After The Purge, AKA John Smith Box Set | Books 1-3

by Sisavath, Sam

  There were two more back there. Peoples and the other one.

  For the next few minutes, Smith tried to figure out why they had come back to kill him. Were they afraid he might follow them, try to stop them from doing what they had planned for the boy and the woman? Or was it something else? It couldn’t have been his weapons. There were more guns out there than any of them could use in a hundred lifetimes.

  Maybe his supplies, even though the trio had been carrying their own packs. That didn’t mean they weren’t running low. Or, hell, they just felt like taking what he had because they could.

  Or they thought they could, anyway. They’d just found out that they couldn’t.

  Was that enough to dissuade the remaining two?

  In their shoes, Smith would have hightailed it already. The supplies of a random guy on the road wasn’t worth dying for.

  But then again, Smith was always a little more practical than most people.

  He remained where he was, back against the tree, and waited. He breathed normally, the cold air pushing at his exposed cheeks. The crickets still hadn’t returned; if anything, the land around him had gotten quieter. Or maybe that was just his imagination, since it’d been pretty damn quiet before the shooting erupted.

  He didn’t bother reloading the SIG. He was down two bullets, but he had plenty left. If he needed more than one magazine to deal with three assholes, Smith knew it was time to hang it up and start farming, or doing something else that didn’t involve getting into gunfights.

  Then, the sound he’d been waiting for:

  Tap-tap-tap of hurried boots pounding on the soft ground!

  About damn time.

  Smith spun away from the tree, this time going to his left.

  Two shots—pop-pop!—rang out before he felt the heat signature of bullets zipping by over his head. Both shots were high and missed badly. He figured out why when he saw a figure running toward him at a fast sprint, trying to aim a rifle in his hands as he did so. The man was wide-bodied and stumpy.

  The Accountant. Which meant the one Smith had killed earlier was Tall and Lanky.

  For a brief second Smith watched the man run toward him. He was running as fast as he could and probably gasping for breath with every step. Not that Smith could be certain; the man was still too far away.

  Sixty yards.

  Fifty-five…

  Three more shots—pop-pop-pop!—sailed over Smith’s head. One landed a few feet to his right, but Smith ignored the puff of dirt it kicked up. Either the man was a really terrible shot, or he couldn’t run and aim and shoot at the same time.

  Probably the latter.

  Smith had already drawn his SIG by the time he exposed himself, but he didn’t shoot the Accountant in the chest right away to stop his forward pace, which he could have easily. The man was now at thirty yards and presented a huge target.

  Instead, Smith shot him in the right thigh, and the Accountant pitched forward wildly as if he’d gotten one foot stuck in a hole and lost his balance. The man’s rifle went flying, its silhouetted shape flashing against the moonlight for a brief second or two just before its owner slammed face-first into the ground, flattening more goldenrods in his path. Even with the distance between them, Smith could hear the satisfying thump! as the man collided with the unyielding field.

  Smith quickly slipped back behind the tree for cover. He waited for Peoples to resume pelting the other side of the elm, but there was no return fire or further attempts on his life.

  What are you waiting for, Peoples?

  He didn’t move. He stood perfectly still and listened, but the only sound he could hear was the Accountant moaning somewhere behind him. The man was still alive, of course; Smith hadn’t gone for a killing shot.

  He waited.

  Five minutes…

  Ten…

  The moaning continued but got weaker as the minutes ticked by, until, eventually, the crickets returned.

  Smith remained where he was and waited.

  Sometime between when he initially fell and now—Smith didn’t bother checking his watch—the Accountant must have rolled slightly to the right, because his moans had moved to that new spot. But he was still back there, either because he couldn’t get up or he was too afraid to. Smith was betting on the former.

  Peoples would have seen his men go down, but the leader hadn’t resumed his attack.

  The night continued on, with the wounded man interrupting the crickets with his moans. He went on and on…until, after about thirty minutes, he finally stopped. Smith didn’t hear a peep out of him after that, so he assumed the guy had bled out. That was too bad. Smith was hoping to talk to him, maybe do a little interrogation. He was curious why they had come back when they didn’t have to, even if a part of him couldn’t care less.

  The only one left was Peoples, but Smith had a feeling the man was gone. Once he saw Tall and Lanky and the Accountant fall, Peoples wouldn’t hang around. Men like him were cowards, when you got right down to it. Take away their army—even if it was just two men—and they crumpled like cheap suits.

  After another thirty minutes of nothing happening, Smith sat down and leaned against the tree. The night carried on, and so did the crickets—now with two less human beings to interrupt their symphony.

  Three

  Peoples was surprised to see him.

  So were the woman and the boy, both of whom sat huddled together on the ground while the big man poked at a fire with the point of his machete. It wasn’t nearly cold enough for a fire, but that hadn’t stopped Peoples from making one anyway. It was a mistake because the glow had allowed Smith to track him all the way back to his makeshift camp. It had taken Smith about two hours and two miles of walking.

  Out here, gunshots traveled, and so did any hints of humanity.

  For someone who had probably been wandering the countryside for a while now, doing many bad things that would stay secret until the day he died, Peoples was shockingly inept at staying under the radar. Smith had briefly considered letting him go, letting the disastrous attack on him slide.

  Briefly.

  Peoples was frozen in place, looking very unsure if he should reach for the AR-15 leaning against the log next to him or go for his holstered pistol. He wasn’t going to do anything with the machete—at least not while Smith stood a good twenty yards across the campfire from him.

  The woman and the boy glanced from Peoples to Smith and back again. Up close, he realized he was wrong when he didn’t think the trio had done anything to her or the boy yet. Maybe they had left the kid alone, but she hadn’t been spared. Smith recognized the trauma on her face, in the way she was rocking back and forth. It wasn’t for the boy’s sake but her own. Smith knew, then, that she’d suffered long before the five of them ever accidentally crossed his path earlier in the day.

  The boy, on the other hand, seemed excited for the possibility of what would come next, and the light from the fire almost danced off his round, shiny face. He looked as if he wanted to shout out a hundred different things but was too scared to do so. At any moment now, though, he might just blurt them all out in a row.

  Peoples didn’t look quite as fearsome now as he had in the daylight. In fact, he looked downright miserable, as if the failure of a few hours ago had dragged him down and he wasn’t sure how to proceed next. Smith’s sudden presence hadn’t helped him to decide the best course of action, it would appear.

  The only reason Peoples hadn’t made his move yet was because Smith had left his gun holstered, with the AR-10 still slung over his back, along with his pack. He could have shown himself with a weapon in his hand, but what would have been the fun of that?

  Smith didn’t like killing, but sometimes he couldn’t help himself and a little enjoyment would slip through, especially when the other guy deserved it. And men like Peoples and his two buddies definitely had it coming.

  Of course, some people could say the same about him.

  “What the fuck are you doing he
re?” Peoples finally asked, breaking the silence.

  “Where are your friends?” Smith asked.

  “My friends?”

  “The one that looks like an accountant, and the tall and lanky one.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “They must have run off. Did you see them out there?” Then, maybe because he thought he could talk his way out of this, “Those guys are bad news. I told them to get lost. There’s no telling what kind of trouble they’d get into. You didn’t see them out there?”

  “Oh, I saw them,” Smith said.

  “So why’d you ask about them?”

  “Just wanted to know if you knew.”

  “So what happened?”

  “I killed them.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “They were trying to kill me. It was self-defense.”

  “Well, if it was self-defense…”

  Peoples had resumed poking at the fire with his machete, though he wasn’t looking at what he was doing. His eyes were glued on Smith.

  Like most people in the world, before or after The Purge, Peoples was right-handed. Smith knew that by the way he clutched his long knife. And, of course, his holstered Glock was on his right hip and so was the AR leaning about a foot away. To get to either weapon, he would need to drop the machete first.

  “So what do you want?” Peoples asked.

  “I came to see if the woman and her boy like being in your company,” Smith said.

  “She does.”

  “Why don’t we let her answer that?”

  “Not necessary. She does. You know what they were eating when I found them? I saved their lives.”

  “Did you, now?”

  “It’s harsh out there. A woman and a boy alone…” Peoples shrugged. “I don’t know how long they would have lasted if I hadn’t come along.”

  “You must be one of those Good Samaritans I’ve heard about.”

  “You can call me whatever you want.”

  “Why don’t I ask them anyway?” Smith said. He looked over at the woman. “Ma’am? You like being in this guy’s company?”

  The woman opened her mouth to answer, but Peoples beat her to it. “She likes it fine. This is none of your business, remember?”

  “It wasn’t, until tonight,” Smith said. He looked back at the woman. “Ma’am? You want to stay with this guy, or leave with me?”

  “I said, she’s fine where she is,” Peoples said.

  Smith sighed and turned back to the big man. “I’m only going to say this once: Interrupt her one more time, and I’ll shoot you where you sit. You understand me?”

  Peoples narrowed his eyes back at him across the fire. The flames had gotten bigger and hotter because Peoples kept shoveling more tinder into them. “This is none of your business. You need to leave. Now.”

  He’d said the now with great authority, as if he was used to giving orders.

  And maybe he was, just not to someone like Smith. Which was to say, someone who didn’t give a flying goddamn what he wanted.

  “One more time,” Smith said to Peoples. Then, turning to the woman, “Ma’am—”

  Peoples went for his rifle.

  That was a mistake, because in order to reach for it he had to drop the machete, twist around at the waist, and reach for the AR. He could have saved at least a full second by going for his holstered Glock instead.

  As it stood, Peoples got both hands on the rifle before Smith, in no hurry, drew his SIG and shot the man in the left ear.

  Peoples howled and let go of the AR, then tumbled backward and onto the ground on his back. Smith hadn’t expected that reaction, but he had to admit, it was pretty damn funny.

  The only reason Smith hadn’t killed Peoples outright was because of the woman. She had suffered. He didn’t know how much, but it was enough. He had seen the thousand-yard stare on her too many times to mistake it for anything else. And because of that, Smith felt that Peoples needed to suffer a little bit before he could, finally, give up the ghost.

  “This is what happens when you keep interrupting,” Smith said as he walked over.

  The big man had drawn and was trying to raise his Glock even while he was still on his back. But in order to see Smith and shoot him, the man had to raise himself to line up a shot first. He was doing exactly that when Smith shot him again, this time in the right cheek. The bullet tore a healthy chunk of Peoples’s skin, muscle, and bone with it.

  Peoples screamed again, but he was still trying to aim and get a shot off. Smith shot him a third time, this one in the right hand. Two of Peoples’s fingers flicked through the night air and landed somewhere behind him, while the gun dropped to the ground.

  The big man rolled over and onto his knees. He grabbed at his mutilated right hand, even while blood dripped from his cheek and what was left of his left ear. All of a sudden he didn’t seem like such a tough guy anymore.

  Smith holstered his SIG. “You shouldn’t have come back for me. I might have let you go if you hadn’t. But I guess we’ll never know for sure now, will we?”

  Peoples looked up from his mangled fingers at Smith. “You fucker!”

  “Relax. You still have eight perfectly good fingers left.”

  “You fucker!” Peoples shouted again.

  Smith had another witty comeback ready (something along the lines of “This conversation is boring me.”), but before he could say it, the woman stood up and ran over. Smith glanced in her direction, was about to yell at her to stop, when she picked up Peoples’s rifle and pointed it at its owner.

  Peoples’s eyes seemed to bulge against their sockets as he raised his hands toward her. “Wait. Don’t. Don’t!”

  But the woman didn’t wait, and she apparently knew her way around a rifle, because Smith heard the click! as the woman changed the fire selector on the weapon before she pulled the trigger.

  Peoples’s body danced against the firelight as thirty bullets poured into him.

  Smith thought it was a waste of perfectly good bullets, but he wasn’t about to tell the woman that. He had a feeling she wasn’t in any mood to listen anyway.

  Four

  Smith wasn’t looking for an instant family. If he were, he wouldn’t have gotten rid of Margo the first chance he got. Though, of course, he didn’t look at the situation with Margo as having “gotten rid” of her. More like he’d given her a better life since just about anything was better than wandering around the countryside the way he was doing. Aimless walking, with nothing to call home and no destination in mind, wasn’t any kind of life for a kid.

  It was the perfect life for a guy like him, though.

  So when he started walking and the mother and son decided to follow him, he was a little surprised. They stopped when he stopped and turned around, keeping about ten yards between them and him as if they didn’t quite trust him to get too close. Which, he guessed, he didn’t blame them after everything they had been through.

  “You don’t have to follow me,” Smith said.

  “What?” the woman said.

  “You don’t have to follow me. You can go wherever you want. You’re free.”

  “Free?” she said, as if she couldn’t comprehend the meaning of the word.

  “Go wherever you want. Both of you.”

  She stared at him, then at the boy. Then back at him.

  The boy looked almost as confused as she was.

  “You understand what I’m telling you?” he asked.

  “We don’t know where to go,” she said.

  “Where were you going when they found you?”

  Just in case she didn’t understand the question, he nodded toward Peoples’s bloodied form, still on the ground next to the log. Smith could hardly tell what the man looked like because the woman had put all of the AR’s magazine into his face. Smith was fully prepared to tackle her and take the weapon from her if she tried to reload it, fearing she might turn it on him, but she had just dropp
ed it like she didn’t know what it was doing in her hands in the first place.

  She looked back at Peoples and lingered on his body for a moment. Maybe she hadn’t realized what she’d done until now, though Smith didn’t think so when she turned back to him and he didn’t see anything on her face that could even remotely be mistaken for regret.

  Smith looked from her to the kid. He clung to his mother, both arms around hers, while peering back at Smith. The boy wasn’t very big and barely went up to her waist. He had short blond hair like his mother, and Smith didn’t have to look very hard to see all the other resemblances. The kid was clearly born after The Purge, which meant this was the only world he knew. Smith wasn’t sure if he should feel sorry for the boy or not. After all, Smith knew all the things they’d lost when the creatures tried to end humanity, but this boy would never feel those losses.

  “We were in a group,” the woman said. “They…found us a week ago. They killed everyone except us. They killed Aaron’s father.”

  Aaron, Smith guessed, was the boy.

  “Where were you headed?” Smith asked.

  “Nowhere,” she said.

  “Nowhere?”

  She shook her head. “We weren’t going anywhere. We were just moving around. It’s easier that way.”

  He was going to ask “Easier how?” but didn’t. Smith knew what she meant, because he was doing exactly the same thing. He kept moving around because it was easier. Once you put down roots, you had to commit to the place, to the people. The last time Smith did that was with Black Tide, and that hadn’t turned out very well.

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  “Me?”

  She nodded.

  “North,” he said.

  “What’s north?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I’m going up there. To find out.”

  He wasn’t sure if she understood him, because she didn’t respond right away. It took a few seconds before she said, “Then we’re going north, too.”

  “I’m not looking for companions.”