The Roadhouse Chronicles Box Set [Books 1-3]

by Cox, Matthew S.

  Tris sighed. “What’s wrong with them anyway? They try to grab me and they’re acting like we started it.”

  “They think they’re peacekeepers or some shit.”

  “Yeah right. Keeping the peace by abducting me?” She holstered the Beretta. “Thanks for the ammo. I’ll try not to waste it.”

  “You really only had two weeks of training?” He risked a three-second look away from the road at her.

  “Well, yes and no.”

  “If you don’t wanna talk about it…”

  Tris flashed an impish smile. “I wasn’t sure if your tech-limited mind could handle it. Two weeks of real time plugged into virtual reality. It felt like eight months.”

  “What, like a dream or something?”

  “Close enough.” She leaned left to peer at the rearview monitor. “So you’ve been paid almost ten thousand coins for driving stuff around?”

  He flared his fingers up for a second, keeping the wheel steady with his thumbs. “It ain’t that simple.”

  “Driving stuff back and forth?”

  “There ain’t that many cars left. An’ the ones that are ain’t in the best shape. They need constant work.”

  “You’re a mechanic?” Tris raised an eyebrow. “The wheel motors on this thing aren’t so different from Bee.”

  “Different enough, and yeah. I’ve been around cars since I was three.” He steered around a scattering of wreckage, a truck judging by the amount of scrap. “There’s parts here an’ there, but none of that fancy prewar shit. You wanna drive, you better know how to fix the damn thing.”

  “If working cars are so rare, why do people shoot at each other on the road?”

  Kevin tilted his head side to side. “Couple reasons I can think of. Stupidity, greed, because they can. Someone gets wind of that box of void salt, they’re gonna come after us hard. They ain’t gonna care about somethin’ like one less working car in the world when they’re thinking of an easy couple thousand coins.”

  “That’s why it’s important for me to get this data out of my head.” Tris raked her fingers through her hair, trying to gather it in some attempt at order. “Without the Enclave’s manufacturing and tech resources, we’re headed straight back to the Dark Ages.”

  He shook his head. “Maybe humanity will be better off living in small isolated pockets that never talk to each other. The Enclave tried to kill the world. Even if you did have the cure, it’s not gonna make them want to play nice.”

  Tris sighed, and turned away with a hand over her mouth.

  Great. Here come the waterworks. He squeezed the wheel.

  “Shit.” Tris whipped her head around and stared at the center console targeting screen. “Bikes.”

  Kevin glanced at the door mirror. Sure enough, a pair of motorcycles gained on them. “No sidecar guns.” He leaned to his right, almost touching heads with her. A tweak of a button on the steering wheel zoomed in the view. “Doesn’t look like any mounted guns. Amateurs.”

  “Maybe they’re not planning to attack us?” Tris glanced at him.

  “They are.” Kevin couldn’t tell from looking if they were electric or ethanol, not that it mattered. Either way, the bikes wouldn’t have any problem catching up. “If this thing still had a gas engine, I’d smoke them…”

  “How can you know they’re hostile?”

  “Same guys from Wayne’s. No reason they’d come after us unless they overheard what we’re carrying.”

  The man on the left pulled a compact submachine gun out from under his jacket.

  “Did you clear the ’16 yet?” Tris asked.

  “Fuck!” Kevin punched the center of the steering wheel.

  “I got it.” Tris twisted through the gap in the front seats and crawled into the back. “Can I get to the trunk from inside?”

  “Yeah, little pull strap.” Kevin swerved left two lanes when the man aimed.

  Tris screamed and bumped into his seat.

  He cut the wheel the other way. “Sorry.”

  “No… no… keep doing that. There’s a tank of incinerator fuel behind you. Don’t get shot.”

  The idea of catching a biker with the side-mounted flamethrower made him smile. He glanced up and left at the thin steel cable along the roof at the top edge of the window. Effective as it was, if a lucky bullet hit the tank… it would be him going crispy instead of a biker. I should really move that fucker elsewhere.

  Bullets whizzed overhead and left, ricocheting off the paving. Kevin steered hard toward the barrage, expecting the biker to overcompensate. The next shots hit the road on the other side. Kevin eyed the rear viewscreen. Bike two rode the centerline, trying to line up a shot with a massive revolver.

  Crap. He’s either an idiot or he’s got explosive bullets.

  Kevin flicked the arm switch for the rear-facing guns. The AK-47 mechanism still worked, even if the ’16 on the other side remained jammed.

  “You turned them on?” Tris yelled. “They’re moving.”

  “Can’t help it.” Kevin feathered the steering wheel, wagging the tail of the car and easing the crosshair over the bike.

  A short burst of fire came from the subgun, pinging off the road. At least one slug hit the car―somewhere―with a clank. Kevin swerved right, sliding across three lanes.

  “Son of a bitch!” He looked over his shoulder at Tris’s ass sticking out from a folded-down rear seatback. “You okay?”

  “Yeah. Didn’t see the hit.”

  “Hang on to something.” Kevin hit the toggle to switch the firing system to the twin M60 machine guns on the hood.

  “What are you do―”

  Kevin swung the wheel left while simultaneously yanking the parking brake and stomping on an improvised clutch pedal to throw the in-wheel motors to neutral. Tris’s question became a scream as the Challenger screeched into a flat spin, tires emitting a banshee’s wail.

  He jammed down on a glowing red thumb button at the top right part of the steering wheel. Both machine guns went off, throwing three feet of muzzle flare. Bullets raked over the bikes as the car spun past. He let off the brake and clutch as the Challenger completed the three-sixty, powering out of the spin.

  The submachine gun biker fell backward off his ride a second before it burst into flames. His body tumbled on the road behind a skidding fireball. Handgun biker broke off his pursuit, guiding his bike to a stop a few seconds later before collapsing. Sweat ran down the sides of Kevin’s head; he focused on not rolling or losing control of the car. Once sure he’d recovered, he slowed down, stopped, and backed into a K-turn.

  Tris crawled into the passenger seat and held up a single 5.56mm bullet. She twisted it to show off the bottom. “There’s your problem.”

  “No primer.” He grumbled. “That’s gotta be one of Wayne’s.”

  “Where else do you buy ammo?” Tris blinked at the windshield. “You’re going back?”

  “Yep.” Kevin stopped the car about ten paces from the unexploded bike. “These two idiots made me use about twenty rounds of 7.62. They owe me eighty coins.”

  Kevin shoved his door open and stood, pulling his .45 at the same time. Handgun biker stopped dragging himself away from his bike. For an instant, he expected the man to beg for help. As soon as a glint of steel flashed by the biker’s hand, Kevin fired.

  One round to the head.

  He took a few steps closer, frowning at the battery fluid pouring in four piss-streams onto the pavement. The M60 had shredded the rear drive wheel and the power cell. He’d need a truck or van to salvage the bike, and he had neither that nor the time.

  “You’re pretty good at that.” Tris walked up behind him. “Hitting the head.”

  “I hate Infected.”

  She set off in the direction of the other man. “You know that’s a myth, right? Infected are still alive. Shooting them in the heart works fine.”

  “Yeah… yeah.” He stooped to collect a Ruger Super Redhawk in .44 magnum. Much to his disappointment, the bullets looked
plain. An idiot then. “Well, that’ll pay for the ammo I burned on your dumb ass.”

  He searched the man, collecting nineteen rounds of .44 ammo, a decent sized handful of coins, two knives, and a hip flask. He stood, tucked the Ruger in his belt, and opened the bottle to sniff. Whiskey. He took a small sip, enough to taste but not feel. Fire swam down his throat.

  “I got lucky,” said Tris. “Other guy had an Uzi. More nine-mil ammo.” She wagged a long box magazine at him. “And a spare. Thirty rounds plus whatever’s still in the gun.”

  He glanced at her, noting a leather jacket bundled around a pair of boots under her left arm.

  “Not gonna take the clothes?” Tris raised an eyebrow. “Other one’s shirt and pants were a bloody mess. Looks like you got three rounds on him. One went through the gas tank and caught him in the dick.”

  Kevin winced. “Nah. I ain’t desperate enough to take a man’s clothes.”

  “Can sell them to Wayne.”

  “Snort?” He offered her a drink.

  Tris stuck the Uzi magazine into the bundle and took the flask. She tilted it back, swallowed, and returned it. “Not bad.”

  One… two…

  Her eyes widened and she coughed. “Okay. Little kick.”

  “Heh. You want his pants, you take ‘em.” He hustled to the car and set the Ruger and other loot in the back seat. “Fuckin’ primer.”

  Kevin found random things to look at while Tris relieved the other biker of his boots, and jacket. Impatient, he drummed his fingers on the wheel until she threw the clothes in the back seat on her side and jumped in.

  “What’s with the look?” Tris pulled her door shut with a heavy thud. “Those jackets alone will pay for a meal… unless you wanna wear one.”

  “Nah. Got a thing ‘bout wearing a dead man’s stuff. Besides. I like mine.” He tugged at the nonexistent lapels of his armored jacket. “It’s one of a kind.”

  Tris settled down in her seat. She slid one hand under her hair and rubbed the side of her head, below her left ear. He lost a few seconds staring into space, listening to a barely audible hum from the electronics in the dash.

  Kevin spun the wheel all the way right and backed around in a half circle. When the car faced north again, he stopped. “S’pose you are too.”

  17

  The Common Good

  About two hours after sundown, Kevin headed down an off-ramp toward a cluster of lights that hinted at the shape of a small community. He dropped below thirty as the road went from smashed paving to even rougher dirt. Dim spots on the ground ahead from the feeble headlights warned him of potholes, but only with enough time to brace for impact.

  “Skimped on the lights too?” Tris yawned, but didn’t bother sitting up from the ball she’d compacted herself into. “I thought Glimmertown would be… brighter.”

  “This ain’t Glimmertown. Place is called Cortez. Bunch of settlers. Beats spending a night out in the open.”

  She flashed a whimsical grin. “Are you still worried I’m going to steal your car?”

  “No.” He smiled at her. “But you’re not the only one out here.”

  Buildings, by looks made from box trucks or old semi trailers, stood on either side of a central ‘street,’ a strip of dirt that seemed to exist as a road more as a product of circumstance than a deliberate attempt to make a place to drive. A handful of steel camper trailers filled in some spaces behind the trucks, among a couple of hand-built shacks. Eight children, ranging in age from five or six to early teens, came out of nowhere and ran alongside the car. All wore handmade clothes, and several were shirtless. Between their youth and long, wild hair, he couldn’t tell boy from girl in the dark.

  Three adults in long-sleeved flannel shirts and jeans approached after he came to a halt at what appeared to be a central crossroads, where an east-west stretch of path led away from the ‘main drag.’ An older-looking man with a white beard and two women who may have been his daughters clutched hunting rifles, aimed low and to the side. The man lifted the brim of a camo baseball cap and studied the car.

  A muffled mechanical whine emanated from the door as Kevin rolled down his window. A small pair of dark-skinned hands grabbed the edge and a little boy stuck his head in, gawking at the lit-up console. More curious faces appeared in Tris’s window, ogling the car. She seemed nervous, and stared at them.

  “Evenin’ all,” said Kevin.

  “Howdy,” said the man. He stooped to peer in at Tris and nodded in greeting. “Miss.” His gaze shifted back to Kevin. “What ya lookin’ for, son?”

  “Hoping you had a bed for rent, maybe a charge and some food.”

  Tris yelped. Kevin looked over. A child’s face occupied the entirety of the targeting screen, warped by the girl’s proximity to the lens. She seemed to have mistaken the camera lens for a peephole. He couldn’t help himself at Tris’s reaction, and laughed.

  “Kids terrify me too.” He winked.

  She scowled. The four children at her window smiled.

  “Think we can help ya out. You got any tradin’?” asked the old man.

  The women behind him relaxed their stance. Tris rolled down her window and let the little ones lean in. One boy reached up and touched her hair. The others seemed mesmerized by the lights on the console. The maybe five-year-old behind the car gave up on checking out the camera and climbed onto the trunk. She bounced a few times before walking up the rear window to the roof.

  “Gabby, get down from there.” The woman to the old man’s left slung her rifle over her shoulder and walked up to the car, reaching for the roof. “Sorry, she’s a handful.”

  Childish giggling rang out overhead. The woman collected the girl, who waved at Kevin before being carried a few steps away and set on her feet.

  “I think we can ‘comma-date yas.” The man pointed west. “You read?”

  Kevin nodded.

  “Stop at the place wit’ the sign what reads ‘Billy’s.’ I’ll be along in a tick.” The old man backed away. “’Mon, kids. Git ‘way from the car.”

  Once the children gave him some space, Kevin tapped the accelerator and turned left. The eighth building on the right looked like it had been an automotive service place before the war. With a forest of solar panels on the roof, it now probably served as the town’s source of power. He stopped half in the driveway, eyeing three garage doors. Tris stared into the dark.

  “What’s got you so nervous?”

  “I’m waiting for someone to try and grab me.” She seemed unable to let go of the door handle.

  “These people are friendly. They ain’t gonna grab you.”

  Tris stared at him. “Try spending a couple days out here with a pair of tits and see how you feel. Everyone looks at me like… Well. Like you know.”

  Kevin raised an eyebrow. “So you do have emotion.”

  She sighed. “Go to hell.”

  “We’re already there.” He winked.

  “Yeah… That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  At the scuff of the old man’s boots on dirt, she startled and whipped her head to the right to watch him pass. He drifted out of the ‘road,’ and walked in front of the car, gesturing at the leftmost garage door. Kevin pulled up to the indicated lane and waited while the elder went inside. Soon, the door rattled its way upward. Once it got high enough to clear, he pulled into the service bay, straddling an open pit in the floor.

  Clattering resonated in the air. The old man worked a chain hand-over-hand to close the door. Both spaces to the right were empty of cars, but cluttered with an assortment of ancient automotive diagnostic machines, air compressors, and tools. Kevin shut the Challenger down and got out.

  “Appreciate the parking spot.” He looked around for a socket. “Where do I plug it in?”

  “Name’s Brian,” said the old man, approaching with an extended hand.

  “Kevin.” He accepted the shake.

  “Underneath in the pit, front wall.”

  Kevin walked around the nose end
of the car and opened the charging port before crouching to peer under the bumper. An old oil cart sat in the pit beneath the Challenger, littered with cylindrical filters and tools. Cracking rubber pads lined the floor, curled and skewed, and a narrow passage near the door side connected to the other two pits. The charging port sat on the wall two feet below his left boot. He lay flat on his chest and stretched to plug in. After a bit of grunting and wriggling, the prongs snapped in, and a chirp from overhead indicated a good connection. Cobalt blue light bathed him from above as the enormous battery went into charging mode.

  Brian offered him a hand up. “Once you’re settled in, I’ll send food. Not rightly sure what Jean made though.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Food’s food.” Kevin stuffed his hand in his jacket pocket, where he’d stashed the dead biker’s coins. “What do I owe ya?”

  Brian raised both eyebrows at Tris as she trudged over, arms folded tight across her front. He seemed to be staring at the katana. “You folks in trouble or somethin’?”

  “Nah. Runnin’ a shipment north ta some collector type offa route six. An old book.”

  Tris narrowed her eyes.

  “Ahh. Hell of a thing to risk travel for.” The elder smiled. “How’s six coins sound? Prefer if ya got somethin’ to trade. Ain’t got much use for metal chips out here.”

  “Six is fair.” Kevin sifted six quarters out of the handful. He liked getting rid of the big, heavy ones. “Not much else I got you’d be wanting.”

  “Leather jackets?” asked Tris. “Only two bullet holes.”

  Brian chuckled. “Let’s ‘ave a look.”

  She fetched the jackets from the car and held them up. Brian looked them over.

  “Take both of ‘em instead?”

  Kevin pursed his lips. “Could get five coins for one.”

  “Aye, ya might.” Brian smiled. “Throw in a hot bath and breakfast?”

  Tris stared at Kevin.

  “Okay.” He let the quarters roll down his finger into the pocket.

  “Pleasure.” Brian took the coats. “’Mon inside. I’ll show ya to the guest room.”

  Kevin followed the old man through a door in the back of the service area, which led to what had once been an office. From there, a flight of stairs led to a second-floor apartment full of clutter. A timid-looking black-haired girl of about eleven sat cross-legged on a ratty couch with a book in her lap, wearing a dress made from an adult’s tee shirt. She twisted around as they passed, peering over the back of the sofa at them. Two women, one Brian’s age and one in her later twenties, sat facing each other at a small table in the kitchen. Both offered pleasant looks. Brian crossed the living room and entered a narrow hallway. He walked all the way to the end, where three doors surrounded him.