Remains (After The Purge: Vendetta, Book 3)

by Sam Sisavath

  There was no light, just streams of moonlight invading the empty spaces through a variety of openings that dotted the roof and random points along the walls. This building hadn’t been kept in very good condition, though the rafters were strong enough to hold him not just in place but slightly off the ground on his tiptoes.

  Where am I?

  He couldn’t pick out anything else of note around him, but the many patches of shadows probably had a lot to do with that. Shadows, and partial darkness, because it was still night outside. And night meant creatures…

  …like all those ghouls from the RV.

  Wait. How long ago was that?

  He couldn’t detect the warm and welcoming encroachment of morning, which meant sunup was still a long way off. In the years since The Purge, and since he took up the kukri and became a slayer alongside the Old Man, Wash had developed a heightened sense of alertness when it came to daylight. And right now, all his abilities were telling him it was still very much night out there.

  So where were the ghouls that had assaulted the Winnebago? Had they dragged him here? Where exactly was “here?” And what happened to Roy and June, because he couldn’t see them. Couldn’t even find any traces of them.

  Why am I still alive?

  He had no answers for that. Ghouls didn’t leave people alive. At least, not the black-eyed ones. They were insatiable when it came to blood and didn’t understand the concept of moderation. They suckled their victims until they were dead, literally bleeding them dry. And after they had nothing left…

  So why was he still alive? How had he gotten out of the RV?

  The RV…

  He remembered the eyes of the man in the trench coat, looking back at him from behind the gas mask. He hadn’t seen that in a long time—men in gas masks. There was a time, after The Purge, when human collaborators would wear them to identify themselves to the creatures. It was an unholy alliance that had come to an end after The Walk Out. Wash had encountered some of those traitors more than once since, and it had always ended badly.

  It hadn’t occurred to him at the time (he was way too busy trying to stay alive), but now it was obvious. The man in the coat had used the pickaxe to break in the bedroom door so the ghouls could enter. He was probably also responsible for the crowbar that had opened up the Winnebago. Ghouls didn’t use tools, but men still did.

  Collaborators still did…

  Putting together the puzzle brought some clarity to the muddled mess, but it did nothing to relieve him of the pain pulsating from his outstretched arms. There was no doubt whoever had strung him up had made sure his feet didn’t touch the ground on purpose. The more to inflict unnecessary pain onto him, no doubt. As if the rawhide burning its way through the skin along his wrists wasn’t enough.

  Collaborator sonofabitch.

  Or was that sonofabitches? He’d only seen one man back at the RV, but that didn’t mean there was just one of them. From his experience, collaborators usually worked in groups. And yet, he’d only seen one—

  What was that?

  Something flitting across one of the larger holes along the wall to his right. Wash spun in that direction, the rope cutting into his wrists as punishment for the sudden movement. He gritted his teeth through it and squinted his eyes, watching as whatever was out there vanished beyond the small opening.

  Wash twisted to his left, but there was nothing on that side. Or, at least, nothing that he could see, because he had no delusions there was nothing outside the building right now. He didn’t need his olfactory senses to know that. He could feel it around him, in the heaviness of the stale air that invaded his lungs every time he took a breath.

  Footsteps, approaching.

  Boots. Heavy boots. They filled in the silence between his haggard breathing and the scratching of the rope against the rafters.

  Wash spun around again as one of the barn’s two front doors opened, revealing a tall, silhouetted form against a moonlit background. The figure stepped inside, closing the door behind him. Wash knew it was a man immediately, even if he couldn’t pick out the face from the heavy shadows. The height, the broad shoulders, and the way the tail of the trench coat flapped behind him as he turned around to close the door.

  The trench coat…

  The figure walked over, holding something in his hands. Wash’s kukri, still in its sheath. Wash hadn’t realized he had been disarmed, but of course he was. When he glanced down to check, he saw that he wasn’t even wearing his utility belt with the gun holster and pouches. They had taken his boots (he still didn’t know the reason for that), along with anything else he could use to fight back. They hadn’t bothered with his watch, though. He guessed he should be grateful for that.

  The man strode with purpose and confidence toward him. Wash didn’t recognize the face, but the clothes were familiar. The coat, the boots, and those very unfriendly blue eyes. It was the same man from the RV. The human that had opened the door for the ghouls.

  The collaborator.

  “You,” Wash said.

  The man nodded. “Me.”

  “Who are you? Where am I? Why aren’t I dead?”

  “Which question would you like me to answer first?”

  “Take your pick.”

  “Keith.”

  “Is that your name?”

  “What else would it be?”

  “Just making sure.”

  The other man smirked. “As for the other two questions, you’ll find out soon enough.”

  “That means he’s not going to kill you tonight,” the Old Man said.

  Yeah, I figured that one out on my own, old timer.

  “Just checking.”

  Wash said, “You were working with them. The ghouls. You’re a collaborator.”

  “You can call me that, if you want,” the man said.

  “Aren’t you?”

  “Maybe. It just never occurred to me to call myself that.”

  The man stopped about five feet in front of Wash, as if he expected Wash to try something like—what? Kick at him with his shoeless feet? Wash couldn’t have done that even if he wanted to. The effort just to swing in any direction would have taken too much out of him. Certainly more than he had right now. Besides, just the thought of it made his bones ache even further.

  “Why am I still alive?” Wash asked.

  “Like I said: You’ll find that out soon,” Keith said. “I wouldn’t be in such a hurry if I were you.”

  “If you’re not here to chat or to let me down, then why are you here?”

  “Make sure you’re still breathing. And it looks like you are.”

  They were close enough now that Wash didn’t need extra lights to see what the man looked like. He was in his late thirties, with short black hair and gaunt cheeks. A big, nasty scar ran across his forehead, shifting shapes every time Keith raised his eyebrows even slightly. He had a good four to five inches on Wash, and despite the thick clothes to protect him from the cold night, had a wrestler’s build.

  Wash tried to imagine all the scenarios where he could take Keith in a one-on-one fight and came up empty.

  “That’s what guns are for,” the Old Man said. “Or knives. Either/or.”

  I might have neither in a fight.

  “Then I guess you better be real careful around him.”

  Thanks for the advice.

  “This is unique,” Keith was saying as he pulled the kukri out of its sheath. The blade was still coated in a thin layer of milky ghoul blood. “What do you call it?”

  “A kukri,” Wash said.

  “Good name. Sounds exotic. You made it yourself?”

  “Someone made it for me.”

  “Who?”

  “I’ll tell you as soon as you tell me why I’m still alive.”

  Keith put the knife away, then shoved the sheath into his belt behind his back. “You already know the answer to that, but you keep asking it anyway. Why is that?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.�
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  “Don’t you?”

  “No.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “If I already know the answer, then it can’t hurt to tell me.”

  Keith narrowed his eyes at him. “I can’t tell if you’re playing games with me, kid.”

  Wash could have taken offense to being called kid, except the guy wasn’t entirely wrong. There had to be at least ten years between them, and Keith clearly had a lifetime’s worth of experience if all the wrinkles on his face were any indication. In a lot of ways, Wash’s captor reminded him of the Old Man. Except, of course, the Old Man would never be caught dead working with the ghouls.

  “You got that goddamn right,” the Old Man said.

  “I’m not playing with you,” Wash said to Keith. “Look at me. You think I’m in any position to be playing games with you? I don’t know what you want with me. Or why you kept me alive.” Then, “Where are they?”

  “Who?” Keith said.

  “The kids. Roy and June.”

  Keith shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “What the hell do you mean, you don’t know? They were in the RV with me.”

  “I mean, I don’t know what happened to them.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “My orders were to bring you here. The kids…” He shook his head, and there was something on his face that almost looked like… Regret? Was that regret on Keith’s face? “I don’t know what happened to them.”

  Wash narrowed his eyes back at Keith. “You fucker. They were just kids.”

  “I saw them,” Keith said. “I know what they were.”

  “You fucker,” Wash spat, and strained against the rope.

  Not that he got very far, and Keith knew he wouldn’t because he didn’t move a single muscle. There might have been something that could possibly—maybe—pass for regret on Keith’s face earlier, but the eyes that stared back at Wash now did nothing to soften the hatred Wash was feeling for the man.

  Especially when it came to June. Little June, with her round, cherubic face. She was the only reason he was still alive. She’d gotten Roy not to pull the trigger when he had the chance. Even if Roy’s gun had been empty, there was nothing to stop him from using Wash’s own weapons on him. Instead, they had saved his life and pulled him into the RV. That was probably June’s idea, too.

  I’m sorry, kid. I’m so sorry.

  The taller man continued staring at Wash, as if trying to read him.

  Finally, he said, “To answer your question, you’re in Jasper.”

  “Jasper?” Wash said.

  He knew that name.

  Right. Jasper.

  He remembered Roy telling him about the place:

  “They weren’t exactly looking to get noticed, if you know what I mean… It seemed like a nice place. Had nice people.”

  “Had nice people,” Roy had said. Wash wondered what the teenager would think now about Jasper and its citizenry.

  “Did you know them?” Wash asked.

  “Who?” Keith said.

  “Roy and June. The two kids.”

  Keith shook his head. “No.”

  “They were here before. In Jasper.”

  “Maybe they were, but I didn’t see them. But, I’ve been a little busy lately,” Keith said before he turned and began walking away.

  “Hey!” Wash called after him.

  “Hang tight,” Keith said without stopping. “Morning will come soon enough. And then we’ll be out of each other’s hairs.”

  “Come back here,” Wash said, even though he didn’t expect Keith to obey. “Do you hear me? Come back here, you fucker! I’m going to rip your fucking heart out!”

  Keith ignored him and stepped outside, the door clicking closed behind him. Wash heard what sounded like chains jangling, then silence.

  He sighed and sagged against the rope. The strain against his wrists introduced more pain, but Wash was too tired and annoyed and pissed off to acknowledge it.

  “Time to get control of yourself, kid,” the Old Man said. “You can’t rip anyone’s heart out if you don’t make it out of here.”

  Those kids are dead, old timer.

  “I know that. And you know that. But you can’t do anything about it now.”

  He killed them by letting those ghouls in.

  “I know, kid. I know. But there’s nothing you can do about that now. Get control of yourself. Concentrate. Concentrate!”

  Wash slowed down his breathing, then pushed it out slowly.

  Then inhaled again…

  “Now. You remember what he said?” the Old Man asked. “About bringing you here?”

  Yes.

  “What did he say?”

  “He said, ‘My orders were to bring you here,’” Wash said out loud, just under his breath.

  “Yup. That’s what he said, all right,” the Old Man said. “The question is: Whose orders was he following?”

  Wash didn’t answer the Old Man. Which was to say, he didn’t answer his own thoughts.

  “I think we both know the answer to that one, don’t we?” the Old Man asked.

  Wash remained quiet.

  “Don’t we, kid?”

  “Yeah,” Wash said again, out loud. “Yeah…”

  Thirteen

  Keith didn’t return all night, and when morning sunlight finally poured into the barn from the rafters above and over Wash’s face, he opened his eyes just in time to see a thin figure slipping through one of the twin doors in front of him.

  A woman this time, moving with purpose. The hem of her white dress brushed the filthy floor behind her, not that she seemed to notice as she walked across the building toward him. Wash wasn’t sure if he was disappointed or not that it wasn’t Keith. He had a lot more questions for the man and a few more choice four-letter words.

  He smelled blood, but it wasn’t coming from the woman. It was in the air, wafting around his head. Sunlight had stripped the tainted ghoul blood from his face, along with the parts of his exposed body and clothes that they could touch, leaving behind a strong, acidic odor that was impossible to ignore. He welcomed it if it meant not having the disgusting things clinging to his skin. His cheeks tingled, as did his forehead and chin.

  He breathed through his nostrils again—a nice change of pace after last night—and focused on the woman as she approached. She had left one of the twin doors open behind her, not that it did Wash any good. There was too much bright sunlight, and all he could make out was a wall of light beyond the rectangular opening.

  The same rawhide rope that dangled him from the rafters continued to bite into his wrists, but by now Wash had gotten used to the sensation. He was pretty sure he was bleeding up there, the blood—his blood, this time—trailing down his outstretched arms underneath his jacket sleeves. He couldn’t feel it, and maybe that was a good thing.

  Thanks to the growing warmth in the room, his uncovered feet weren’t freezing like they were last night. For some reason—maybe because the rope was sagging a bit from his heavy weight—it wasn’t just his toes touching the hay-covered floor now. The soles of both feet were flat again, which was a relief after having to “stand” on his tiptoes all night. At least, the hours when he was conscious, anyway.

  All in all, the situation had gotten brighter—literally and figuratively—this morning. Though every inch of him was aching, the pain was bearable. Not that he wouldn’t give anything to get out of this mess, but like the Old Man used to say, just because he wished for something, it didn’t make it automatically true.

  Wash concentrated on the woman. Late twenties, short blonde hair, and tall. She was skinny, but not too thin. She was carrying a beat-up metal pail in one hand and a rag that was almost as dirty as her dress in the other. Water sloshed around inside the small container, and Wash licked his lips, though of course he wasn’t going to drink that. He had a hunch that the rag had been in that bucket once or twice before the woman carrying them arrived at the barn.

  “Breakfast time
?” Wash asked.

  She didn’t answer. She also wasn’t nearly as frail as her lanky frame would suggest, and she was easily carrying the bucket in her hand. She didn’t lose a single drop as she put it down in front of Wash, then dipped the cloth inside it before wringing the liquid out.

  Yup, I’m definitely not drinking that.

  Wash licked his lips again anyway at the sight of water. It had only been a day or so (Less? More?) since the last time he’d tasted anything liquid, but he swore it was years. There were little furry creatures moving around inside his mouth, tickling at his throat. He did his best to fight back the thirst, to not let it show on his face, but it was probably a lost cause.

  His visitor didn’t say anything as she began wiping down his face with the rag. The contact with cold water made him wince slightly, but he quickly got over it. She cleaned him from forehead to chin, then moved around his dangling body to get at the nape of his neck.

  “Are we going somewhere?” Wash asked as the woman worked. “I feel like I’m being cleaned for something special.”

  She remained quiet as she dipped the rag back into the pail and wrung out the blood and grime before returning to work on his hands. She pulled up his jacket sleeves to get at his arms.

  “Keith still around?” Wash asked. When mentioning Keith’s name didn’t elicit a response, he said, “I know, he’s busy, right? Apparently Keith is busy a lot these days.”

  He was hoping Keith’s name would elicit a response, but he only got back silence. Even as the woman worked, Wash was still thinking about what Keith had said last night.

  “My orders were to bring you here,” the man had said. Then he’d added, “Morning will come soon enough. And then we’ll be out of each other’s hairs.”

  Morning was here, but Keith wasn’t. What did that mean?

  “Maybe she knows,” the Old Man said.

  Maybe, Wash thought, and said to the woman, “What’s your name?”