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

  Then: Famous last words.

  It was a house in the middle of nowhere—literally in the middle of nowhere, with nothing around it but hills and flat land—burning underneath the bright sun. There was no reason for something like this to be out here, but there it was.

  Who the hell builds a house all the way out here?

  Someone who doesn’t want to be found, obviously. Or messed with.

  Smith stood over one of the many hills that dotted the landscape like camel humps, looking down at the building as fire engulfed it. He couldn’t tell what kind of house it used to be or how big. There wasn’t anything that looked like a barn or supply shed nearby, so it was a lone structure.

  All of that struck him as odd, but Smith had seen plenty of odd things lately.

  There was no way to save the place. The fire was in full rage mode and probably had been all morning before Smith even stumbled across it. Anyone caught in that blaze was long gone, along with everything else inside it.

  He might have kept on walking past the fire if he didn’t catch a glimpse of the black horse grazing on some sporadic sprouting of grass about 200 yards on the other side of the burning house. There was no rider that Smith could see, but the animal was wearing a saddle and dragging its reins in the dirt behind it.

  Smith confirmed all that with his binoculars. He couldn’t find any signs of the horse’s rider, and there wasn’t a body nearby. The house, too, was clearly gone. No signs of violence that he could detect, just a fire devouring everything there was to feast on. It wouldn’t take long before it ran out of fuel out here.

  None of that explained the presence of the horse. It shouldn’t be out here. Just like the house.

  But there they were.

  Was it a trap?

  He didn’t think so. Nothing about it smelled like a trap. If anything, it looked to him like the ending of something. What that “something” was, he had no idea. And, frankly, couldn’t care less.

  Smith would have been perfectly content to keep walking, arriving at wherever and whenever he eventually found himself, regardless of however long it took to get there. But he had to admit: a horse would save a lot of time, not to mention exertion. It wasn’t like Smith was averse to physical labor, like endless walking, but, well, why not take advantage of something like a horse?

  After all, it was right there for the taking, so who was he to turn it down?

  Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, right?

  Literally, in this case.

  He jogged down the hill and walked toward the horse at a slow and unhurried pace. Smith kept an eye on the flat land around him, waiting for someone to pop up and declare the horse theirs and that Smith was out of luck.

  But no one popped up.

  It was a nice black mare, with a magnificent mane that gleamed under the sun, but Smith wasn’t good enough with horses to know what kind of breed it was. It didn’t look afraid of him as he neared it. In fact, it only lifted its head to glance in his direction once before going back to grazing. It wasn’t jittery or threatened by his presence, both of which were good signs. Smith could count on one hand the number of times he’d even ridden a horse, so he was glad he wouldn’t have to “tame” this one.

  Smith took another long look at the burning house to his left. Closer, he still couldn’t see anything that looked like a body, or hints of a fight. In fact, there was no evidence of foul play at all, as if God himself had sent a thunderbolt down here to vanquish the place.

  Of course, that was silly, but anything was possible these days. After all, who thought blood-sucking monsters were even a thing just a decade ago?

  Smith continued to approach the horse cautiously, fully expecting it to take off at any moment. Except it didn’t. It knew very well that he was getting closer, because it kept lifting its head to give him a What do you want? glance before going right back to grazing what little grass there was in this part of the country. Soon, the animal would move on, because there would be nothing left to eat. It was a good thing Smith had stumbled across it when he did.

  “Hey there, horsey,” Smith said. “And where might your owner be? He’s not in that house burning to death, is he? Because if he is, that means you don’t have an owner anymore. So I’m thinking maybe we should team up. Have you ever been to Canada?”

  The animal continued chewing on bits of grass as if he wasn’t there or even talking to it. Smith took that as a further good sign and walked the rest of the way over.

  The horse remained where it was when he put a tentative hand on its mane, then still didn’t move very much as he rubbed it down. It had a saddle and an empty scabbard for some kind of rifle, but as far as Smith could tell, its owner hadn’t been shot off because there was no blood anywhere on the animal or around the area where it was standing. Of course, that didn’t mean it hadn’t wandered away from the burning house. He was just close enough that Smith could feel some heat from the flames radiating across the distance.

  He leaned in closer to get a better look at the horse’s saddle. It was brown and had a flowery pattern across, and with the word LUCKY on the side, flanked by a pair of stars.

  The question was, was Lucky the horse’s name or its owners? And did Smith care?

  Not really.

  “Where’s your owner?” Smith asked the horse.

  The animal wasn’t talking and continued chewing the sparse grass.

  “Not in the mood for convo, huh? Hey, I don’t blame you. I’m not much of a conversationalist, I know. Hell, people say I downright suck at it, actually. So we should get along just fine.”

  Smith wrapped one hand around the saddle’s horn and cautiously eased one boot into a stirrup.

  “Don’t take off on me now, okay? I’m just gonna climb on.”

  He started lifting himself up.

  “Easy does it, horse. Easy does it…”

  The horse lifted its head and turned to look at him as he settled into the saddle, but it was an expression of annoyance more than fear or something that would convince him it was about to buck him loose.

  When it went right back to chewing on the plentiful grass, he knew he’d found himself a ride.

  Smith leaned down and rubbed the horse’s head. “Oh yeah, we’re gonna get along just fine, you and me. Just fine.”

  He picked up the reins and glanced over at the burning house. He might have been able to figure out what had happened to it—and maybe even why—if he got closer and did some cursory investigation.

  But Smith didn’t care enough to do that.

  He had a horse and an open road ahead of him, and Canada wasn’t going to come to him.

  “Let’s go see Canada,” Smith said. “You like cold weather? You’ll love it.”

  Smith began turning the horse around, when the loud echoing crack! of a gunshot sent him tumbling back down to the ground.

  Nine

  He’d been shot.

  Shit, he’d been shot.

  And it hurt.

  But maybe it would have hurt even more if the round had hit where the shooter was aiming at. Which, from what Smith could tell by the blood dripping down the left side of his face, was probably his head instead of the temple, where the bullet had grazed instead and stripped away some flesh and scraped the skull underneath.

  There was pain, but it was more of a stinging pain and not the You’re going to die at any second type, which was less preferable.

  The last time he’d been shot, it’d taken him a good two months to heal. And that was with a lot of rest and food and water. This time he didn’t have that option; this time—

  —he was still in someone’s crosshairs!

  Smith was picking himself up from the ground, trying to blink the blood out of his left eye, when Lucky took off. Not that he blamed the horse. Someone had just taken a shot at them—at him, specifically, but the horse wouldn’t necessarily know that—and it was trying to save its own hide by getting out of the line of fire.

  He didn’
t blame the animal one bit, even if he was a tad annoyed.

  Smith was straightening up, reaching to feel the bleeding along the side of his head to see just how bad it was, when he heard the crack! of a second rifle shot, followed by the round pekking into the ground about a foot behind him.

  It might have gone right through his chest or head or some other part of him if he hadn’t been swaying back and forth, trying to get his feet under him like a drunk coming home from a bar. That lack of balance had probably saved his life.

  Any thoughts he might have had about catching up to the horse and riding out of the line of fire disappeared when Smith located it, a good thirty—now thirty-five—yards away from him, and getting smaller.

  Damn, that horse could run!

  Smith ran after the horse because the mare was headed away from the shooter, which was exactly where Smith needed to be, too. The shots had come from the south, and Smith would put every cent he didn’t have that the shooter was perched on one of the hills Smith himself had been standing on not very long ago when he first glimpsed Lucky. It was the highest point in the area, and anyone who understood anything about shooting would take it in a heartbeat.

  That was Smith’s guess, anyway. Not that he glanced back to make absolutely sure, because right now he was already at a great disadvantage and—

  Slow. Why was he running so slow?

  Right. The pack.

  The very heavy pack—

  A third crack!, followed by a sledgehammer striking Smith from behind and throwing him forward and down against his will.

  Ouch!

  He ate a mouthful of dirt and grass, but mostly dirt, and there was probably a huge welt on his forehead where it had smashed into the hard, unyielding ground.

  But he was still alive!

  And though he was sure he’d been shot, it didn’t feel like there was a bullet lodged in his back. Which was strange. Smith had been shot before, and he knew what one felt like, and this wasn’t it.

  Wait. He’d heard a pinging sound when the bullet struck him in the back…

  …and the pack. It’d hit either the frying pan he kept back there or one of the titanium canteens!

  Smith scrambled forward on all fours before launching himself back up onto his feet. His legs were wobbly, but he managed to get control of it as he began zigzagging across the plains, hoping to give the shooter less of an easy target—

  Crack!, followed by a puff of dirt erupting into the air in front and slightly to the left of him.

  Close.

  Too close.

  But not close enough!

  He was still moving too slowly for his liking, though. Not quite stuck in quicksand, but it sure as hell felt like it. He had to lose some weight on him, but he couldn’t afford to ditch the pack. Everything he had in this world was in there, including food and water. So how was he going to lighten his load so he could move faster?

  The rifle. He didn’t need the rifle.

  The AR-10 wasn’t very heavy. Just under 12 pounds, with a fully-loaded magazine. Except right now it was 12 pounds that he didn’t need, or couldn’t afford.

  Smith shrugged the rifle off and let it drop, and continued running.

  He thought he was moving faster than before when he heard another crack!, followed by something zipping! over his head and striking the ground well ahead of him.

  Smith angled right, then left, then right again. All the while, moving away from the shooter after the fleeing Lucky.

  The horse trotted on ahead of him. Well ahead of him, actually. Again, he didn’t blame the animal for not letting him catch up to it. It was just being smart. Surviving. Which was exactly what he was hoping to do, too, at the moment.

  The shooter hadn’t fired again after the fifth shot, but Smith didn’t stop. For all he knew, the guy was trying to get a bead on him still. By now, Smith had put a lot of distance between himself and the hills, but he didn’t feel comfortable quite yet.

  He kept zigging and zagging, randomizing his pattern. The trick to shooting was to aim at where the target was going, not where they were. Smith was fully aware of that and didn’t make his movements predictable as a result.

  Or, at least, he hoped he wasn’t. For all he knew, he was overthinking it—

  The crack! of another shot, but this one didn’t produce anything even close to a hit that he could see. It didn’t land in front of him, either, so he assumed it had struck behind him, having fallen short.

  Smith began to slow down until he could turn around and backpedal safely without worrying about tripping over his own feet and going down on his ass. He scanned the horizon and easily picked up the series of camel humps in the distance. They were impossible to miss against the flat ground between him and them.

  There, sunlight glinting off glass on one of the hills.

  The shooter.

  Crack!, followed by a puff of dirt as the bullet struck the ground a good ten yards in front of Smith.

  Not even close.

  Smith stopped moving and unslung his pack. He gasped for breath even as he dug out the first-aid kit. It was covered in water, and he realized why when he found the canteen with the hole in it. It’d stopped the bullet but had cost him half of his water rations.

  He drank some of the remaining water, then used the rest to rinse the blood off his face. He could feel but not see the nasty gash along his temple as he cleaned, disinfected, then bandaged up the wound.

  All the while, Smith kept an eye on the shooter’s hill in the distance. The shooter hadn’t attempted another shot since his last one fell grossly short. Not because the man was feeling generous, obviously, but because Smith was too far away now. At least 800 yards, or nearly half a mile. The guy could probably still see him with his scope, but hitting Smith was going to take some serious skills that the man, apparently, didn’t have. If he did, Smith would already be dead right now.

  When he was sure he wasn’t going to bleed to death, Smith took out his binoculars and looked through them.

  He zoomed in on the hump in question and could just make out a figure standing up on it, looking back in his direction.

  There he is.

  A lone man holding a rifle in one hand. Dark clothes, but of course Smith was way too far away to pick up any details on the man’s face.

  The shooter waved at him.

  Did that sonofabitch just wave at me?

  Yeah, he had.

  Cocky bastard.

  Smith housed the binoculars back in his pack before inspecting the canteen. The hole could be plugged up, but you weren’t going to find a titanium canteen like the one he had lying around just waiting to be picked up. Besides, the damn thing had just saved his life, so it was the least he could do to hold onto it.

  Smith didn’t move from his spot and continued watching the shooter back. Even with the naked eye, he knew the man had turned and left the hill when the dark shape got smaller and smaller, until it disappeared completely.

  He thought the man might come over to finish the job. Or try to, anyway. Smith was ready for him this time, and even without the AR-10, he was confident he could take on a shooter face-to-face.

  Except the man never showed up. That told Smith the shooter was alone.

  So who the hell was he? And what was the reason behind all of this?

  See you next time, asshole.

  Footsteps behind him!

  Smith spun around, his right hand stabbing down to his holstered SIG.

  The horse, Lucky, was walking back toward him.

  Smith relaxed. “There you are. What? You decided to come back? Why now?”

  The horse lifted its head and snickered.

  Smith rolled his eyes at the animal. “Okay, but this is the first time you’ve abandoned me. If you do it again, I’m going to start taking it personally.”

  He waited for the horse to get closer just to show it who was boss. When it finally reached him, Smith climbed back into the saddle. Gingerly. He was feeling a little wooz
ier than he had anticipated, and the sudden shift from ground level to sitting on the horse threw his equilibrium off momentarily.

  For a second or two, he nearly fell out of the saddle.

  “Whoa, whoa,” Smith said, not realizing until a little later that he was saying it to himself and not Lucky.

  He fixed the hills in the distance one last look before turning the horse around. The vindictive part of Smith wanted to ride over and introduce himself to the shooter and ask for an explanation at the point of a gun. The other part of him, that felt lucky to still be alive, thought it was probably best to let it go. His ego was left a little bruised than before, yes, but it was better to have hurt feelings than be dead.

  Way, way better.

  He did consider going back to pick up the AR-10 he’d tossed but decided it wasn’t worth the effort. For whatever reason, he was feeling tired, and more than a little lightheaded. What he needed right now was to put a lot more space between him and where he’d last spotted the shooter. And if that meant losing the rifle, then so be it.

  Besides, he still had the SIG Sauer, and that was enough.

  Smith tapped Lucky on the flanks, and the horse took off north. He glanced back once at the burning house. The fires had almost completely burned themselves out, but they were still sending smoke signals into the skies. He wondered how that had happened, or if anyone had been caught inside during the blaze. Like, maybe, Lucky’s previous owner. The horse certainly didn’t show any affinity for the place.

  He rode Lucky through the wide open ground. There was a lot of gray and brown around him, outcrops of rocks dotting the landscape on both sides. After a while, he could make out the highway to his left, the blacktop visible underneath the afternoon sunlight. He might not have seen it if he wasn’t in the saddle and had a higher-than-normal perspective.