didn’t think he was.

  It was dark outside the house, but Smith could still hear the clop-clop-clop of horse hooves on the street behind him. He slipped out of the dark structure and into an alleyway, then made his way across the darkness.

  Gaffney remained pitch-black and silent around him, reminding Smith to be very careful about every step he took. He kept his eyes on the rooftops of the buildings around him in case there were lookouts up there.

  He didn’t see anyone. Not above him and not on the street. But he could still hear the fading clop-clop-clop of horse hooves. Smith followed them while sticking to the shadows. The air had grown chilly, but there were no telltale signs of ghoul presence in the vicinity.

  He kept his senses alert anyway. You could never tell when the bastards would decide to pop out of the shadows at you.

  Three

  He wasn’t sure if he was surprised there were no guards outside the clinic—the same one he’d been in the day before—where they took Hobson’s body or not. He supposed it made sense; there was no reason to post anyone outside or inside, for that matter. From what he could see, the Judge’s men—a half dozen, now—were m
oving through town looking for something.

  Someone.

  If they even knew he was the one responsible for Hobson. After Travis had failed to show up after ambushing Mandy, maybe the Judge would have already assumed things hadn’t gone as well as he had hoped. Either way, his men were looking for someone out there.

  Smith easily avoided them by sticking to the back alleys of Gaffney, winding his way through the shadows and brick buildings until he found himself at the rear of the clinic. There was a door, but it was unlocked, so Smith let himself in. There were two main rooms inside—the entry lobby and the back, the two spaces separated by nothing more than a curtain like before.

  He found Amy standing next to Hobson’s body, jotting down notes on a clipboard. The sheriff lay on a gurney, his naked body exposed, with the hole in his chest where Smith had shot him underneath a single LED light.

  Amy spun around when she heard his footsteps, dropping the clipboard and reaching for a scalpel on a tray nearby. Her eyes widened at the sight of him, and the words, “Jesus, Smith,” came out between her lips.

  Smith wasn’t sure if she was scared to see him or relieved. “You’re up late,” he said.

  “What the hell are you doing back here?”

  He noticed she hadn’t relaxed her grip on the scalpel even a little bit after recognizing him. In fact, it was still clutched in her hand and in front of her—a clearly defensive posture.

  “I’m looking for my friends,” Smith said. “I was told you’d know where they were.”

  “What friends? And told by who?”

  Smith nodded at Hobson. “Him.”

  Amy glanced back at the dead man briefly. From the look on her face, it didn’t take long for her to put two and two together. “You killed Hobson.”

  Smith nodded.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “He went for his gun.”

  “That’s all?”

  Was that all?

  No, that wasn’t all, but he didn’t think the doctor needed to know that.

  Smith had been careful about keeping his hands away from his holstered weapon. He knew he was taking a chance here; all it would have taken was for Amy to scream for help and the Judge’s men would swarm the place. Of course, it’d take them a while, and he was reasonably confident he could escape before then.

  But still, he was taking unnecessary chances here. And yet, Smith didn’t really feel endangered. Something about his encounter with Amy before convinced him she was a potential ally rather than an enemy. Maybe it was their shared history with Black Tide.

  His instincts were rewarded when Amy relaxed and put the knife back on the tray. “Did you have to kill him?”

  No, Smith thought, but he said, “Yes. He didn’t give me a choice.”

  She looked back at the sheriff and shook her head. “He wasn’t a bad guy. Not completely.”

  Bad enough, Smith thought, but he hadn’t come here to talk about Hobson. Besides, if the doc had warm feelings toward the sheriff, Smith didn’t have any issues with that. And he certainly wasn’t going to try to change her mind. Not now, anyway.

  “He told me you knew where to find my friends,” Smith said.

  Amy turned back to him. “The woman and her son, that came in here yesterday.”

  Smith nodded. “Where are they?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “He told me you did.”

  “I did, when they first showed up. But I don’t know where they are now.”

  “They were moved?”

  Amy nodded. “After you left.”

  Dammit.

  He wasn’t sure why he was so surprised by the news. The Judge wasn’t a stupid man, and if he’d willingly used Mary and Aaron as incentives for Smith to do his bidding, why wouldn’t he take extra measures just in case Smith turned on him? Which, seeing as how Smith had done just that…

  “You don’t have any ideas where they might be?” Smith asked.

  Amy shook her head. “No. I’m sorry.”

  “Who moved them?”

  “Stephens and a couple of men.”

  “Not Hobson?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Well, at least the sheriff hadn’t lied about that part.

  “What are you going to do now?” Amy asked.

  “The Judge.”

  “What about him?”

  “I’m going to kill him.”

  “Just like that?”

  Smith shrugged. “Why not?”

  “Is that why he’s so heavily guarded all of a sudden?”

  “How heavily are we talking about?”

  “There were at least a half dozen men with him when I last saw him before nightfall. It was the first time I’ve seen him with so many guns.”

  “…before nightfall.”

  That would have been more than enough time for the Judge to have found out that his ambush of Smith and Mandy hadn’t gone according to plan. The sniper, Roman, had managed to kill Mandy—his primary target—but Smith had slipped free. Smith wouldn’t have been surprised to know the Judge had men watching the junkyard; those same men would have seen Smith arriving in the Jeep with Travis. The fat man might not have known Smith would come back for him, but he was apparently not taking any chances.

  Smart fucker.

  “How many men does the Judge have?” Smith asked, Roger’s “ten or more” still echoing inside his head. “How many guns can he count on to do his dirty work?”

  Amy thought about it, before glancing back at Hobson’s body. “Now?”

  “Now.”

  “Thirteen.”

  “Thirteen?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  Oh, nothing. I’m just trying to figure out how many I’m going to have to kill to get to the Judge.

  Smith said instead, “You sure about that number?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does it include Travis, Kyle, and Roman?”

  Amy’s eyes widened slightly. Was that surprise? Yes, it looked like surprise. But surprised by what?

  “Are they dead?” Amy asked.

  “Let’s assume they’re no longer in the mix. How many guns does the Judge have left now?”

  “Without those three? Then ten.”

  “Ten? You sure about that?”

  Again, Amy seemed to think about it. “I think so.”

  “You think so?”

  “People come and go. I can’t keep track of everyone.”

  “I thought that was your job.”

  “One of my jobs.”

  Smith nodded. “Fair enough.” Then, because it just occurred to him, “You’re not married to any of them, are you?”

  “What?”

  “I heard the Judge likes to marry people off.”

  “God, no.”

  The way she had said it, “God, no,” made Smith think he’d chosen correctly to come to Amy, not just for information on Mary and Aaron but to gather intel about what he was up to.

  At least I was right about one thing tonight.

  “About my friends,” Smith said. “Where would they take Mary and Aaron?”

  Amy shook her head again. “I don’t know.”

  “You must have some ideas.”

  “I don’t. I’m sorry.”

  “How long have you been in Gaffney?”

  “Long enough.”

  “How long?”

  “Two years.”

  “And you don’t know where they would take Mary and her son? You don’t even have a single clue?”

  Amy opened her mouth to answer, but nothing came out. She closed her mouth back up and seemed to think about it for a moment instead.

  A moment turned into ten seconds.

  Then twenty…

  “Anything,” Smith said. “Tell me anything.”

  “The ranch,” Amy finally said.

  “What ranch?”

  “Where they take people for what the Judge calls reeducation.”

  Now where have I heard that before?


  Ah, right. Blake.

  “Where’s this ranch?” he asked.

  “It’s nearby.”

  “How near—”

  The click of a door opening, followed by the sound of a man’s voice calling out, “Doc. You in there?”

  Smith quickly stepped to his left, far enough that he was suddenly hidden behind the half-open curtain that separated the lobby and back of the clinic. The plastic sheet went all the way down to the floor, so he was assured his boots weren’t showing as whoever was on the other side walked over, the sound of their footsteps loud enough to wake the dead.

  “Doc?”

  “Yes,” Amy said, looking from Smith to the male figure approaching her.

  “I heard voices,” the man said. “Who were you talking to?”

  “Voices?”

  “Yeah.” Then, with slightly more alarm in his voice, “Who were you talking to?”

  “No one,” Amy said. “I was talking to myself.”

  The voice belonged to Dunham, the man Smith had seen standing guard outside the Judge’s chambers back at the courthouse yesterday. He was still wearing the same faded Cornhuskers cap and had one palm resting on the butt of his holstered pistol as he stepped past the curtain and into the back room.

  “You were talking to yourself?” Dunham asked.

  “Yes,” Amy said. “I—” she continued, when her eyes shifted slightly to the right—right at Smith.

  He didn’t think she’d done it on purpose. Or, at least, Smith didn’t want to think she had. It was probably a nervous tic on her part, trying to make sure if Smith was hidden well enough from Dunham.

  Whatever the reason, the results were the same.

  Dunham saw it and spun in Smith’s direction even as his hand grabbed and began drawing his sidearm. The first thing Smith noticed was the widening eyes, followed by the big nasty—and fresh-looking—scar that ran down his right cheek, starting from the bottom of one eye and ending next to the corner of his mouth. The man hadn’t had that when Smith saw him last time.

  The surprised presence of the scar cost Smith almost half a second. Almost. But it didn’t stop Smith from drawing first and shooting Dunham once in the chest before the other man could even clear leather.

  Well, this night’s going off the rails fast, Smith thought as he took a step toward Dunham’s body even as the man fell to his knees.