The Roadhouse Chronicles Box Set [Books 1-3]

by Cox, Matthew S.

  “I respect that you didn’t kill my friend. It’s why I didn’t come in the front door shooting everything that moved.”

  “I can recognize that.” Tyrant pursed his lips and glanced at the open door leading to the courtyard. At the sight of the empty couch, he frowned. “You don’t think you’re gonna steal from me and walk on outta here do ya? You got ‘nuff heat on your fine ass already from Petersen.”

  Tris kept the Beretta trained on the conscious woman, not trusting she wouldn’t go for whatever sat under the pillow given the chance. “Someone told me you had a kind of honor code. Your boys beat my friend senseless. I returned the favor.” She tilted her head toward the couch. “Let’s call it a failed negotiation and go back to the start.”

  Tyrant sucked something out of his teeth. “What’s your proposition?”

  “I don’t really want what’s in the box. It’s about money. That box was transported by a roadhouse courier. I heard they don’t react well to bandits.”

  Tyrant held his hands up. “Your asses killed the client. Roadhouse be every bit as twisted up at you.”

  Tris smiled. “Neon wasn’t the client. Petersen was. Neon’s just an employee.”

  “Hmm.” Tyrant’s jaw shifted left and right.

  The girl slid her hand along the mattress.

  “Stupid bitch.” Tris raised the Beretta. “Tyrant, you might wanna put those fuzzy cuffs to good use before your minus one pet vagina.”

  “Mata a esta puta,” said the woman.

  “If you insist.” Tris pulled the hammer back.

  “Hold on.” Tyrant pushed the small woman away from the pillow with one arm and held the other up to Tris.

  “Two thousand coins or the cube.” Tris narrowed her eyes.

  He grinned. “Ain’t got that much coin, an’ you ain’t got no way outta here.”

  “How ‘bout a duel then?” Tris smiled. “You and me, hand to hand. First one out cold loses.”

  Tyrant chuckled and mimed grappling motions. “Why don’t you get those clothes off and we can do it all Greco-Roman style.”

  “That’s not happening.” Tris shook her head.

  “Neither is us fightin’. I saw you take Libby out with one hit, an’ that bitch be hard. Yo’ bony li’l ass got some shit.”

  “Guess we’re at a stalemate. Look, I really don’t want to have to kill anyone. I don’t have a lot of time, so this is what’s gonna happen.” She wagged the Beretta. “You. Out of bed, grab that cube and bring it over here.”

  The woman blushed and stared.

  “You still think you’re walkin’ outta here?” Tyrant raised an eyebrow.

  “I took out Neon and four of his thugs in six seconds. What do you think I could do to your shitheads if I felt like it?”

  “Aww, bullshit.” Tyrant shook his head.

  Libby moaned.

  “S’pose you need a little encouragement.” Tris glanced down at the semi-conscious Amazonian woman. “Had enough?”

  Libby shook off the daze and snarled. She jumped to her feet, ignoring the rather obvious handgun pointed at the smaller woman. Time dragged to a near-standstill; Tris cracked Libby across the crown with the handle of the pistol, drove a hammer fist into the woman’s gut, and smashed her over the back of the head with the gun as she doubled over. Time resumed.

  The woman collapsed on her chest, unconscious.

  “That enough motivation?” Tris had her weapon pointed at the smaller woman again before she could yank the object out from under the pillow. “Go ahead, pull it out. Unload it.”

  Tyrant stared daggers at Tris while his still-conscious playmate tugged a big chrome handgun out from under the pillow. She removed the magazine and dropped it, but held on to the pistol.

  “Clear the slide too, sweetie. I’m snowy, not blonde.”

  The woman narrowed her eyes, but did so, ejecting a round.

  Tris shot a nanosecond-long gaze at the drugs. “Move your ass. Bring me that cube.”

  Again, the woman turned red. At a nod from Tyrant, she slipped out of bed. Tris raised an eyebrow, not due to the woman’s nudity or plethora of knife scars, but at the puffy foxtail hanging down to her knees. The short woman turned to grasp the cube, revealing the faux appendage dangled from between her ass cheeks.

  Tris squirmed. I don’t even want to know why.

  Tyrant appeared to find humor in her discomfort and reached down between the mattress and the wall. He held up another butt plug tail, this one black like a panther’s and twice as long as the fox. “Got extras if you’re curious what it feels like.”

  When Tris glanced at it, the woman threw the void salt at her, grabbed a knife from the nightstand, and charged. Tris ignored the cube, which sailed over her head and hit the far wall with a loud thud. The dog emitted another unmotivated bark. The shrieking woman lunged. Tris dodged to the right, cringing at the sight of the ‘tail’ flaring out as she spun to pursue. She leapt back to avoid a slice at gut level. Tyrant’s excitement at watching a naked, knife-wielding woman chase her around the boxcar grew… visibly.

  Tris ducked and weaved, keeping one eye on Tyrant in case he remembered the Desert Eagle on the mattress behind him. Blind with rage, the woman didn’t seem to notice their proximity to the courtyard-facing door until Tris caught her forearm out of a wild overhead stab and jiu jitsu-tossed her outside. Tail fluttering, the short woman flew onto the empty sofa, bounced up into a flip, and landed on her ass on the dirt in front of it.

  Tris cringed, paralyzed for a split second by imagining how it felt to have all her weight come down on such an object stuffed in such a place. She slammed the door and flipped the locking bar while the stunned woman struggled to get up.

  Tyrant shook his head, looking disappointed. She kept the Beretta leveled at him while backing up to where the cube sat on the floor near the ‘fireplace,’ and squatted over it. A poke of the button caused it to open and extend its four trays.

  “Aww, don’t you trust me?” Tyrant’s baritone laugh vibrated the walls. “We only had the damn thing a couple hours. None ‘o my people are crazy enough to dose that shit.” A sense of genuine regret tinted his features. “’Sa one-way trip.”

  “Sounds like it’s heat you don’t need then.” She closed it. “So here’s what’s next. You forget me, I forget you, and we both go on like tonight never happened.”

  “Not a whole lot of upside for me in that arrangement.”

  “You know what this stuff is, don’t’ you?” She sighed.

  “A lot of cash.” He chuckled, deep baritone vibrating the walls.

  She shook her head. “This is the Enclave trying to kill whoever survived the Virus.”

  He held his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “I don’ make anyone buy that shit, but it’s good money.”

  Pounding fists struck the door accompanied by rapid Spanish yelling in a pleading tone.

  “Oh, she sounds upset.” Tris glanced at the wall.

  Tyrant chuckled. “Natasha’s a bit shy.”

  Tris walked to the rear-facing door, opened the lock, and pulled the slab of wood and steel far enough to slip out. “No one’s got a bullet in them. I’m only taking back what you stole. Don’t press the issue, or you’ll be leading a gang of one.”

  He glanced down, shaking his head.

  A dark purple sweatshirt caught her eye, draped over the back of the chair by the dog. She snatched it and jumped out. Metal clattering announced Tyrant jamming the mag into his handgun and racking it. Thuds moved across the boxcar as he stomped. Tris jogged backward, aiming at the door. Scraping preceded the flickering glow of firelight invading the interior. He’s letting Natasha back in. She sprinted for the gate, climbing it in three leaping strides. At the top, Tris glanced back over her shoulder. Tyrant leaned out of the doorway, Desert Eagle in hand. He aimed for a second, but let his arm drop. After another disappointed head shake, he shoved the door closed.

  Tris jumped down and ran past the two moaning thugs. She heade
d to the right, going around behind the gang’s courtyard and emerging with a few rows of dead trucks between her and Tyrant. At that distance, stealth became a triviality. The more organized section of wrecks left her navigating a tighter channel between decaying trailers, and several times forced her to climb collapsed piles of debris.

  She found a pull out loading ramp on the underside of a box truck near the fence and propped it in place against the razor wire to use as an easy way up and over. The Uzi and katana rattled against each other when she leapt to the street, seeming loud and painfully obvious in the stillness of the railway path. Fortunately, no one but a few cats came to check out the noise.

  Sixty meters or so later, she passed the cluster of barrels where Fix still huddled. The teen’s teeth ceased chattering as she peered up, wearing an expression of surprise. Much of the drowsiness of the drug had faded from her expression. She looked awake, but forlorn.

  “Don’t be so shocked. I’m hard to kill.” Tris threw the hoodie at her. “Might wanna peel that thing off your face.”

  Fix blinked, staring mute.

  “You should get out of here. That used to be Tyrant’s.”

  The girl squirmed into the massive sweatshirt, using the oversized sleeves as mittens.

  Tris trudged off in the direction of the hotel, tracing her thumb back and forth over the cube.

  This has got bad idea written all over it.

  25

  Plan B

  Sunlight seared a shimmering glare across the horizon, making Kevin squint and raise a peach-fuzz covered arm to shield his face. The hand hovering in front of his face belonged to a four-year-old. The rumble of a semi diesel vibrated his ass from a poorly padded seat. He smiled up at the indistinct silhouette of a bearded man behind the wheel. A plastic hula girl swayed on the dash, next to a taller, thinner cartoon cowboy holding a guitar. Kevin looked down at his gaunt little shirtless body. His jeans were pink, but he didn’t care. Dad had found them, and they fit.

  He looked back up at the man, a question at the tip of his child brain that could not find a way off his tongue.

  “Kevin?” asked a whispery, distant woman.

  He peered around the seatback into the sleeper cabin, toward where the voice seemed to have come. Sinuous blackness whorled within, scaring a gasp out of him.

  “Kevin?” The voice sounded closer, inches from his ear.

  His eyes snapped open. Bland grey ceiling blurred overhead for two seconds before gaining focus. The placidity of sleep gave way to a dull ache throbbing in his arms and legs. Sweat melted out of every pore, a sweltering blanket up to his chest.

  “Good morning,” said a familiar woman.

  Tris. He shifted his head to the left. She lay at his side, naked save for the Beretta dangling from a hand attached to an arm draped over her hip. Porcelain skin glistened with a light coating of perspiration. He stared at a spot halfway between her navel and sex, three inches toward her left hip. Not even a scar remained where the bomb had been.

  “Do you feel any better?” She traced a finger over his pectoral. “You’re one big bruise.”

  Kevin closed his eyes again, distracted from lustful thoughts by feeling his pulse in his face and chest. He flung off the blanket in a search for cool. “I’ll live.”

  Something cold landed on his chest, taking a bit of the pain away from a tender spot. He leaned his head up, opened his eyes, and stared at the cube. A second later, he sat up clutching it in both hands and poked the button to open it. At the sight of all the ampules still in their trays, he sagged with relief.

  “How the hell did you…”

  Tris rolled off the bed, leaving the Beretta. “I can be sneaky. By the way, there’s no hot water, but there is a shower.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  She kept going. “Better not. Keep a gun on the door in case we have visitors.”

  He reached for the pistol, freezing when he spotted the Uzi hung over the back of the desk chair. “You went shopping?”

  A metallic squeak preceded the pattering of water. “Shit! This is cold. Not exactly. Pinch of opportunity.”

  The floor creaked as if someone approached the door outside.

  “You didn’t see my .45 did you?” He forced himself out of bed and took the Uzi. It seemed in dire need of cleaning, but mechanically intact. “Did you fire this or see it fire?”

  “N-n-no.” Her teeth chattered.

  He dropped it back on the seat, sat on the edge of the bed, and put a hand on the Beretta, watching the door. Whoever it was outside either kept going or had fallen asleep on their feet. A few minutes later, Tris emerged, covered from armpit to mid-thigh with a towel. Kevin handed her the pistol and trotted into the bathroom. A little toilet sat so close to the shower one could barely take a dump without getting their feet wet. He flung off his briefs and stood under a stream of chilly water. The stagnant heat of the motel room baking in the sun of a desert morning made the frigid downpour feel amazing.

  Kevin tried not to think about closed-circuit plumbing systems, poor filters, and how many other people’s piss he might have in his hair at that moment. Once the shower went from ‘ahh’ to ‘damn, this is cold,’ he hopped out and stumbled into the room. Much to his disappointment, Tris had her clothes on―though he had to admit to himself his body wasn’t quite up for that yet. Being on his feet and walking was already asking a bit much.

  After struggling into his jeans, shirt, and boots, he forced himself to put the jacket on, but left it open. During a hunt for something to conceal the cube with, he found another surprise in the bathroom: TP. Kevin pondered stealing it. He knew places he could sell a three-quarter-full roll for six coins, but decided against any more jinxes. Takin’ someone’s shitter paper was about as low as it got… well, next to stealin’ his car.

  “Ready?”

  Tris glanced at the Uzi. “Not interested?”

  “Untested.”

  “I took it off a guy who was about to shoot me with it. He trusted it.”

  Kevin smirked, but accepted the Uzi when she handed it to him. “What the hell did you do?”

  “I’ll tell you about it over food.” She rubbed her stomach with both hands. “I’m about to eat myself.”

  Over the course of a meal including unidentifiable meat patties and home fries, Tris explained the gory details. Kevin kept eying the diner windows, not too comfortable being out in the open with the cube while the ‘King of Glimmertown’ had his people looking for them. At any second, the quiet murmurs of a handful of what passed for ‘citizens’ here having a late breakfast could become screaming and shooting.

  “What’s bothering you?” Tris sipped her coffee.

  He looked down at his untouched burger and toast and sighed. “I’ve had that 1911 since I was nine. Really, I guess I ought to be glad I managed not to lose it this long… but―” He flicked a fingernail on the edge of the table.

  “Your dad’s?”

  Kevin moved only his eyes to stare at her, still sitting slouched. “What makes you say that?”

  She gave him a sympathetic look. “Well, men only get like that about firearms if they’re damaged in the head or if their dad gave it to them.” She picked up her coffee, but hesitated before drinking. “And you were muttering in your sleep, apologizing to him for losing it.”

  “Oh.” He shifted in the seat, unable to look at her. “Well, he didn’t exactly give it to me. He died when I was like four. One of his friends found me later and passed it on.”

  Tris smiled. “Nothing to be ashamed of. I miss my dad too.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “I don’t know.” She gazed into her mug. “He vanished one day and I got reassigned to new parents. Mom2 and Dad2 treated me like I’d always been theirs. Kinda creepy. They thought I was having ‘mental problems’ when I asked about my real father. The entire city seemed to think he’d never even existed. No one talked about him, and whenever I asked, they were all condescending and stuf
f like I was having imaginary friends.”

  “That’s twisted.” He felt a little awkward at being sentimental over a gun by comparison. “Bet he was involved with the resistance.”

  “What?” Tris looked up. “Where did that come from?”

  “Well, think about it.” He scooted back in the bench seat and leaned forward. “A small society like the Enclave that’s heavy on propaganda and mind control needs to wipe out any trace of dissent, right? Everyone’s supposed to eat the same bullshit for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. If someone steps out of line… questions that council of four or whatever they are… it makes sense for them to stop existing. Preserves the illusion for the rest of the sheep.”

  Red appeared around Tris’s eyes.

  “Hey, sorry… just a theory. I’m guessing.”

  “I can go back for it.” She sniffled. “Tyrant’s girls might pose a bit of a problem, but maybe he’ll sell your gun back to us.”

  He wrapped a half-patty in a piece of toast and jammed it into his mouth, chewing the salty mush slow enough to dare tasting it. A tinny clatter of improvised bells announced the door opening. He left the ‘sandwich’ dangling from his teeth and grabbed the Uzi. Tris spun to face behind her at the door as a short figure in a dark violet hoodie walked in with her hands stuffed in the front pockets. Black hair hung to the belt down the front. Fix pulled her hood back, and looked off at the left end of the diner, evidently searching. When she swung her gaze to the right, she locked stares with Tris and trudged over. Her expression held the begrudging politeness of a teen forced to go apologize against their will.

  “I don’t believe this kid.” Tris turned her head as the girl approached, sliding back into a normal seated position by the time Fix stood at the end of their table, eyes downcast.

  “Hey,” said the girl.

  A small red mark on her cheek remained where the ‘sleepy time’ derm had been.

  “Get outta here, ya little rat,” yelled a bearded guy behind the counter. “I already told you, I catch you stealin’ in here again I’m―”