After The Purge, AKA John Smith (Book 2): Run or Fight Read online

  The man must have either come to the same conclusions or decided it wasn’t worth the risk, because instead of trying his luck, Peoples glanced back at the highway again before returning once more to Smith. “We’re gonna head off now.”

  “You do that.”

  “Don’t follow us.”

  “Why the fuck would I follow you?”

  A shrug. “People do crazy things these days. Stupid things they regret later. Don’t do anything you’ll regret later.”

  “Turn around and keep walking.”

  “See you around, tough guy.”

  “Doubtful.”

  Another grin from Peoples. Smith couldn’t tell if that was amusement or a threat. It was probably a little of both.

  Peoples turned around and walked back to the highway. He looked over his shoulder twice—the first time after ten steps, to make sure Smith was still where he’d last spotted him, and the second time when he was halfway back to the road.

  Smith couldn’t hear what Peoples said to the Accountant and Tall and Lanky, but the two men seemed to noticeably relax afterward. The woman, on the other hand, jumped up from the hard pavement and began running toward Smith.

  Or she tried to.

  Peoples grabbed her by the hair and jerked his hand. She looked as if she had slipped on a banana peel and fell back onto the ground on her back and head. She screamed with pain, her voice cutting through the 100 yards or so to Smith as if she was doing it right next to him.

  This time, it was the boy who ran over to comfort his mother.

  The Accountant, then Peoples, shot a quick glance in Smith’s direction, as if to confirm he was still where he was supposed to be.

  He was.

  Smith watched them continue up the highway. Peoples in the lead, while the Accountant and Tall and Lanky kept the woman and her boy, huddled together—Smith wasn’t sure who was supporting who now—between them. The woman looked toward Smith a few times before Tall and Lanky noticed and pushed her in the back after saying something. She stumbled, almost fell, but by some miracle managed to remain on her feet.

  Smith watched them go.

  He hadn’t moved, and didn’t plan to. He’d been at this same spot for half a day and didn’t feel like going anywhere anytime soon. He looked toward the sunset. The big round orange ball had snuck halfway down over the hills while he wasn’t paying attention, and the world around him would soon be bathed in darkness.

  Not that Smith was afraid of the dark.

  If anything, he welcomed it, because there were way less people to get on his nerves at night.

  Two

  That went well.

  Mostly.

  He hadn’t had to kill anyone, so that was a plus.

  He didn’t feel like moving, so he didn’t. By the time the trio and their two victims had vanished up the highway, leaving behind no trace that they were ever there, he was already getting ready for nightfall.

  Years ago, when The Purge swept across the country, sleeping on the ground out in the open would have been a death wish. These days, with The Walk Out having thinned out the number of ghouls, the chances of Smith encountering a nightcrawler even at night was minimal. The creatures didn’t hang out where there was no prey; they still had plenty of cities and towns to choose from.

  But just because the chances of running into a ghoul was low, that didn’t mean he didn’t take precautions. He had special magazines for the SIG and AR-10 with silver-tipped rounds, which he swapped with the regular ones now. The problem with silver was that they were precious metal and not as easy to find, so using them in the daytime was an unnecessary waste of resources. Fortunately, the silver-coated blades that he carried—one on his left hip, another strapped outside his right boot, and a third inside his pack as backup—never had to be reloaded.

  Smith laid the rifle on the ground next to him and leaned back, liking the rough feel of the gnarled tree trunk digging into his clothing. It hadn’t been cold enough last night for him to break out the poncho, and he didn’t now. Darkness came fast, and the only real warning was the growing cold around him. Not quite chilly enough to make him reach for the pack, but just enough to make him consider—

  It was quiet.

  It was too quiet.

  The crickets had gone silent.

  He knew they had clammed up because he’d been listening to them all morning and day. They had been droning in his ears, a constant companion besides the wind howling across the vast countryside and empty road. In the months since he abandoned his responsibilities and took up a life as a wanderer, Smith had trained himself to know what was out there and what didn’t belong.

  This silence didn’t belong.

  Smith casually moved his right hand until it was on the ground next to his holstered pistol.

  He couldn’t hear them, but there was little doubt they were back there, approaching from the only possible direction. Only an idiot would come straight at him, and he didn’t think Big Man—or Peoples, as he called himself—was an idiot. Why were they back there, was the question. Did they think he was a danger to them? Hadn’t he been convincing enough during the chat with Peoples? What—

  The snap! of a twig came from (predictably) behind and slightly to the right of him.

  Smith lunged up and off the ground and was already twisting to face the tree before both legs were completely straight. It wasn’t the easiest move, given that he’d been sitting in the same spot for the last few hours. His joints protested, and the hamstrings on both legs threatened to snap.

  He took two, three—five quick steps out from behind the tree, exposing himself willingly, and hoping to catch whoever was on the other side by surprise.

  Eureka.

  There was a silhouetted figure in front of him, stuck in a slight crouch. Thirty—maybe forty—yards away, though it was hard to gauge for sure with only the moonlight to see with. Smith didn’t get a good look at the man’s face, but he saw plenty of white as the man’s eyes widened when he realized he’d been caught. The only other thing Smith could be absolutely sure of was the long “stick” in the man’s hands.

  A weapon.

  Bang! as Smith drew and fired the SIG in one fluid motion.

  He hadn’t bothered to aim before he pulled the trigger. He didn’t need to. Thirty or even 40 yards was a piece of cake.

  The man stumbled, dropping his rifle, and went down on one knee. He clutched his chest.

  A second bang! and the man collapsed into the grass as a portion of his skull flicked into the cold air. The first shot was meant to slow him down, while the second—a head shot—finished him off.

  Even before the dead man had the chance to vanish into the sea of grass and goldenrods, Smith had sidestepped again, but this time in the other direction. He slipped back behind the tree just before the ambusher’s friends opened fire and bullets pek-pek-pekked! into the tree on the other side.

  Right on time.

  He knew they were out there, knew there wasn’t just going to be one man trying to sneak up on him. He was surprised there was just one out in the open, though. He’d been prepared to shoot at least two, but maybe he shouldn’t have been. Cowards who beat little boys and raped women weren’t exactly known for their loyalties. It made perfect sense they would send just one man to try to shoot him in the back while the others stayed hidden and watched.

  Which meant the dead man was either the Accountant or Tall and Lanky. Smith was leaning toward Tall and Lanky, though the figure had been slightly crouched and there was no light, which made determining his true body shape and height difficult.

  Not that it mattered which one it was. Dead was dead.

  Smith just knew that it wasn’t Peoples. Oh no, the leader would never do the job himself. He would send either the Accountant or Tall and Lanky to do the dirty work. After all, if you couldn’t force other people to take chances when you stayed safe and sound, what was the point of being leader of the pack?

  They continued firing into th
e tree, maybe under the mistaken delusion they could get to him if they could only cut their way through the thick trunk. He could have told them they were wasting their time, that the tree was there long before any of them were around and it would remain here long after they were gone.

  Smith leaned his back against the tree and waited. He listened to the bullets impacting the other side, felt the tree trembling with each bullet.

  Go ahead, boys. Keep at it.

  Go right ahead and waste all those bullets.

  They fired five more times before finally getting the hint. Eventually, the last shot echoed and faded and gave way to the silence once again.

  Smith stayed where he was, the SIG back in its holster, and didn’t move. His breathing had accelerated slightly, and he spent the next five or so seconds calming it down. He’d been in firefights before, almost died way more times for his liking, but there was always the initial adrenaline boost of being fired upon that never went away. Ever.

  He liked it that way. The day he stopped being affected by a gunfight was when he knew he’d joined the pack and might as well go looking for two other assholes to form a gang of his own.

  As his breathing settled down, Smith kept his ears open and his eyes scanning the road in the horizon to his left and right. He didn’t think the dead man’s friends would be charging head-on. No, they would be back there, behind him, where the gunshots had come from. There had been too many bullets, and the shots were too simultaneous for there to just be one shooter.

  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 here?” 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?”