The Roadhouse Chronicles Box Set [Books 1-3]

by Cox, Matthew S.

  He wandered with no particular direction in mind, searching and thinking of what he could possibly do with the drugs. Minutes later, scuffing footsteps approached at a light run. He whirled, hand on his sidearm, but relaxed when he saw white hair.

  Tris stopped beside him. “The girls are at Mom’s Hotel in the northwest. They looted the bar, so they should be okay for a few days.”

  “We’re not gonna be here that long. As soon as I sell this shit, we’re out.”

  “Drugs?” She glared. “Forget the job. We should destroy them.”

  Kevin grumbled in his head. When he caught sight of a red neon ‘diner’ sign, he grabbed her by the right wrist and pulled her across the street. “Not outside.”

  She followed without protest. He stiff-armed the door out of his way and walked in to a place lit by the flickering light of a handful of recessed fluorescent corkscrew bulbs. Red stools lined a short counter, behind which a middle-aged woman with ginger hair and a permanent frown gave him a distrustful squint. He went to the right and stopped at a plain maroon table. Tris slid into the booth on the same side.

  “Sorry. Don’t want the wrong people hearing the wrong thing.”

  She didn’t let go of his hand. “I understand. I’m sorry, too… I know you didn’t want to start anything in there, but… I couldn’t just―”

  “What’cha need?” asked a boy about thirteen or so with freckles and red hair, in an apron and a non-snobbish tee shirt and black jeans. His shoes appeared made from old tires. “We got the best fries in the area.”

  Kevin pulled his jacket over the cube. “Coffee is fine. Just ate.”

  “Same,” said Tris.

  The boy nodded and walked off.

  Tris kept her voice low. “How can you profit from destroying people’s lives?”

  Kevin raised his eyebrows in a blasé smirk. “By selling this box.”

  She sighed.

  “Look around you.” Kevin gestured at a few bedraggled patrons, most little more than skin-wrapped skeletons propped up against the wall in booth seats. “The world is fucked. Who gives a shit if people get high? They get a few minutes of not suffering. So what if it shaves years off their life? We’re all dead anyway.”

  She let go of his hand. “It’s wrong. I can’t help you hurt innocent people.”

  He leaned back as the boy set two cups of coffee down. When the kid made eye contact, he handed him three coins.

  The waiter flashed an excited smile. “Thanks!”

  Kevin sipped. Not bad. Can barely taste the motor oil. “You spent most of your life in that Enclave bubble. Okay, so maybe the world isn’t quite as bad as those movies said it would be, but it’s still pretty shitty. You’re a naïve idealist. Without some kind of organized society, two things motivate people: survival and pleasure.”

  “So now you’re going Freud on me?”

  Kevin blinked. “What?”

  Tris stared into her cup, a somber expression on her face. “I thought you were different. Thought that whole asshole thing was an act. You know, don’t let anyone in. I guess you really are obsessed with money.”

  “It’s not money.” He scowled, shaking his head for a few seconds to let his anger ebb. “I’m sick and tired of getting shot at. Every goddamned time I leave Wayne’s with someone else’s bullshit in my back seat, I’m risking my ass. Half of these spackheads get off on the thrill of the run… I used to be one of them.” He took a sip. “I didn’t wear armor till I was twenty-four. Thought I was too good. Too fast.”

  “What happened?” She slurped.

  “You saw the scars.” He glanced sideways at her. “Not everyone puts themselves back together as fast as you. I don’t want money. I want my dream. I was one run away, and now it seems everything I touch turns to shit.”

  “I’m sorry. Doctor Andrews really did have money. He would’ve paid you what I promised if he wasn’t dead.”

  He looked at her. Something in her eyes got under his skin. Anger at borking the deal with Neon faded to sympathy. “Look, we don’t know for sure he’s dead. Maybe he ran from the Infected or something. Your boy Nathan certainly didn’t expect them to be gone.”

  “He’s not my boy.” Tris pounded her fist into the seat with a cushioned thump. “I’m still not gonna help you sell poison.”

  “Then I’ll sell it without ya. You can wait with the women.” He picked at the cube. “I didn’t sell you to Neon ‘cause I figured you’d have shot me too when you pulled the ol’ blurry arm thing. Real tempting. That would’a been that. Retired. Roadhouse. Set for life.”

  Tris leaned toward him. “Kevin, you’re a shitty liar.”

  He stared at the cube. “Yeah… I suppose I am.”

  21

  Tyrant

  Kevin resisted the urge to stuff his hands in the pockets of his armored jacket. He shifted his gaze from left to right, watching every dark spot between walls. His hand hovered by the .45, fully loaded after a brief stop at the garage to visit his trunk. The weight of eyes settled on him, both seen and unseen. It took a certain kind of individual to live full-time in Glimmertown, though to be fair, not everyone was cut out for constant roaming.

  If anyone ever made a top ten list of stupid shit to do in the Wildlands, walking around this place at night would be four or five. He twitched at the scrape of a shoe to his left, and stared into impenetrable shadow. Doing it alone is probably number three… right under drinking glowing water.

  Something about the way it looked when people shifted in the alleys came too close to reminding him of the mindless shambling of Infected. He jumped every time motion caught his eye. Tris hadn’t been kidding when she refused to help him sell the void salt. Two thousand coins or nothing. Even offering her half hadn’t budged her. Stupid righteous woman… Bad enough I may have just started a friggin’ Wildland war with Glimmertown because she has a giant bleeding heart for slaves. Kevin stopped and leaned on a lamppost made from a steel I-beam stuck end-first into the ground. Four clip lights dangled from the top, their extension cords braided in a lazy arc to a nearby trailer.

  Tina’s grateful face when he unlocked her cuffs haunted his thoughts. Yeah, okay fine. He looked up at the blackness overhead. Anywhere else in the world, he’d have been able to see stars. Too much artificial light rained down from the central tower to see a damn thing. I keep doing sympathetic shit like this, I’ll be seein’ you soon, Dad.

  A boot scuffed on the dirt behind him, close and to the left.

  Kevin whirled around the I-beam and yanked the .45 off his belt. The tip of the barrel came to a halt under the nose of an emaciated man with shaggy black hair and a heavy five o’clock shadow. A hasty disarming smile bared yellow teeth between quivering lips.

  “’Sup. Just out for a walk.”

  Kevin smirked. “Uh huh. Sure. Out for a walk right up behind me. With a knife.”

  The man twitched as he laughed, seeming taken by an involuntary spasm. He looked down at the spring blade concealed in the long sleeve of a green army coat, and folded it closed. “Hey, you got any shit man?”

  “I oughta aerate―”

  The man whimpered, cringed, and shut his eyes.

  Kevin squinted. “Maybe we can help each other.”

  “W-what?” The junkie risked a peek out of his left eye.

  “Say I’m looking to get rid of some junk quick like, and I don’t wanna deal with Cloud 9.” Kevin relaxed his gun arm, aiming at the man’s chest instead of his face. “You know anyone might be in a buying mood?”

  “I d-d-don’t d-d-do d-d-drugs, man.” The vagrant shivered.

  “Yeah, sure you don’t. And I got wings growing outta my ass.” Kevin pulled the hammer back with his thumb. “If you ain’t a junkie, you’re just a thief I got no use for.”

  “K-k-kay.” The man held up two shaking hands. “You w-wanna talk to Tyrant in the train graveyard.”

  “Tyrant huh?”

  “Yeah.” The junkie reached across his chest and clutched his l
eft arm above the elbow. He lost a few seconds ticking and blinking. “He sells all the cheap stuff the Cloud won’t touch.”

  “How do I know this isn’t bullshit?”

  “Swear, man. Swear.” The vagrant thrashed his head side to side with such force it seemed his eyeballs might go flying.

  “Lead the way.” Kevin gestured with the .45.

  “Y-you gonna shoot me in the back?” He stumbled ahead facing sideways, staring at the gun.

  Kevin eased the hammer forward with his thumb so it didn’t go off. “You got a point. Might not look too good me walkin’ you in there at gunpoint. Let’s make a deal. You don’t stab me, and I don’t shoot you. I’ll even give ya five percent of whatever I sell it for.”

  “Uhh okay.” The bedraggled skeleton-in-skin took two steps before looking back over his shoulder again. “That a lot?”

  “For you? Yeah. A shitload.” Kevin put the .45 back in its holster, but kept a hand on it.

  “Mmm.” The man sniffled and wiped at his nose. “Nice. I’m Mike.” He held a grimy hand out for a few seconds, but dropped it when Kevin didn’t react. “Nice dealin’ with ya.” He beckoned with a wave. “C’mon.”

  Mike scurried off like a two-legged rat into the bowels of Glimmertown. He avoided the central square and its blinding glow, favoring a series of narrow channels between the rear walls of dwellings or other buildings. Guess people in Glimmertown don’t believe in back doors.

  After a walk that felt as if he’d gone around the entire city twice, congested buildings ended where an open channel held four parallel train tracks. The rails continued for about a hundred yards to the right, a mixture of rust and glint, before making a left turn through a gate in a decaying chain link fence. Broken glass littered the ground, sparkling as if he stood inside a snow globe of ruin. Even this far from the center of town, the tower lights cast long shadows over everything. Dozens of bullet holes in the surroundings suggested copious violence, but not a single trace of brass remained. These people’d steal each others underwear to sell for a hit. If they could sell dirt, they’d do it.

  Rectangular forms flickered in the orange of distant fires beyond the fence. A hodgepodge of old boxcars and dead eighteen-wheelers stood on the near side of an open tarmac, like metal dinosaurs come to die at the boneyard. The air carried the stink of wood smoke brushed with industrial chemicals. They’re burning creosote.

  While Mike shambled off along the tracks, Kevin spent a few seconds staring up at the gleaming mass floating like a tiny electric star. I bet she’s right. This whole place is one big trap.

  “You comin’?” Mike’s voice echoed in the open space.

  Kevin pulled his gaze away from the truck graveyard and jogged to catch up. “Yeah, yeah…”

  “N-not the kinda place a guy like you w-wants ta hang out.”

  “No shit.” Kevin glanced at the tower again before gesturing at Mike. “After you.”

  Mike trotted along the tracks, following the curve left past the tattered strips of aluminum where something huge had smashed the fence years earlier. About twenty yards beyond the breach, a section of road ran alongside the tracks past two doublewide ‘office’ trailers built into permanent structures. A handful of people, most in their teens, lounged around in various states of consciousness.

  The only one lucid enough to move, a strung-out looking girl somewhere between fourteen and sixteen with caramel-hued skin, pulled black hair off her face and smiled at him. Almond-shaped eyes widened, and she tried to strike a seductive pose. A brief gust of wind fluttered scraps of torn cloth on her thin tank top, and she barely managed to hide shivers and chattering teeth.

  “Don’t trust Fix, man,” whispered Mike. “She’ll knock ya out ‘fore ya get anywhere and you’ll wake up wit nothin’. Fell for that skank once. Ain’t doin’ again.”

  Kevin stared at her. “Yeah. I know the drill.” That redhead looked innocent too.

  Fix seemed to realize sexy wasn’t working and turned up the pathetic. She shivered and changed her posture. Shit, is that girl even thirteen yet? Kevin looked away. The kid reminded him of some of the girls the Olds used near the ‘Mexican border’ as bait. A twinge low and outside of his left nipple reminded him why he wore armor. Little bitch shot me as soon as I untied her.

  One by one, other faces emerged from the dark. Boys still. Not one of them looked eighteen yet. Tris’s words whispered at the back of his mind. These are the lives he was about to destroy. He thumbed the cube, his pace slowing. He caught Fix staring at him again, huddled in a ball and peering at him over her knees. If not for having witnessed her ‘sexy’ act before, he’d have mistaken her now for twelve.

  She’s playing me. Shit, they’d all slit my throat in an instant if they knew what I was carrying.

  He stomped after Mike, who’d gained a six or seven pace lead. The junkie led him past three huge semi-trailers with open sides. The first had been merged with another, forming an open-faced barroom. The second trailer, a single, had a boxcar-like door cut out of the facing wall blocked off by a U-shaped counter full of shitty looking handguns and knives. A woman in a black lace corset, old enough to be his mother and definitely too large to wear the fishnets cutting into her legs, winked at him from the gun shop.

  “Holy shit.” Kevin rubbed his eyes. “I think I’m catching a contact high from being here.”

  The third car held only mattresses strewn with bodies that may or may not have been alive. A reek of feces and urine wafted by, causing him to choke back the urge to gag. Mike cut between it and the next one, walking four rows deep before turning right down a ‘corridor’ formed by boxcars. After passing four of them, they emerged in a semicircular clearing with a handful of burn barrels throwing off firelight. A dozen or more people lounged in improvised chairs and drank murky green liquid from fat glass bottles. Except for a few young women evidently here to trade themselves for drugs, the gang seemed to have made an effort to dress as close to the same as possible: black leather jackets, black pants, and blue shirts.

  Mike indicated a couch near the blue boxcar that formed the rear wall of the ‘courtyard.’ A large dark-skinned man sat between a pair of women who draped themselves on him from either side. He shifted to give Kevin a look-over, causing his leather jacket to creak as it strained to contain his muscles. Thick cornrows wrapped over his head and an enormous silver handgun sat on a table near his right hand.

  “The hell is this?” asked the man, eyeing Kevin.

  “You Tyrant?” Kevin stopped by a battered coffee table made from a slab of metal balanced on a plastic crate, covered with pills, needles, coins, and ammo.

  Clicking weapons played a cricket song in the dark all around him.

  “Yeah. An’ who the fuck are you? Imma give you ‘bout ten goddamned seconds ‘fore I school you on the meanin’ of sovereign territory.”

  “I’m a driver. ‘Less ya fancy Amarillo comin’ down on ya, relax.”

  Tyrant scoffed. “Shit, man. Them uptight bitches ain’t got no sway here. Not ta mention, if you here talkin’ ta me, I think they’d be more after yo’ ass than anything.”

  “You’d be right, except for the original client’s not around to complain.” Kevin held up the cloth sack. “I need to sell this quick, and Mike here says you’re the man to talk to.”

  “What’cha got?” Tyrant picked his gun off the table and held it in his lap. “Let’s see it. Easy and shit.”

  Kevin unwrapped the bundle. At the sight of the black box with glowing blue strips, a concentrated quiet settled over the gang. Tyrant’s hostility melted away. He gestured Kevin closer.

  “It’s legit.” Kevin cleared a space on the table with his boot and set the cube down. After a dramatic pause, he pushed the small shiny spot, causing it to open as it had in Neon’s office.

  “Motherfucker…” Tyrant’s eyes bulged. “Ain’ never seen sah much damn Salt.”

  “Yeah.” Kevin folded his arms.

  Mike grabbed him from behind
to keep from falling over. The wiry man’s entire body shook with need. He tried to speak, but all that came out of him sounded like ‘mama’ over and over. Kevin pushed him off to arm’s length.

  “Give ya two hundred coins, cold.” Tyrant lifted one ampule, holding it to the light. “This shit from the Enclave, ain’t it?”

  “Two hundred?” Kevin shook his head. “It’s worth more than ten times that.”

  Tyrant grinned. “Yeah, it is. But you ain’t sellin’ to no Cloud 9 here. And if what you say is true… if Neon is no more… than your ass best be getting the fuck out on the sooner side of later.”

  “Contract was for twenty-four hundred. I can’t go back with less than two grand.”

  Mike emitted a sound like a chicken being run over by a truck as he slumped to his knees.

  “Two hundred’s my best offer.” Tyrant’s smile hardened.

  Kevin leaned forward and snagged the ampule from Tyrant’s fingers. “I can’t do two hundred.” He dropped it in the tray and poked the button to close the cube.

  “Pity.” Tyrant turned his head to the left. “Yo, Al. Time to negotiate.”

  Shit. Kevin went for the .45, but the woman to Tyrant’s right leapt at him, shrieking and waving knives. He backpedaled, cringing from the bombastic assault, trying not to trip over Mike.

  Bang.

  A slug slammed into his back, stalled on his armored jacket, but it knocked the breath from his lungs. The dervish woman feinted high and kicked his legs out from under him. Kevin hit the gravel on his back, raised the .45, and squeezed off one shot before a flurry of chains, clubs, and fists fell on him. Pain exploded in his wrist. His gun hit the stones somewhere to his right.

  He stomped the nearest shin, driving the knee backward with a splintering crunch. An aluminum bat smashed into his stomach, making him sit up into a massive leather-clad fist. Rocks hit the back of his head. For a few seconds, the haze of over-illumination faded.