After The Purge: Vendetta Box Set [Books 1-3]

by Sisavath, Sam

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  About Remains

  THE VENDETTA COMES FULL CIRCLE.

  He’s been hunting it for a long time now—a one-eyed, blue-eyed ghoul that took everything from him—and now Wash is about to confront his greatest threat. Whether it ends in victory or defeat, it will end.

  After her own dangerous journey on the road, Ana is more determined than ever to find Wash and finally repay him for helping to save her sister. Following through on that promise, though, might cost her everything.

  In Remains, the third and final installment in the After The Purge: Vendetta story, there is no turning back. In a desolate and unforgiving part of northern Texas, a slayer with nothing to lose and a woman with true grit will find their resilience and courage put to the ultimate test.

  Whatever happens, it ends here…

  Wash

  One

  THEN

  “How many?”

  “A dozen. Maybe more.”

  “Is that a dozen or more?”

  “A dozen. Maybe more.”

  “Be more specific. One is a dozen. That’s twelve. The other is more than twelve. Thirteen. Or fifty. See the difference?”

  “What about a baker’s dozen?”

  “Is it a baker’s dozen?”

  “Probably not. But it also ain’t fifty.”

  “So it’s definitely more than a dozen.”

  Taggert sighed. “Yeah, it’s definitely more than a dozen. Jesus Christ, old timer, why you always gotta bust my chops? This is why I hate working with you. Nag, nag, nag. It’s like being married, ’cept without all that free sex.”

  “I bust your chops because exact numbers matter, kid,” the Old Man said.

  “I ain’t your kid,” Taggert said. He pointed at Wash. “He’s your kid.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Tags,” Williams said. “Old timer here’s so old everyone could be his kid.”

  The Old Man grunted. “Keep talking that way, and I might accidentally leave you behind in a ghoul nest one of these days, Williams.”

  Williams took off his wide-brim hat and wiped it on his stained pants before reaching over and slapping Wash on the back of the shoulder. “Your Old Man’s got a good sense of humor, kid.”

  Wash nodded and thought about the last time someone other than the Old Man had called him kid. But then, compared to the other slayers standing around him now, he might as well be a kid. Taggert was in his late forties, and Williams was just a few years younger than that, though both men had the scars, the lines on their faces, and the gray in their hair to pass for much older. Slaying wasn’t exactly the kind of job that lent itself to looking young.

  The Old Man himself was already pushing fifty-five. At least, Wash thought so. They’d never really talked about the Old Man’s true age, and these days people just looked older than they really were. It was The Purge—you grew up fast, or you didn’t grow up at all. Wash had gone through the same trial by fire himself. He was still alive, which was something most people couldn’t say.

  They stood in front of the cave about half a mile or so from the town of Oakville. It wasn’t much to see—a jagged natural opening about ten feet wide and ten feet tall, give or take—on the side of a sloping hill covered in foliage. There was a stream within sight to their left, the sound of running water deceptively soothing given what they were about to do and all the things that had happened here. Getting to the spot had been easy enough; all they had to do was follow the trail of dry blood on the ground and splattered on the branches. Human blood.

  “Doesn’t look big enough for ten nightcrawlers, never mind a dozen or more,” Williams was saying as he peered into the darkness in front of them.

  “It’s probably longer than it’s big,” Taggert said, pulling his well-worn aviator shades down the bridge of his nose to get a better look. The lenses of his glasses were so scratched up that Wash wondered if he could actually see much of anything through them.

  “That’s what I tell all the ladies, but they never buy it,” Williams said.

  Taggert snickered, pushing the shades back up his nose. “It’s your face. Hard to believe anything you say once they get a good look at your ugly mug.”

  Williams chuckled again. He did that a lot. Maybe it was a coping mechanism. Different guys did different things. Wash wasn’t that familiar with Williams and Taggert, but the Old Man knew them from past jobs. They’d crossed paths more than a few times, and although Williams was just a bit too easygoing and easily amused for Wash’s liking, the Old Man seemed to trust them. That was good enough for Wash. Trust was a hard thing to come by when it came to hunting monsters.

  “After you,” Taggert said, making a sweeping motion with his hand at the Old Man. “Age before beauty.”

  The Old Man smirked and drew his machete from its sheath before taking the first couple of steps inside the cave. He kept his shotgun slung over his back, but as usual had unhooked the clasp over the holstered SIG Sauer on his right hip just in case he needed it.

  Wash drew his kukri and followed close behind, but not too close. This way, he didn’t invade the Old Man’s space. That was asking for trouble if either one of them had to pivot or move around at the spur of the moment. Wash had left his gloves behind in Oakville. Given the numbers that the other slayers were throwing out, he preferred the slightly longer-ranged ability of the machete.

  Taggert and Williams entered the cave behind Wash, the two men leaving just as much room between each other and Wash so they wouldn’t get in his way and vice versa. He was dealing with professionals, men who had done this before. Many, many times before. For all the joking outside, once they got to work—and it was all work as soon as the blades came out and the lights dimmed—it was all business now.

  It took a dozen steps into the cave before the wall of sunlight faded completely and was replaced by thick blackness. The Old Man stopped, and Wash waited for him to take out his flashlight and click it on. A halo of bright LED light washed across the jagged rocky formations jutting out of the walls and drooping along the ceiling. There was nothing unusual, until the beam landed on the dirt ground.

  Footprints. Bloody footprints. They started about two feet into the darkness and continued deep, deep into the cave.

  “Oh yeah, we’re definitely in the right place,” Taggert said from somewhere behind Wash.

  “You think?” Williams said.

  “Pretty sure.”

  “Genius, this guy.”

  The Old Man didn’t bother interjecting or shushing them. He knew, just as Wash did, that the two slayers were only trying to calm their nerves. Walking into a dark nest of ghouls wasn’t the most natural thing in the world to be doing, especially in the middle of a bright afternoon. It was a good day for a picnic, the Old Man was fond of saying, but out there, not in here.

  The Old Man glanced back at Wash and gave him a slight nod. It wasn’t much, just a quick You good? between the two of them.

  Wash nodded back. Yeah, I’m good.

  The Old Man was turning around when the first ghoul showed itself. It was a small, shriveled-up thing, barely the size of a five-year-old. It moved slowly, limited by the stumps that used to be its legs. That, Wash thought, was the only reason it was “hanging out” so close to the light. There was nothing wrong with the creature’s eyes, which widened at the sight of the Old Man, or its shrunken nostrils, which flared with anticipation.

  The pathetic wretch was reaching toward the Old Man with its trembling twig of a hand when the machete lopped off three of its extended fingers with a quick, contained swing. The dead thing slumped to the dirt floor, the silver in the blade killing it instantaneously.

  The Old Man stepped over the unmoving monstrosity. Wash followed, with Taggert and Williams coming up behind him.

  They killed more ghouls before it was over. Fifteen in all, to be precise. Only a few of the creatures were any real threat, and neither Wash nor the others had to resort to their g
uns. By the time they reached the end of the cave and found the remains of the Oakville teenagers that had gone missing, it was almost two in the afternoon.

  When it was over, Williams and Taggert bagged the bodies to show their employers that they’d done the job, and they exited back into the sunlight. They waited a few minutes at the opening, giving all the ghoul blood dripping from their clothes and exposed skin the chance to be completely stripped away by the warm sun, before heading back to town.

  All in all, it was a good day’s work.

  “You did good back there, kid,” the Old Man said. “Not that I ever had any doubts.”

  Wash smiled. “Thanks.”

  “I mean it. I’m proud of you.”

  “Stop it. You’re gonna make me blush and shit.”

  The Old Man threw the rag at him, and Wash didn’t dodge fast enough. He got a face full of dirt and sweat and old man body odor. He doubled over and feigned trying not to gag. The Old Man rolled his eyes and tossed over a warm bottle of water that Wash, this time, managed to catch. He swallowed it down in one gulp.

  The water, like the packs of dried food on the floor next to Wash’s feet, was courtesy of a grateful Oakville. They’d bathed in the stream next to the cave before returning to town, so all that was left was to dry up, put on new clothes, and eat before moving on. Taggert and Williams intended to stay overnight, but Wash and the Old Man were ready to keep going. They rarely, if ever, overstayed their welcome.

  “Makes them nervous,” the Old Man had said by way of explanation that first time he insisted they keep moving.

  “Who?” Wash had asked.

  “The people.”

  “Why would they be nervous? We just killed some ghouls for them.”

  “That’s why,” the Old Man had said.

  Wash hadn’t understood then, but it didn’t take long to grasp what the Old Man was trying to tell him. They were slayers—essentially hired killers, even if their victims were undead creatures that preyed on the local population. They were still assassins, and as grateful as most people were to see them arrive, they were just as eager—if not more so—to watch them leave.

  “Despite everything that’s happened—The Purge, The Walk Out—most people out here don’t have blood on their hands,” the Old Man had said. “It doesn’t matter what they’ve gone through; they’re still uncomfortable around violence. And that’s what we are, kid: Walking, breathing, and, at times, bleeding violence.”

  People like the ones in Oakville needed them, but they would never truly accept them. If he’d stayed for another day, he would have seen the shy glances turn to fear, curiosity morph into suspicion. Oakville would be no different, even if its citizenry had declared an impromptu celebration in their honor. Taggert and Williams had no such hesitation, and Wash and the Old Man said their good-byes to the other two slayers before heading off.

  Soon, Oakville faded into the background, and all that was around them were woods again, just the way they liked it.

  They kept Oakville’s dry meats in their packs and finished off the commercial MREs they had been carrying around since Wyoming. Wash wasn’t a big fan of creamy spinach fettuccini, but he swallowed it down anyway before tackling the beverages. The Old Man, as usual, took both of their teas while Wash got his fill of the sugary drinks. Dessert was hard crackers and almost-bad nuts. Not exactly the best sides to celebrate a job well done, but they would do.

  They never wasted food because you never knew when the next job would come around. Unfortunately for them, The Walk Out had killed too many of the creatures, and these days there seemed to be more slayers than civilians out there.

  Before night could fall completely around them, they found an intact bungalow a few miles outside of Oakville. Being on foot meant they hadn’t put as much distance between them and the town as they would have liked.

  The great room was covered in elements, twigs, and animal fecal matter, and there was a hearth that likely doubled as a cooking area for the home’s previous owners. Whoever had occupied the place before them had left a long time ago, judging by the conditions they found. There were two rooms in the back that had to be secured first, and they took one each.

  Wash eased his way into a small bedroom with a boarded window and a pallet that someone had been using as a bed, though there were no mattresses or bedding to make lying down on the hard wooden frame comfortable. There was a dark closet that Wash took a cursory glance at, just long and hard enough to know it was empty. Like the rest of the place, there were no obvious telltale signs of ghoul presence.

  They cleaned out small sections in the big room for themselves and laid down sleeping bags before Wash decided to go check if the well they’d walked past earlier was still working. It was a long shot, but it wasn’t like he had anything else better to do in the meantime.

  “Kid,” the Old Man said.

  Wash turned around and almost caught the Old Man’s metal canteen on the forehead. He snatched it out of the air just in the nick of time.

  “Fill ’er up,” the Old Man said.

  “If there’s any water, and it’s not bad,” Wash said.

  “I thought that was a given. Keep an eye out.”

  “Will do,” Wash said, and left the bungalow.

  It was already dark outside, but the sound of animals moving in the trees around the area and insects chirping in the overgrown grass kept Wash’s alarm bells from sounding. Besides, it wasn’t as if he had left the building naked. He had the kukri on his left hip and his SIG holstered on his right. The shotgun and rifle were back in the bungalow, but if he needed them to deal with some ghouls, he might as well just stop calling himself a slayer.

  Unsurprisingly, the well was dry and the wooden bucket that he pulled up using an old, mud-encrusted rope was half-filled with dirt, leaves, and bird feces. There were more of the white splatters staining the well’s surrounding wall.

  “Should have stuck around for the party,” Wash said to himself. “I bet Taggert and Williams are having fun.”

  He tossed the pail back into the well and heard it plunk! (and probably break apart) as it hit the ground below. Not that he could see anything even when he leaned over and glanced down. Everything after five feet or so was lost in the murky blackness down there.

  “Yup, should have stuck around for the party.”

  He hadn’t turned completely around before the alarm bells went off.

  What…

  The woods around him had gone deathly quiet.

  He couldn’t hear a single insect or bird, and there was nothing moving anymore.

  …just happened?

  Wash put one hand on the handle of his kukri, the other still holding the Old Man’s canteen, as he walked back to the house. He made out flickers of light between the slits along one of the home’s boarded front windows, which meant the Old Man had gotten the fireplace working to warm them for the night. Lazy trails of smoke were already drifting out of the chimney.

  He was halfway to the bungalow when he heard the scream.

  It was the Old Man.

  Shit.

  Wash dropped the canteen and ran the rest of the way, drawing the machete on the third stride.

  Shit, shit.

  There hadn’t been any more screams since the first one. And even that wasn’t really a scream. More like a shouting grunt. But it was definitely the Old Man.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  Wash didn’t bother with the door handle. He kicked the whole thing in and lunged inside.

  SHIT.

  There were ghouls on the floor. Three of them. Pruned dark skin flicking against the fireplace light, sickly bodies resting on top of pools of black blood. One had lost its head. Another, its right arm at the elbow. The third lay awkwardly on its side, thick liquid slurping out of a hole in its chest.

  Wash turned. A fourth ghoul. This one was different from the others. It was small and wearing some kind of red cloak. He might have thought it was a child if he couldn’t see its
face. It was a nightcrawler, lifeless eyes staring back at him, the small blade that the Old Man usually carried as a backup piece buried almost to the hilt in its forehead. The fabric that covered its frail body was filthy, blanketed in dirt and old blood, and the smell that wafted from its body and assaulted Wash’s senses made him want to retch.

  He stepped over the small ghoul and toward the Old Man, who sat against the wall next to the hearth. His legs were splayed out in front of him, and his machete, covered in thick black tar, lay on the floor between them. The Old Man was wrapping a rag around his left forearm, his heavily lined face slicked with sweat.

  “How many more?” Wash asked.

  “I don’t know,” the Old Man said.

  “Where did they come from?”

  “Hallway.” He nodded to his left. “I was making the fire when they got the drop on me. Guess I didn’t smell them in time. It’s all the damn smoke.” He wrinkled his nose. “Plus, the olfactory, she ain’t what she used to be, kid.”

  “You gonna be okay?”

  “I’ll be fine. Go make sure that’s all of ’em.”

  Wash hurried into the back hallway toward the two bedrooms they’d checked earlier. The first one, that the Old Man had searched, was empty. Wash made damn sure of that by searching every corner. The other, smaller one that he’d taken earlier was similarly empty, except the closet in the back was open, and Wash swore it was closed the last time he was in here.

  He moved cautiously toward it, kukri in hand.

  “Kid!” the Old Man called from the great room. “You good?”

  “I’m good!” Wash shouted back.

  “What’s taking you so long?”

  “Just finishing up. Hold your horses!”

  Wash concentrated on the closet door. It was halfway open, and as he neared, he could smell it.

  Thick, rotting garbage prodding at his nostrils, rubbing at his exposed skin.