…look outside…
The riders. Shit. He’d forgotten all about the riders that were shooting at him and Blake earlier. They would be outside right now, either reaching the building or…already here.
Smith didn’t turn around to look back at the doors behind him. It wouldn’t have done any good. He couldn’t see through those thick oak slabs anyway, so he’d need to find one of the windows to see where the riders were. They had to have reached the house by now. How long had Smith and Blake been in here, staring at the wrong end of a shotgun barrel?
A second? Ten? A whole minute?
No, it couldn’t have been a whole minute.
Could it?
“Look, let’s talk this through,” Blake was saying. “We can help you find Peter. Where did you last see him?”
“I was talking to him on the radio,” the woman said.
The radio?
Then, remembering hearing Tall and Gangly telling someone to “hit it” just before the generators roared to life and the spotlights came on. He was talking to the woman, even though Smith couldn’t see the radio on her at the moment.
“Maybe he’s outside with the others,” Blake was saying.
“I don’t believe you,” the woman said. “You did something to him.”
“I didn’t. Neither one of us did.”
Smith had to admit, he was impressed with how calm Blake was. If he didn’t know better, he’d almost think she actually believed what she was saying.
But of course, he knew better.
Step to the right and shoot.
Step to the right and shoot…
The woman’s eyes zeroed in on Blake, leaving Smith temporarily. “You’re lying. I can see it on your face.”
“I’m not,” Blake said.
“You’re lying!” She had shouted the words, her face twisting, the agitation replaced by anger. “You hurt him, didn’t you? You hurt my Peter!”
“No.”
“You’re lying! Where is he?”
“I don’t—” Blake started to say but never managed to finish, because there was a loud thoom-thoom-thoom! from behind Smith as someone—or someones—pounded on the door, and everything went to shit.
The sudden loud banging startled the woman and she pulled the trigger, and Blake was thrown back and would have slammed into Smith if he hadn’t sidestepped, drawn the SIG, and fired twice.
The woman collapsed, the shotgun clattering loudly to the floor next to her.
But Smith was already on his knees next to Blake, grabbing her as she lay bleeding on the floorboards while gasping up at him like a drowning fish. There was a big, bloody mess in her stomach where she’d been shot, and her face was ghostly pale even in the dimmed environment of the room.
“Smith,” Blake gasped. “Oh God, I’m dying. Smith, I’m dying.”
He shook his head. “No, you’re not.”
“I’m dying…”
“No. No, you’re not.”
Blake struggled to suck in air, and the look on her face told him that she didn’t believe him. And she shouldn’t have either, because he was lying and had done a pretty bad job of it.
He was still on his knees, holding Blake, when one of the two front doors crashed open and men flooded inside. They were shouting something, but Smith couldn’t hear them over the sound of Blake gasping, even as blood pumped out of her stomach where she’d been shot by the shotgun’s slug round. Smith was holding onto her, one hand over her belly, even as red, hot liquid squirted between his fingers.
Someone cursed, but Smith couldn’t tell if that was directed at him or just the room in general. He remained where he was, with Blake staring up at him even as life faded from her face, and Smith couldn’t do anything but hold on. He did that—holding on, while maintaining contact with her weakening gaze—and hope, and pray, and—
Something struck him in the back of the head with the force of a dozen sledgehammers, and he fell to the floor on his face.
And…darkness.
Twelve
“Who is he?”
“Some guy named John Smith.”
“John Smith?”
“Yeah.”
“Seriously?”
“That’s what they said.”
“That’s gotta be a fake name.”
“Ya think?”
“Pretty sure.”
“I was being sarcastic. Anyway, why don’t you ask him just to be 100 percent sure? I think he’s waking up.”
Smith didn’t open his eyes. It hurt too much. There was a throbbing pain somewhere in the back of his head. Oh, who was he kidding? The pain was everywhere. He was pretty sure he was bleeding, too, the result of being struck in the back of the head by the buttstock of a rifle. He’d gotten hit before, almost at the same spot, and it hurt then as well. It wasn’t like in the movies, where you could hit someone in the head with a gun and all they did was fall down, then get right back up in the next scene. No. A gun was heavy. A rifle was even heavier. When someone hit you with one, it hurt. It hurt a lot.
“He’s definitely awake,” a voice said. Male. Gruff. Like he chewed glass for breakfast and then followed it up with gravel for lunch.
“I thought he was dead,” a second voice said. Also male, but not quite as gruff. “Cramer hit him hard enough.”
“He’ll probably wish he was dead pretty soon,” the first one said.
“What’d the Judge say?”
“Make an example out of him.”
“That doesn’t sound good.”
“Nope, it sure doesn’t.”
“Poor bastard.”
“Are you kidding me? You know what he did to Peter, right?”
“Oh yeah.” Then, with a harder edge in his voice, “Fuck him, then.”
Definitely fucked, Smith thought even before he managed to open his eyes.
He was lying on a cold, hard dirt floor, and there was no light of any kind. He was surrounded by seething darkness. He sat up—he was unrestrained, which was surprising—and reached back behind his head. Just as he had already assumed, there was a bloody patch back there, where the rifle buttstock had struck and knocked him out.
How long had he been out was the question. (One of many, anyway.) At the moment, Smith was only concerned about the throbbing pain.
And there was a lot of it.
Christ, there was a lot of it.
Even as he tried to get a handle on his condition, on his situation, his thoughts flashed back to Blake.
Dead.
Blake was dead.
He’d watched her bleed out as she lay cradled in his arms. A slug round in her gut. And all that blood. There’d been a lot of blood. But most of all, he recalled the shocked and resigned look on her face, in her eyes. The green color that sparkled so much when he first saw her had become dull.
I’m sorry, Blake. I should have forced you to head back to the junkyard instead of dragging you along with me.
I’m sorry.
Jesus, I’m sorry.
It was too late for I’m Sorrys now. She was gone, and he was stuck in…
Where the hell was he?
Some kind of dark room, without any lights and no windows. He couldn’t tell what time of day it was, but it felt like it was still night. How long had he been out? Maybe not as long as he thought. Or possibly longer. He had no idea. It was hard to think straight with all the pain.
The voices he’d heard earlier. Mr. Gruff and his Not-So-Gruff pal. Where had they come from? Smith couldn’t see anyone around him. Hell, he couldn’t see much of anything, but that was changing slowly as his night eyes started to adjust to his environment.
Slowly but surely, he could see…
…darkness. A lot of darkness. But walls were starting to take shape in the background. Walls and…a ceiling above him. And the hard, gray floor below him. Concrete. Unyielding and rough.
It was cold in the room, too, and Smith shivered as he reached forward and grabbed the nearest objects. Bars. Cel
l bars. Was he back in the Gaffney police station? No, it didn’t feel like it. It was too dark, for one, and the bars were slicked with wetness. Sticky wetness.
Sweat? Blood? Something worse?
Smith pulled himself up from the floor until he was on his feet again. Barely. He almost fell back down but managed to remain upright. He glanced around him, trying to get more of his bearings from a higher angle.
Where am I? Where is this?
They’d stripped him of his gun belt and, more importantly, his guns. The sheath with the knife was also gone. His whole body felt so much lighter without his weapons. It was a sensation Smith didn’t like.
Not one bit.
And goddamn if his head wasn’t pounding.
He reached back there again, staring at the blood on his palm. Not a lot, so the wound wasn’t still bleeding. That was good. He didn’t fancy bleeding to death in here, wherever “here” was.
He wiped the dark redness against his pant legs and grimaced against the continued escalating pain. For some reason, it was getting worse the longer he was conscious. Maybe he should lie right back down so he wouldn’t have to deal with it.
No. Find out where you are. Find a way out of here.
Find a way out of here…
That was easier said than done. There wasn’t nearly enough lights for him to even know how big the room he had found himself in was. Where was that ceiling again? Right, up there. Of course that’s where the ceiling would be.
He gripped the cell bars tighter despite the strange wetness that coated them. He was in a cage. They’d put him in a fucking cage.
“I think he’s starting to realize where he is,” the one with the gruff voice said.
“Yup, looks like it,” his partner, the one with the not-so-gruff voice, said with a slight cackle. “He looks confused. Poor bastard.”
The gruff voice laughed. “Fuck ’em.”
Fuck you, Smith thought, but of course he couldn’t say it. His mouth was parched, and just swallowing hurt. It didn’t help that he had no idea where to direct his curse. The voices seemed to be coming from everywhere…and nowhere at the same time.
But of course, that was impossible.
Wasn’t it?
Yes, it was. The voices had to have come from a direction. He was listening to two guys that could clearly see him fine, not to mention the shitty shape he was in. And they were enjoying every bit of it. That, more than anything, pissed Smith off.
“Ready?” the gruff voice said.
Goddammit, where was it coming from? Behind him? Or in front of him?
Smith tried to shake off the headache. It didn’t work. If anything, it just made the pain grow louder in volume.
Yeah, probably shouldn’t have done that.
“Do it,” the less-gruff voice said.
“This is gonna be fun,” his partner said.
“How long you think he’ll last?”
“Not too long.”
“I got five.”
“No way he lasts five.”
“Give me a number.”
“One, tops.”
“Nah, I think he’s tough enough to make it past one.”
“Look at the way he’s standing. He can barely stand.”
“Still think he’ll make it past one?”
“What you wanna bet?”
“Tomorrow’s shift.”
“You’re on.”
Sonsofbitches think this is a game, Smith thought.
Then again, maybe they were right. Maybe this was a game and he was a pawn, helpless to do anything but wait for—
The echoing clang! as something opened. A door of some type. A metal door. That was the only explanation for the loud—
The smell.
Jesus, the smell!
It came out of nowhere and filled the room. (It must not have been a very big room if Smith could smell it so easily. Or was it?) He winced and took a step away from the bars, sniffing the air for its location.
It was close.
Very close.
He spun around, hands forming fists at his sides. He didn’t have a gun or a knife, but he still had his hands. And Smith wasn’t going to go down without a fight.
It flew out of the darkness toward him and slammed into the cage, like a wild animal flinging itself forward with wild abandon. It might have even knocked Smith’s prison over with the force of its impact if the metal rods weren’t nailed into the hard ground. The entire cage shook anyway, but otherwise didn’t bend under the violent assault.
“Jesus Christ,” Smith muttered under his breath.
Somewhere behind him—and he was sure it had come from behind him this time—someone laughed. Then a second voice joined in.
His captors. Gruff and Less-Gruff.
Glad you’re finding this very amusing, boys, Smith thought even as he stared back at the ghoul. There was no need to worry about his human problem right now; not with this inhuman thing in front of him.
The creature peered in at him even as it clung to the bars, its body seeming to hover in the air. But, of course, that wasn’t true. It wasn’t hovering; it was clutching to the steel metal rods, bony fingers wrapped around two of them while two equally bony legs did the same nearer the bottom.
The suddenly very overwhelming stink made Smith want to vomit, but he held it in. Barely.
The ghoul glared at him for a few seconds before it attempted to push its elongated head through two of the bars, but couldn’t. Closer now, it exposed one hollowed socket to Smith. Its right eye was missing, leaving it with only one. There was nothing wrong with the rest of its body, though. Its chest was sunken, pruned black flesh seemingly rippling against the semidarkness. Smith didn’t need lights to see what the creature wanted.
Him.
The hairs on the back of his neck and all along his arms and legs spiked as its one good eye zeroed in on him. One eye was all it needed. Even if it couldn’t see him, it would have been able to smell his presence.
Or, more specifically, the blood pumping through Smith’s veins.
Smith waited for more to appear out of the darkness, but there was just the one. That was the only good news that he could see. If there were more, they would have made their presence known already. Ghouls weren’t known for their ability to hang back when there was prey on the table. And that was what he was right now. Prey.
So why was the creature trying to push its way through the bars? Why didn’t it just use…
…the door.
The door!
Where the hell was the door?
Smith spun around, looking for it. His eyes had mostly adjusted to the darkness, but he couldn’t find the door. But, of course, there had to be one. Didn’t there? How else would they have put him in here?
So where was it?
He started moving frantically around the cage, looking for a way in and out. Or anything that even remotely resembled a door. He could feel the ghoul staring after him, maybe wondering what he was doing. It remained clinging to the bars on the other side of the prison, still trying to push its way in, but failing.
For now. For now…
Focus on the door!
The door. Right. The door. Where was the door?
Smith felt along the bars, hoping to find some indication—
A soft, echoing click came from somewhere behind him. Smith whirled around just in time to see a part of the cage coming apart.
No, not coming apart, but opening.
The door.
The goddamn door. It was exactly where he didn’t want it to be.
…right underneath the ghoul on the other side of the cage…
Thirteen
He’d faced ghouls before. More than once, and more than one ghoul at a time. There had been about a dozen of them earlier tonight, and he’d gotten through that one unscathed. It’d been a little dicey at times, but he never thought he was in trouble. Blake’s presence helped, but he could have handled the whole thing if it’d just been h
im. Of course, at the time he had a silver-coated knife. He would have loved to have that right about now.
Among other things.
Many, many other things.
For a second or two—maybe three or four seconds max—the creature hopped down from the bars and squatted on the floor, looking as perplexed as Smith was that the door into the cage had suddenly snapped open by an unseen hand.
It peered in at him, almost as if it was suspicious. Was that possible? Were the creatures even capable of suspicious thoughts? The ones he’d encountered in the past didn’t; they were primal animals that streaked toward their prey when one was available. They didn’t sit back on their haunches the way this one was doing and seemed to narrow its one remaining eye at him, as if trying to decide if all of this was a trick or…
It must have decided pretty quickly that it wasn’t, because the creature lunged toward the opening.
Smith did the same, trying to reach the door before the nightcrawler did—
He lost.
Smith stopped at the last second and tried to pivot out of the way but—too late—as the creature entered the cage and slammed into him, knocking him to the floor. He landed on his right shoulder, the ghoul scrambling on top of him. It was all Smith could do to roll away, the ghoul falling off him and onto the hard ground.
He managed to scramble to one knee, but the creature beat him by half a heartbeat. Before he could react, it launched itself into him again with wild abandon. Its stink invaded his space and infiltrated his nostrils until the stench of rotting garbage filled every inch of Smith’s universe.
He fought through it—there were no other choices—and punched it with a balled fist. He got it across the left cheek and felt his hand sinking into the flesh, then striking the cheekbone underneath. The creature’s head snapped back, then sideways, and its body followed suit.
Smith pushed up onto his feet as the ghoul slammed into one side of the cage and collapsed to the hard floor. He wished he could say that the solid punch—which would have put down most men—did the job, but it wasn’t even close.
After The Purge, AKA John Smith (Book 3): Shoot Last Page 8
