Purge of Babylon (Book 5): The Ashes of Pompeii

by Sisavath, Sam

  He picked up the radio with one hand, keyed it. “Gaby.”

  “Yeah,” she answered.

  “Whatever happens, keep moving forward. Don’t stop to look back. Keep moving forward, because that’s how we survive. Understand?”

  She didn’t answer right away.

  “Gaby,” he said. “Do you understand?”

  “I understand,” she said.

  Will put the radio down and refocused on the road ahead. The sun poured streams of light down on the rooftops of the buildings gathered in front of him, and Will looked through the binoculars again, one hand on the steering wheel, and searched for glimpses of figures hiding on top of them.

  Something. Anything.

  Half a kilometer now, and getting closer…

  He could make out more of the buildings, including two gas stations facing off across the street from one another—a Chevron and a locally-owned business called Palermo, their signs raised high and proud like dueling billboards. There were no cars parked along the pumps of either gas station that he could see. In fact, there were no vehicles in either parking lot.

  Where did all the cars go?

  You always found cars where there were businesses. That was one of the undeniable patterns of a post-Purge world. He was so used to seeing them abandoned in front of stores and gas stations and along streets and curbs that the total absence of them here was unnerving.

  200 meters…

  Route 13 wasn’t well-traveled—he knew that all too well after spending two days on it—but the spot next to a major interstate was still good for business. He put away the binoculars as a restaurant popped up to his right, a Domino’s to his left, and an auto body garage owned by a man named Ralph alongside a cellphone store.

  150 meters…

  A restaurant called Louie’s, next to a furniture place advertising new and secondhand inventory. They were having a sale for just this weekend…a year ago.

  100 meters…

  The buildings were one story high, which made their rooftops easier to spot from a distance. He couldn’t make out every detail, but if there was someone (someones) up there right now, they were well hidden. Of course, Josh’s boys would know they were already on their way. You couldn’t hide the sound of two trucks moving up a flat and empty road for miles. He didn’t discount the hidden presence of scouts around the farmhouse, either, or along the highway as they traveled across it. Men whose job it was to watch and radio ahead.

  That’s what I would do.

  He glanced briefly at the radio. He should call this off. Try their luck some other way. Use one of those other options he had considered this morning. Yes, they would take longer. Not just hours, but days…

  Can’t afford days.

  Not even close…

  There was no getting around it. The enemy knew where they were going. Which made the lack of activity, the apparent nothingness of the road since they left the farmhouse, the stuff of nightmares. There was nothing worse than knowing that the bad guys knew you were coming. He had endured plenty of that during his time in Afghanistan.

  Fifty meters…

  He gripped the steering wheel with both hands and looked over to make sure the M4A1 was where he had left it. He did a last-minute weapons and inventory check, then gave the Titan behind him a second glance to make sure it was still back there.

  Forty meters…

  Now!

  Will gunned it. He slammed down on the gas pedal until he felt it thud against the floor. The Tacoma leaped forward like a caged monster finally unleashed, its engine roaring exponentially louder and louder as he flooded it with gas. The truck bucked and fought under him, and it was all he could to do hold on with both hands on the steering wheel for dear life.

  He didn’t have to look to know Danny was doing the same thing behind him in the Titan. He could always trust Danny. And he would need to, now.

  The Domino’s to his left disappeared in a streak of red, white, and blue, then the restaurant to his right (something Onions; he hadn’t caught the rest of the name) did the same thing. Up ahead, the Chevron and Palermo rushed up toward him, their signs beckoning him forward, sunlight glinting off the sharp, metallic edges.

  He kept the truck floored, the speedometer rising on the dashboard.

  From thirty miles to forty, to fifty, to sixty—

  The first shot came when he was almost at the gas stations. He didn’t know if he had caught them off guard, or if they had been waiting for him to get close all along. Not that it mattered. He had been waiting for it and his foot remained on the gas pedal as the bullet chopped into the side of the Tacoma; there was a loud-ringing ping! as it pierced metal.

  Crack! A second shot fired, this one coming from his left, as another bullet went ping! off the other side of the truck.

  There were a third and fourth shot, both producing their own ping! as they either ricocheted or punched through another part of his car.

  A flicker of movement, and Will caught sight of the first sniper standing up on the square-shaped roof of the platform that covered the gas pumps of the Palermo to his right. The man’s form was silhouetted by the sun, and for a second—just a brief second—Will thought it was a ghoul, out here in daylight, armed with a rifle.

  The sniper fired down on him on semi-auto. Will braced himself—at this distance, he didn’t think it would take much of a shooter to hit the windshield and him behind it—but there was no pain, because the man’s bullets weren’t landing. Or, at least, they weren’t piercing the windshield the way he had expected them to. The man, he realized quickly, was trying to hit the tire of the Tacoma.

  They’re trying to shoot out the tires. Why are they trying to shoot out the tires?

  Because they’re not trying to kill us. They’re trying to take us alive.

  Why?

  Kate…

  “Don’t worry,” the blue-eyed ghoul had hissed at him last night. “It’s not going to end that easily for you, Will. Kate made us promise her this time. I think she has big plans for you.”

  Kate, this is your doing, isn’t it?

  “I think she has big plans for you…”

  He glimpsed more figures rushing out of the Palermo store. Men in camouflage uniforms. Josh’s soldiers.

  The second sniper was to his left, also standing on the platform over the Chevron’s gas pumps. But this one wasn’t shooting at him. The man was firing at the Titan coming up behind him.

  The ping-ping-ping! of bullets bouncing off both moving vehicles rang up and down the street. He was amazed he could actually hear it over the loud roar of the Tacoma.

  And there, up ahead—Interstate 10.

  It was elevated, with a view of more businesses on the other side of its underpass. The turn was coming up. Right would take him onto the feeder road, then up and onto the interstate itself. Salvani was waiting for him on the other side. Then south to Song Island.

  Easy as pie. All he had to do was make the turn now and—

  There were two of them. Both trucks with large tires that made them look like hulking predators. One was black, and the other cherry red. They were massive against the sunlight, appearing out from behind the gas stations where they had been hiding all this time. There were uniformed men in the back, and though he was surprised by the lack of mounted machine guns, they made up for it with two shooters in the bed of each truck. He almost laughed at the sight of the four men in the backs trying desperately to hold onto the fast-moving vehicles as they were tossed around like rag dolls.

  Will knew what they were trying to do. It didn’t take Patton to figure out their plan. The snipers were trying to shoot out his tires, and if that didn’t work, the two “monster” trucks bursting onto Route 13 directly in front of him right now would cut off his path to the interstate. It was so simple even a CPA masquerading as a soldier could have come up with it.

  And I drove right into it. So who’s the sucker here?

  He grabbed the radio and shouted into it, “
Don’t stop! Don’t you let him stop, Gaby!”

  “Will!” Gaby shouted back.

  “Get to the island! Whatever you do, get back to the island!”

  “Will!”

  She might have said something else, but he had already dropped the radio and returned both hands to the steering wheel. His eyes were fixed out the windshield and on the two trucks. They took up positions in the middle of the road and parked nose-to-nose, both vehicles occupying the entire two lanes. The only way around them was up the curb and into the parking lots of either the Chevron or the Palermo, and there were already men in uniforms, carrying assault rifles and racing out of both gas stations. He counted at least half a dozen on each side.

  Jesus Christ, Josh, where do you get all these assholes from?

  He saw what was in front and to the sides of him, and Will knew what he would find even before he took a quick peek at the rearview mirror. He looked past Danny and Gaby in the Titan and saw two similarly large trucks appearing in the road behind them, blocking off their retreat.

  The snipers were still shooting, trying to hit the tires but missing badly.

  Amateurs, Will thought, wanting to laugh. Danny could have shot off the tires on a moving vehicle. If he had missed once, he would have corrected for the next shot. But these guys had already wasted half their magazines (if not more), and they hadn’t come close to knocking either the Tacoma or the Titan off course.

  Better luck next time, boys!

  They must have known he wasn’t going to stop, because one of the soldiers in the back of the cherry-red truck up ahead said something to the man standing next to him, and they both leaped off the vehicle. Two seconds later, Will smashed the front grill of the Tacoma into the noses of both parked trucks. They had stopped so close to one another (part of the plan, probably) that it didn’t take much to get both of them at the same time.

  The loud crash! of metal against metal spun both vehicles out of the road, and he glimpsed a body flying through the air. Then, his vision blurred at the same time the airbag deployed and slammed into his face. His hands were ripped from the steering wheel by the blinding blow as the Tacoma spun out of control. It seemed to go round and round in a dozen revolutions, but he guessed it was probably more like one or maybe half of one, until it crashed into a streetlight pole, the sound of more metal grinding against metal piercing what little of his senses were still functioning.

  He didn’t actually have to see the smoke flooding out from the crumpled hood to know it was happening. He could feel the steam filling up the cab, though that took a backseat to the pain pounding through every inch of his face and chest at the moment. The airbag had done its job and kept him alive, but it had also rendered him useless. He scrambled to push the nylon fabric out of his face and reached sideways for the M4A1.

  Except the rifle wasn’t there anymore.

  He was still looking for the carbine when the shooting outside broke through the haze. There was the loud ping-ping-ping! of bullets hitting their intended target—which wasn’t him.

  The Titan. They were still shooting at Danny, Gaby, and the girls.

  He waited to hear the sound of another crash to signal that the chase was over, that the Titan had also spun out. Maybe one of the snipers would finally get lucky. Even the sun had to shine up a dog’s ass once in its life, he thought.

  But instead, the sound of ricocheting bullets seemed to become more distant with every passing second. Which had to be good news, right? If there was no crash, no screams, and the ping-ping-ping! was fading, that could only mean…

  Faster, Danny. Get to Song Island. Save them.

  Save Lara…

  He was dazed from the impact, which made finding the rifle even harder. It was difficult to focus on the passenger seat, the sea of sprinkled glass, or the shattered window on the other side of the vehicle. The passenger-side door may or may not even still be connected to the car.

  Was he losing consciousness? No. He had gotten hit in worse ways, and he’d always made it through. Besides, the airbag had saved his life—

  Voices, coming toward him.

  Will abandoned his search for the M4A1 and groped for his holstered Glock instead. He drew it and turned toward the door, somehow finding the handle despite the fact there were now three levers instead of one. He managed to grab the right one—or were all three the right ones?—and pulled.

  A gust of cooling Louisiana wind hit him in the face, piling on the already throbbing pain. He stumbled out of the truck, almost lost his balance but somehow regained it, and saw the first man coming toward him with a rifle at the ready. The man hadn’t fired yet, which Will thought was stupid because he wasn’t going to hesitate.

  He lifted the Glock, but before he could fire, something hit him on the side of the head. The blow stunned him and Will staggered to his left, his gun hand falling to his side. Suddenly the sidearm seemed much heavier than it should be. Like a bowling ball. Or maybe a really big metal pole. Gripping it was difficult.

  And slippery. Why was it slippery?

  A second blow to the same part of the head made him drop the gun. He stumbled, then was sitting on his knees a second later.

  How’d he get down here? He didn’t have a clue. Things weren’t making sense. He still couldn’t focus on any one thing, especially not on the dozen or so pairs of feet surrounding him.

  More voices. Men’s voices.

  Garbled at first, but slowly, very slowly, he started to make out actual words and sentences. Which was a hell of a feat, given that he could barely keep his eyes open. He just wanted to lie down and go to sleep. That would be nice. When was the last time he had actually slept? Days? Weeks?

  He couldn’t remember…

  “Why are we keeping him alive?” someone was asking. He didn’t sound very happy about it.

  “Shut up,” someone else snapped.

  “I’m just saying, let’s just put him out of his misery.”

  “You’re not in charge here.”

  “Then who is?”

  “She is.”

  “‘She’? Who the fuck is—” the man started to say, but never finished.

  She? Who is she? Why won’t someone answer him?

  He should know the answer. And maybe he did. It was right there at the tip of his tongue. Or the edge of his brain. Or wherever it was that words came from. Or the letters that would form those words. And make a name.

  She. Who is she?

  I know that answer!

  Hands grabbed and pulled him up, saving him from the hard concrete that was biting into his knees. He had lost the Glock and couldn’t find the rifle, but he still had his cross-knife. Ah. The trusty cross-knife. It had saved his and Danny’s lives on the first night of The Purge. It would be strapped to his left hip, still in its sheath.

  If only he could reach down for it…

  “What about the other truck?” a third voice asked. “Should we go after them?”

  “Don’t worry about them,” the second man said. He was clearly in charge. “They’re not gonna get far.”

  They were carrying him across the parking lot now. Which one? The Chevron or the Palermo?

  He smelled old motor oil and spilled gas on the ground around him, all these months later.

  Despite the cool air, he was still dripping sweat as he was carried across the parking lot. Curiously, his perspiration looked bright red for some reason.

  Focus.

  Focus!

  The fact that he was still alive was all that mattered right now. As long as he was breathing, there were options available to him. He just had to see them—and seize the right one—when they presented themselves, and they would. They always did.

  Don’t worry, Lara. I’m coming home.

  I’ll just be a little later than expected, that’s all…

  CHAPTER 4

  GABY

  She hadn’t said a word since Route 13 and was content to watch the vehicles strung along both sides of the interstate
flash by in groups of two, three, and every now and then, a lone car that looked out of place. But mostly, there were just empty slabs of gray concrete, and despite the cars, she couldn’t shake the feeling of wandering through a barren and lifeless world.

  She was numb all over and barely felt the wind against her face, flooding in through the shattered front passenger-side window. There were holes in the windshield and dry blood on the seat behind and under her, but she was used to the stains. It helped that they weren’t hers, but instead belonged to the men who had been in the vehicle a day earlier, when they had the misfortune of running across Will and Danny.

  Danny drove with a singular determination, both hands on the steering wheel, his eyes seeking out ambushes that weren’t there. He was calm and steady, and to look at him, she wouldn’t know he was riding in a car that was covered in bullet holes. If most of that was a mask, Danny wore it well.

  “Don’t stop! Don’t you let him stop, Gaby!”

  She hadn’t had to convince Danny to keep going. He knew the odds and what was at stake, just like she did. Not that the knowing made abandoning Will back there any easier. If it was hard for her, it had to have been hell for Danny.

  “Get to the island! Whatever you do, get back to the island!”

  “Gaby,” a voice said behind her.

  She turned and smiled back at Claire, who was sitting in the backseat with the FHN semiautomatic shotgun clutched between her legs, the barrel pointed up at the ceiling of the Nissan Titan. Claire was thirteen, but the girl already had the stern face of an adult and the lines around the eyes to match.

  “I’m sorry about Will,” Claire said. She flicked absently at a strand of dirty blonde hair draped over her face. “He was a great guy. I really liked him.”

  “Is,” Gaby said. “Will’s not dead yet. If he died that easily, then he wouldn’t be Will.”

  Claire nodded back. Gaby couldn’t tell if the girl believed her (Had she been convincing enough, or did her own doubts come through despite her best attempts?), or if she was just humoring her. With anyone else—Milly, for instance—the latter wouldn’t have been possible, but Claire wasn’t anyone else. The girl had lost more than her share, and Gaby didn’t for one moment mistake her for just another “kid.”