The second was that the woman’s weapon was aimed squarely at Blake, who stood about a full meter in front of Smith. If she pulled the trigger, Blake was dead. And depending on what kind of shell that shotgun was loaded with, some of the buckshot that ended Blake’s life would also find its way to Smith. He’d be hurt, but alive, since he wouldn’t take the full brunt of the shell’s load. But if the shotgun was loaded with slug rounds, then he’d be spared the collateral damage.
Blake, on the other hand…
Either way, Blake was in trouble.
He was too, potentially, but not nearly as much even in a worst-case scenario. After all, he was pretty sure he could kill the woman before she could rack and fire her weapon a second time.
And that was what he was going to have to do. Kill a woman.
Could he do that? Yes. He’d done it before. He hadn’t liked doing it. In fact, it’d made him a little sick when he found out she was a woman, but he’d done it because he had to. Just like he was going to have to here, unless there was a way out of this.
And right now, Smith didn’t see any other way.
“Where is he?” the woman said. “Where’s Peter?”
Peter? Smith thought. Who’s Peter?
Then, as the clues slid into place…
Tall and Gangly. That has to be Peter.
Not that the dead man’s identity mattered anymore. He may or may not have been Peter, but the results were the same: Peter was nowhere to be found, and this woman with a shotgun pointed squarely at Blake was looking for him.
The woman stood partially in shadows provided by the back hallway opening, but Smith was still able to make out her long, red hair. It was spilled haphazardly over her shoulders, another sign that she’d been rustled out of bed. Unlike Tall and Gangly, she hadn’t gotten properly dressed, but she’d gotten properly armed, which was what Smith was concentrating on at the moment.
It was all he was concentrating on at the moment.
They were inside a living room that had been converted and made bigger. The entire first floor looked as if it had been gutted, the walls torn down, and all that remained was one large meeting area. It was too dark inside for Smith to make out everything clearly, but there was a kitchen to his right, many of its appliances exposed by shafts of light coming from the spotlights outside. A fireplace to his left, also partially illuminated, along with chairs and tables and possibly a sofa or two.
But it was the very obvious and very dangerous woman in front of Blake that demanded every ounce of Smith’s focus at the moment.
You’re going to have to kill a woman.
Goddammit.
Unless, of course, they could talk their way out of this.
“Peter?” Blake was saying. She had her hands raised, her back to Smith. He couldn’t see her face, so he couldn’t tell how scared she was right now. He looked for signs she was shaking, but he couldn’t find any. “Who’s Peter?”
“Where is he?” the woman said. There was an edge to her voice. “What did you do to him?”
“Nothing,” Blake said.
“Stop lying!”
“I don’t know who Peter is.”
“He went outside to see what the commotion was.”
“I still don’t know who Peter is.”
That was a lie, obviously. Like Smith, Blake would have no doubt already put two and two together, and reasoned that the dead man Smith had shot was this Peter the woman was looking for. And yet, Blake’s voice remained incredibly calm as she answered, almost as if she believed what she was saying. He still couldn’t detect any shaking in Blake’s posture, but damn if she wasn’t doing an amazing job staying calm as she answered the very agitated woman.
The very agitated woman with a shotgun. A loaded shotgun, no doubt. What were the chances it wasn’t? And could he really afford to entertain such thoughts?
No. No, he couldn’t.
“Where is he?” the woman insisted.
“Who?” Blake said.
“Peter! What did you do to Peter!”
“Nothing. I didn’t do anything to him.”
Well, that wasn’t entirely a lie. Blake hadn’t done anything to Tall and Gangly. Smith had. He’d shot the man dead.
The woman took a couple of steps forward, exposing more of herself. The one-piece nightgown was slightly faded, well worn. She was in her fifties, with heavy crow’s feet along the corners of her eyes, and wearing slippers, of all things. She didn’t look as if she had any spare shells for the shotgun on her, not that she needed them. The weapon—it looked like a Remington 870 to Smith—was steady in her hands. She had the forefinger of her right hand in the trigger guard, on the trigger itself, while her left hefted the heavy weapon underneath the forend, ready to rack the shotgun to reload it.
She knows how to use that thing. That’s not good.
“Look, this is all a big misunderstanding,” Blake was saying.
“Shut up,” the woman said.
“Let’s talk—”
“I said, shut up!” Then, her dark blue eyes snapped from Blake to Smith, who was standing behind her: “You. Step out from behind her and to the side so I can see you.”
Smith didn’t move.
.3 seconds.
He needed .3 seconds.
Maybe less than that, if he really tried his damnedest.
And right now, that was what he was going to have to do.
“You hear me?” the woman said. She sounded even more annoyed than before. “I said, get out from behind her, so I can see you.”
“Let’s talk this over,” Blake said. “This is just a misunderstanding. We can talk this out.”
“Shut up! Where’s Peter?”
“I don’t know.”
One step to the right. Draw, then fire.
Or maybe draw while stepping to the right.
Unless, of course, Blake could talk their way out of this. Smith didn’t have too much confidence in that, though. The woman looked determined to find out what had happened to Peter, and all she’d have to do to uncover the truth was look outside and see Tall and Gangly lying dead out there.
…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 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. Cell 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 laugh
ed. “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.
After The Purge, AKA John Smith Box Set | Books 1-3 Page 37
