Requiem (After The Purge, Book 1)

by Sam Sisavath

  “Who are they?” he whispered, surprised he managed to get out all three words without wincing with the effort.

  Ana didn’t need him to elaborate on who “they” were. She shook her head. “I don’t know. I haven’t even seen their faces. They were wearing those things…”

  “Ghillie suits.”

  “Is that what they’re called?” Then, not waiting for him to confirm, “They had their faces painted, too. Kind of scary, actually. Like swamp monsters come to life. Except for the guns, of course.”

  Wash wanted to say, “I don’t think anything scares you easily, lady,” but decided his strength was better used parting his lips for another spoonful.

  “How many?” he asked.

  “Four. All men.” She pursed her lips. “They were going to kill you, Wash. They were going to finish you on that road.”

  “They didn’t…because of you.”

  “I cried and clung to you, and generally made a real pain in the ass of myself until they agreed to let me bandage you up. After that, I wouldn’t leave your side. I guess they thought I was worth putting up with. Either that, or they have plans for the both of us.” She paused again, maybe replaying the events of the day over in her head. “They didn’t say anything on the way here, to me or to each other. They must have been together for a while, the way they were communicating with just looks.” She smiled down at him. “You’re very lucky. I wasn’t sure they’d buckle to my demands.”

  “You took a risk…”

  “I played the odds.”

  “Still risky…”

  “Life’s a risk these days, Wash. You know that. It doesn’t matter who you are or where you live, or how safe you think you are. The risk is always there. It’s always real. Only a fool thinks the world is safe again.”

  Wash stared at her, at the hardness on her face, the maturity in eyes that told him she’d been through more than he’d ever know. It was the very first time he’d glimpsed the real her, and he was almost certain she had let it slip by accident.

  And then it was gone, replaced by curiosity pointed squarely at him. “But I’m still trying to figure you out, Wash.”

  Me? You’re trying to figure me out? Lady, I still don’t know who you really are!

  But the only thing that came out of his mouth was, “Why?”

  “I’ve met slayers before, but you’re…different. I expected to see scars on you. I expected bite marks all over you. But you don’t have them. Your body is clean.” She tilted her head slightly. “How is that possible?”

  “We’re not made in a factory…”

  “Yeah, but I haven’t just met slayers before, Wash. I’ve sewn a couple of them back to life. I’ve seen their scars up close. You don’t have any. You’re the first slayer I’ve met who hasn’t been fed on. Ever, from the looks of it.”

  “Don’t ever let them know you’re different,” the Old Man once told him. “This isn’t the kind of business where being different is a good thing, kid.”

  Different meant not having the scars of The Purge. For a slayer, that was teeth marks, eternal reminders of what they had gone through. It had been hell on earth for many of them—it had been, for the Old Man. Every slayer Wash had met since had the markings over their bodies—some could hide them with large shirt collars and long-sleeved shirts, but not everyone had that choice. For Wash, it had been a matter of never talking about it, never bringing up the topic. Most slayers weren’t nosy anyway, and those who were, you gave wide berths to.

  “Who are you, Mr. Wash?” Ana asked, her eyes still trained intently on him.

  “My things,” he said, hoping to change the topic. “They took them?”

  “They’re gone. Your guns, that weird-looking knife of yours, even our horses. But we can get them back. Later, when you’re better.”

  If I survive the rest of the day, you mean.

  “What do they want?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. Marla doesn’t know, either. She’s been down here for two weeks and all they’ve done is feed her.” Ana glanced up (at Marla, Wash guessed), before looking back down at him. “She wasn’t taken alone. She was traveling with a friend, Kenny, but they took him a week ago. She hasn’t heard from him since.”

  “Did they…?” he asked, and let the rest trail off.

  Ana shook her head. “Not yet. And I’m not sure they will.”

  He gave her a confused look and could tell Ana shared it. Not just that, but she had probably been thinking about it for even longer than him, because she had been awake this entire time, and it wasn’t the kind of question that could be ignored.

  “They’re…different,” Ana said. “They weren’t staring at me. It was as if they couldn’t care less who I am. What I am. You understand?”

  He nodded. He understood, even if he didn’t, truly.

  He said instead, “Be careful, Ana. Be really careful, until we find out what they want.”

  “Yeah, I know. Trust me, Wash, I know. I’ll deal with it when the time comes. You need to just concentrate on not dying on me.”

  He made an effort to nod and thought it was mostly successful.

  After another spoon of tasteless oat and wheat went down just as difficult as the last few times, he said, “Are you sure there’s just four of them?”

  “So far.” She glanced up toward the ceiling. “They don’t make a lot of noises up there. I think they’ve been at this for a while. They’ve probably gotten really good at it by now.”

  Wash found the look on her face, even with most of it partially hidden by shadows, and the clear sound of her voice fascinating. She wasn’t scared at all. He couldn’t detect anything that even resembled fear coming from any part of her. It had been the same back in the woods outside of Harrisonville, and again on the dirt road this morning when he’d almost shot her.

  Who are you?

  Ana looked back at him. “Last one,” she said, holding the spoon up. “Marla said they give her three meals a day. But unfortunately, they’re all the same thing.”

  “Did you eat?”

  “I had a big breakfast before I caught up to you on the road. Besides, you need it a lot more than me right now. I don’t have to keep reminding you, but you’re no good to me dead, Wash.”

  I’m no good to me dead, either, he thought as he forced down the last of the gruel. It was just as disgusting as the first spoonful.

  “You feeling better?” she asked.

  “Better,” he lied. His stomach was still a big empty canyon waiting to be filled. He was so tired and weak (Can’t even turn my head, for God’s sake) he could have kept eating for days and not been full.

  “Liar,” she said.

  And, of course, she can read me like a book, too.

  Wash wanted to believe that was because he was too tired to put up a convincing front, but maybe she really was just that good.

  “We’ll get out of this,” Ana said. “But I’m going to need your help to do that.” She glanced away, probably at Marla, before saying to him in a quiet, almost conspiratorial voice, “Marla may not be up to it, I don’t know. I just know that if we’re going to survive this, I’m going to need you.”

  “Be careful,” he whispered.

  She smiled at him. “Are you worried about me?”

  “Yes…”

  “This morning you almost shot me.”

  “You tried to steal my horse.”

  “Not true. If I’d wanted to steal your horse, I would have kept following you and waited for you to do something dumb like wander off, and then taken both of your horses.”

  He narrowed his eyes at her but didn’t doubt her for one second.

  Ana leaned down even further and whispered into his ear. “Can you keep a secret?”

  Do I have any choice?

  She sat back and glanced around briefly before her right hand dipped out of frame. It returned a few seconds later, her fingers pinching the black handle of a knife. It wasn’t the same one that she’d used on th
e ghoul last night. This one was smaller, thinner, and she could have been hiding it anywhere.

  Just as quickly as she revealed the blade to him, it vanished a heartbeat later.

  He mouthed the word (because he was too scared of being overheard), “How?”

  “That’s the problem with carrying around too many weapons; sometimes you lose one and don’t realize it until much later,” Ana whispered. “He’s already come down here and searched me twice looking for it. I doubt he’ll do it a third time. He probably thinks he lost it on the way back here earlier, maybe even when he was helping to put you on the horse. Don’t tell him, but that’s when I took it.”

  Ana smiled and put a finger to her lips.

  Wash grinned up at her, not sure if he was impressed with Ana or scared shitless of what she was capable of.

  Oh, who are you kidding. It’s definitely a little of both…

  …maybe even slightly more of the latter…

  Seven

  He drifted off, though he didn’t know when or how, but at least it wasn’t because he had lost consciousness like the last two times. The slop he’d forced down his stomach had given him some strength back, but it hadn’t been enough to keep him awake. It was for the best anyway, since being awake only meant enduring unnecessary pain.

  When he opened his eyes a third time, he expected to hear the tick-tick-tick-tick coming from his left wrist, the watch having miraculously returned somehow, but it was instead to the sound of a gunshot—the bang! so loud that it seemed to shake the walls, ceiling, and floor underneath him simultaneously.

  Gunshot! his mind screamed as he sat up—and instantly grimaced as every inch of him burst with regret.

  Too fast. Moved too fast!

  He pushed himself up the rest of the way, both palms feeling damp from…dirt? Yes, dirt. He was in a dirt basement, according to Ana. It was underneath and behind him as he forced his way into a sitting position, clenching his teeth the entire time to keep from crying out.

  Stop moving, you idiot. Stop moving! his mind screamed, but Wash didn’t, because he couldn’t. He had definitely heard a gunshot, and that was the signal that something had gone very, very wrong if he ever heard one.

  His skull was on the verge of imploding, but he gritted through it and got his best (first) look at the basement. He was surrounded by dark packed earth, some of it still clinging to his palms and pants legs and was probably in his hair, too. He couldn’t tell the size of the room without a source of light to work with, but it had been big enough to accommodate him, Ana, and Marla all at the same time. It was also big enough that Ana had, on more than one occasion, dropped to a whisper when she didn’t want Marla to overhear.

  He looked up at the ceiling and could barely make out the wooden boards above. Wash glanced around him, but there were no signs of Ana or Marla. His exposed skin tingled against the cold, and he wrapped his arms around his chest before remembering the wounds. He gingerly pulled up the hem of his thick thermal shirt, careful not to antagonize the holes he knew were down there from the ambush. He couldn’t see much of anything except a fresh layer of gauze tape that wrapped all around his waist, its dull color standing out against the near pitch darkness. But just because he couldn’t see it didn’t mean he couldn’t feel—

  Bang!

  A second gunshot, this one also coming from above him. The first one might have originated from the same location, but he had no way of knowing that. The second shot wasn’t loud enough for Wash to think it was directly above him but near enough to be heard—

  Bang-bang!

  Two more shots, squeezed off in a row, and close enough together that they almost blended into one.

  What the hell was going on up there?

  Where were Ana and Marla?

  He remembered Ana with the knife and recalled telling her to “be careful,” and her response of “trust me.”

  Wash trusted her. He did. Not only because he didn’t have any choice, but the way she had said it, while looking at him with those green eyes—

  Bam! as what sounded like a door slammed, and it was very close.

  Someone’s coming.

  Wash tried to get up. It took three tries, and he nearly fell over each time, but he managed to keep pushing upward anyway, using the dirt wall behind him for leverage, until he was finally standing on both feet. He kept one hand on the wall at all times while willing his legs to become steady, to not keel back over...

  There. Thank God.

  Thank God…

  Now that he was (barely) up, he wasn’t sure what he was going to do next—or if he even could do anything other than stand here pressed against the wall like an idiot. His hair was matted against his forehead, thick with sweat and dirt. He was pretty sure his shirt and pants had blood on them, but he was grateful for the semidarkness that hid the stains. He’d dealt with being stabbed and shot and hurt badly before, but it was always easier when you couldn’t see the full extent of the injuries.

  “Ignorance ain’t always bliss, kid,” the Old Man would say.

  Tap-tap-tap! as someone raced across the floorboards above him, moving from left to right, and Wash tracked the hurried footsteps to a trapdoor near the center of the room. He hadn’t spotted it before because it was made of the same material as the ceiling.

  What were the chances it was Ana? Or Marla? They weren’t in the room with him, so they had to be up there. How long had it been since he fell asleep? An hour? Two? It had been getting darker when he was last awake, but he couldn’t be sure. He could have been asleep for more than a day, for all he knew. That was the problem with getting shot. Time had a habit of slipping through your fingers.

  Wash pushed off the wall, stumbling and trying pathetically not to trip on his own legs as he made a jagged line toward the trapdoor. He angled toward the back of the basement so when someone opened the door and peered down, he wouldn’t immediately be spotted. Beyond that, Wash didn’t have any other plans, which went against everything the Old Man had taught him.

  Sometimes you just have to improvise, old timer!

  He scanned the place as he moved, looking for weapons. Any weapon. Anything at all. But there was just dirt. Nothing but dirt. Where was the plate that Ana had been feeding him the gruel from earlier? Where was the plastic spoon? Where was anything at all that he could use to stab someone with? Either his night eyes were still too poor to make out anything worthwhile, or there really was nothing of value. He wasn’t sure which explanation made him feel better. Or if either could.

  The ceiling was about ten feet above him. A full story. There was nothing that looked like stairs or a ladder to access the trapdoor from down here, so the only way up was if someone already topside gave you a hand.

  A prison. This is definitely a prison.

  Clank! as a deadbolt moved on the other side of the trapdoor. Someone was definitely coming down, and they were in a hurry. He thought he could hear heavy breathing, but maybe that was just—

  Him. He was hearing himself breathing.

  Get control of yourself. Remember what the Old Man taught you!

  He watched as the square-shaped door began to move. It lifted slowly, almost grudgingly, allowing shafts of soft white light to flood into the formerly dark basement an inch at a time. Soon, Wash was able to see parts of the black dirt that made up the floor and some of the wall in front of him, but little else. He glanced around, hoping the light would yield something resembling a weapon, but there was still nothing to be found.

  I would settle for a plastic plate right about now…

  Finally, the door flipped over and landed back down with a bam! and Wash glimpsed high rafters in the background. His angle was limited by his position, at the back of the room and too far from the opening to get a good look at what was up there. He couldn’t see who had opened the door, but he could hear them moving around. The footsteps were frantic, maybe even slightly desperate—

  “Wash!” a voice called from above.

  A
na!

  He hurried forward and stood underneath the soft lights and peered up. She appeared, looking down through the hole back at him. Sweat clung to her temple, and her face was flushed, as if she’d been running.

  “Step back,” Ana said. “I’m dropping the ladder down.”

  He nodded and did as he was told. The ladder slid down through the hole and struck the dirt ground with a nice, solid thunk. The steps were painted silver, but the sides were bright red, which Wash guessed made it easier to see in the semidarkness of the basement since there wasn’t anything that looked like artificial lights down here.

  “Can you climb?” Ana asked.

  “Yeah,” he said, and hoped it was convincing.

  The first rung hurt, as did the second and third and every one after that. He clung onto the ladder and felt it quivering underneath him as if it would come undone against his shaky weight with every step he managed without falling back down to the basement’s damp floor. He forced himself up anyway, grimacing and grunting with every inch.

  Get up there or you’re going to die down here. And you can’t die down here because you have things to do. You have things to kill.

  Get up there!

  Wash thought about the Old Man and how much he owed him, and that forced him to keep moving despite everything.

  Because he did owe the Old Man too much to die down here.

  Too much to just give up now.

  Too much.

  Too much!

  Ana was there to help him up the final rung. He didn’t so much as step off the ladder as he rolled over and onto his back, and spent the next ten seconds or so trying to regain his breath, to keep his pounding heartbeat from bursting through his chest like some space parasite in one of those movies the Old Man once told him about.

  After a while, he finally noticed that he was sitting in dirt and that there were heavy shoe prints all around him, some fresher than others. It didn’t take very long for Wash to put two and two together—he, Ana, and Marla weren’t the basement’s first guests. There had been others before them. Others who were ambushed on the road, just like he and Ana had been. How many more? And where were they now?