The Roadhouse Chronicles Box Set [Books 1-3]

by Cox, Matthew S.

  Oh, sure. The guy we’re going to has the money. She froze, staring at the wall. Wow. Hypocrite much? “Okay. Meet at the garage tomorrow morning?”

  “Sounds like a deal.” Jasmin reached over the counter to shake hands.

  Tris accepted. “See you then. Oh, hey you got any spare ibuprofen around? Friend of mine went face first down the stairs.”

  Jasmin disappeared into the back room, returning half a minute later with a brown plastic bottle.

  Tris stuffed a hand in her pocket. “How much?”

  “Only six pills… Call it a good faith gesture.” Jasmin set the meds down and slid them across the counter.

  “Thanks.” Tris tossed the bottle up, caught it, and headed for the door.

  Stacy led the way back across the courtyard, skimming along in the shadows. Once they cleared the far end of the too-narrow passageway, she spun and looked Tris in the eye.

  “That whole lie detector thing was bullshit, wasn’t it?”

  Tris smiled. “Yeah, a little.”

  Stacy looked annoyed, but laughed it off. She tapped her sneaker on the dirt. “What’s GPS?”

  “Old tech for navigation. It used satellites to tell people where they were.”

  “What’s a satellite?” Stacy fell in step at her side.

  Tris whistled. “Electronics people used to launch into outer space. They’d float around the planet and do all sorts of different things. Some even had lasers on them that could assassinate people.”

  “Wow…” Stacy shivered. “That’s scary as shit. How do you know all this stuff?”

  Tris shrugged. “I watched a lot of historical documentaries.”

  Kevin leaned on a wall at the corner of an alley, glancing at the front of Cloud 9 out of the corner of his eye. He tapped his foot and shifted his weight from leg to leg. At this hour, the place looked abandoned. After what had happened there, it wouldn’t be a stretch to imagine it was abandoned. Tris did have a point… he couldn’t summon much respect for the sort of people to be more upset at having their clothing stolen than they were at enslaved women. With Tris going apeshit and titties bouncing everywhere, maybe no one noticed me. Not my circus. Not my monkeys. He sighed. This is the king of shitty ideas on a mountain of shit.

  “I should write that on a coffee mug.” He shoved off the wall and strode across the clearing.

  He fidgeted with the empty holster on his belt as he walked. Leaving the .45 in the hotel room was a calculated risk. Assuming this idiotic plan worked out even close to a way that didn’t leave him twisted into a human pretzel knot, odds were high they’d disarm him before he got within shouting distance of Petersen. The chance they’d ‘lose’ it was a chance he didn’t want to take. The Uzi would suffice.

  The front doors of Cloud 9 were open, which surprised him. He stepped inside, and found the place in much the same condition as he’d left it in, except for the lack of bodies. The dancing cages remained empty and open, someone had cleaned up the blood on the floor, and the absence of unbearable stench had to mean Neon’s office got cleaned out as well.

  “W’aint open yet.” An imposing bald man behind the bar, patch over his left eye, looked up from a porno magazine that looked three times older than him.

  Kevin tapped into something halfway between courage and idiocy. “Man, those pages were stuck together before you were a dirty thought in someone’s head.”

  “Yeah.” Tall and Bald flipped it closed to examine the cover. “2018, and it ain’t for sale.”

  “Not buyin’.” Kevin put one hand on the bar. “Or drinkin’. I got a package for Mr. Petersen. Roadhouse job.”

  “Leave it. I’ll get it to him.” The man fluttered pages back to his place. A few did seem fused together.

  “Can’t, pal. You know the drill. Gotta bring it to him.”

  The security guy grumbled and got that look in his eye like he was about to do whatever it took to regain his previous solitude. He shifted his weight forward as if to stand.

  “700 ampules of void salt.” Kevin scratched his head. “You look like a no-bullshit kinda guy, so I figure before you throw me out the door and get the big man’s panties in a knot, you should know.”

  The man froze with one ass cheek still on his chair. “Have a seat.”

  Kevin took the nearest stool and leaned on the bar while the security man fiddled with what appeared to be a CB radio under the bar.

  “Pedro, it’s Al. Got some dude here says he’s got a box of Salt for Mr. P.”

  Static crackled as he let off the talk button.

  “Sec, Al.” About a minute later, the radio crackled. “Sendin’ an escort.”

  “Copy.” Tall and Bald set the mic down and reclined with his back to the wall. “You’re in luck, buddy. He’ll see you.”

  Yeah. Luck. I guess that’s one way to put it.

  Kevin stared around at the place for a while, trying to guess which bullet holes came from Tris’s attack of conscience, and which had been there for years. A chewed on table leg lined up with a recent patch in the front of the bar. Wow, they fixed that pretty damn fast.

  “Hey,” yelled an average looking man in the doorway. His voice sounded far too deep for his build. “You the driver?”

  “Yep.” Kevin threw a half-hearted salute at the bald man and headed to the door. Two other, much larger, men waited on the road. Both had shotguns, and more lame attempts at fancy suits. “Wow, red carpet time.”

  “Comedian,” said the closer man. “I’ll need the Uzi till you’re done with the boss. Plus any others you got on ya. We find one later on, it’s going up your ass.”

  Kevin shrugged the strap off his shoulder and heaved the weapon to the guy. “Figured. I’m just finishin’ a job. Don’t want any trouble. Only brought that one.” He pulled his jacket open to show off his lack of other weapons.

  “Yeah, yeah. That’s what they always say.”

  The dark-haired guy waved him to follow and headed off down a side street. The two leg breakers with shotguns took up the rear. They meandered in no great hurry down streets wide enough for two cars to pass abreast. Most of the facing buildings had the look of bars, casinos, or abandoned houses. An old, twisted street sign identified an intersection as S. Temple going one way and S 400 E branching off at a T, but the way it had bent left it anyone’s guess which was which.

  Hmmf. Temple my ass. If there is a god, he’s left this place way behind.

  His guide hooked a right past the sign, which put the mountains to their left. About five minutes of walking later, he turned toward the mountains and passed a collapsed multi-tier parking deck and a plain beige brick building beyond it before cutting across a dirt lot full of car parts that may once have been a well-tended lawn. A short concrete porch led up to the face of a three-story building that bore a mild resemblance to an ancient castle. On the third floor, metal gratings protected windows long-since devoid of glass, where men stood behind belt-fed machine guns mounted on posts. The entire first floor had layer upon layer of metal armor plates arranged around it, several with car-shaped dents.

  That explains the thing with cars.

  The man stopped at the door. “Before we go inside. You got any hidden weapons you don’t have room in your ass for?”

  “Just my mouth.” Kevin winked. “Feel free to check. I haven’t been felt up by a dude in about six months. Kinda miss it.”

  “I’ll take yer word for it.” The deep-voiced man opened the door and went in.

  After a brief trip down a hallway and up two flights of stairs, they followed a moldy carpet beneath a skylight installed via high explosives to a dull red door that looked as if it could stop missiles. The man opened it for him and waited.

  Kevin forced a smile and stepped past him into a dark wood-paneled office that seemed to have escaped the very existence of a nuclear war. A subtle hint of unsmoked cigar lingered in the air. Overstuffed bookshelves surrounded a desk at which an older man stared imperiously down at him from a wingback chair
.

  Mr. Petersen could’ve been fifty as easily as ninety. The appearance of his face, pale, stout, and veiny, had the texture of a nonagenarian, but the structure and shape of a much younger man. Despite a plain white button-down shirt that seemed far too clean for anyone in Glimmertown to be wearing, the man’s eyes pinned him in place. Kevin had the distinct urge to turn around and haul ass.

  “This is the driver?” asked Mr. Petersen, raising a steel-wool eyebrow. “Ahh, yes. The red jacket.”―he gestured at a facing chair covered in gold velveteen―“Please.”

  Against his better judgement, Kevin approached the desk and sat. A weak mechanical noise emanated from somewhere behind the desk. Rhythmic, it whirred, hissed and popped in an endless cycle. He managed a pleasant smile. The two shotgun meatheads entered, but remained by the wall on either side of the door.

  “You’ve caused quite a stir in my city, mister…”

  “Kevin.”

  Mr. Petersen’s eyebrows edged closer.

  “No idea what my last name is. Dad got himself dead before I was five.”

  “Well… Kevin… I would be most interested in hearing your side of what happened.”

  Something in Petersen’s unflinching glare unsettled him. He had the tone of one who spoke to a soon-to-be dead man. Kevin’s heart raced as he tried to channel the attitude that had thus far kept him alive. In the back of his head, he pictured Wayne pointing at a patch of empty dirt behind the roadhouse. Behold, the garden in which I grow my fucks. You might notice it’s barren.

  “I wound up running into this crazy bitch. Promised me all kinds of money for a ride, and… well. That didn’t work out. So since she’s handy with a gun I figured I’d keep her ass around till she covered what she owed.”

  Petersen steepled his fingers in front of his face, nodding once.

  “Get the job to bring your package here. Instructions said to bring it to Neon at Cloud 9. So, we go in there. He’s got these women…”

  “I am aware.” A hint of disdain warped Petersen’s mouth, giving Kevin a spark of hope.

  “So, Neon’s in the middle of finalizing the drop off when he offers me money for the woman. She had a small objection to being taken as a slave.”

  “So you killed Neon, six of my employees, four customers, and robbed half a dozen others?”

  Kevin let out a nervous chuckle. “Well, if you don’t mind me splitting hairs… I sort of stood there watching. She’s had some work done. The whole Neon thing was pretty much over before I even pulled a gun out.”

  Mr. Petersen tapped his fingertips together in a rotating pattern from pinky to thumb. “You must understand how this looks. My people are dead and seven of the club’s assets are missing.”

  “Six.” Kevin held up a finger. “Tris isn’t a slave. A person ain’t a slave till they get captured, and Neon wasn’t tall enough to ride that ride.”

  “I assume you decided to bring more than glib witticisms with you today?” Petersen pulled his hands apart and let them rest on the desk.

  “Correct. The original delivery stipulated I was to exchange the package and collect 2700 coins. Considering the… problems, I’d like to suggest we do the exchange for one thousand.”

  Petersen at last shifted his drilling gaze away from Kevin’s eyes. He seemed to mull the idea, and the dour, imposing presence faded to a more cordial smile. “We have an agreement. You have the package with you?”

  “Uhh.” Kevin scratched his head. “It’s in my room at the hotel. I… well… I half expected you to just kill me and figured I’d make you work for it if that was how it went down.”

  Mr. Petersen laughed. “So you aren’t as dumb as you look.”

  Kevin cringed inside, but smiled. “I keep hearing that.”

  “Don’t worry, Kevin… Neon was getting to be a bit of a problem. Outgrowing his position. I assumed the man would attempt some manner of power play soon. You did me a favor. I’ll consider your eating the 1700 coins and the bounty I was contemplating putting on Neon as a break even on the damage your out of control woman caused.”

  “Sounds good.” Kevin pointed over his shoulder with a thumb. “I’ll go grab the stuff and be right back?”

  Mr. Petersen’s stare seemed to slice into his soul. The unsettling quality returned after a few seconds, made worse by a sourceless, repetitive mechanical noise that occupied the silence. Kevin shifted in his seat.

  “That is fine.” Mr. Petersen flashed a broad smile. “See that you do return. It would be most unfortunate if you did not.”

  Kevin stood. “I won’t be long.” He started for the door, but stopped. “Can I ask something?”

  “Questions can always be asked, Kevin. The answers are often the problem.”

  He hesitated. “Is it… true you were around before the war? You, uhh, don’t look that old.”

  Mr. Petersen smiled and gestured at the door. “Why don’t you go and retrieve my package, and we can talk about history when you return. I’ll put on some tea in the meantime.”

  “Uhh, sure.”

  One of the shotgun meatheads opened the door.

  Kevin leaned back with a smile. “Tea sounds lovely. See you in a few minutes.”

  27

  It Ain't Me

  An hour after leaving Mr. Petersen’s office for the second time, Kevin’s heart continued racing. He decided against coffee and sipped metal-flavored water. Anxiety got his foot tapping. Another minute later, he set the glass down and drummed his fingers on the table. Tris appeared from an alley across the street about forty seconds before he got up to go look for her. Stacy trailed behind as they hurried across to the diner and slipped into the opposite seat.

  The girl seemed wearier than before, but also at ease. Dark rings around her eyes had appeared since the last time he’d seen her, only three hours ago. A twinge of concern needled at him, but he swallowed it. All he needed was for her to sniff out a strand of vulnerability and she’d exploit it.

  “How’d it go?” He smiled at Tris.

  She wobbled her head side to side. “Not bad. Got the job set up. Seems legit. 1800 coins to drop off some painkillers. Oh… here.”

  Kevin glanced at a pill bottle rolling across the table toward him. “What’s that?”

  “Ibuprofen.”

  Kevin blinked. “Gesundheit.”

  “Are you still sore?” She grabbed the bottle before it fell off the edge and stood it on end. “Take one. It’s a non-narcotic pain pill.”

  As soon as she mentioned pain, his bones ached. “Thanks for reminding me I got my ass kicked.”

  Tris kept quiet for a moment, fixing him with an earnest stare. “How’d it go with the… uhh…”

  “I’m here aren’t I?” He opened the bottle and poured one capsule into his palm. “Petersen’s quite a talker. Either he really is over a hundred, or he’s living in his own fantasy world.” Kevin tossed the pill in his mouth and slugged down the rest of his water. “Told me all about how he used to live around this area before the war… worked for a robotics manufacturer trying to get people to buy actuators.”

  “Sounds like fun.” Tris leaned back as the cook brought her a coffee. She handed him a penny. “Thanks. So the ‘king of Glimmertown’ is settled with us?”

  “Yeah, I got a talking to about how I can’t ‘control my woman,’ but it’s over and done with.” Tris scoffed. “I hope that kid’s job works out, or I’m gonna take a beating at Wayne’s.”

  “Control your woman?” Tris fumed. “I’ll show him controlling―”

  “Hey, easy… or I’ll have to break out the rope again.”

  She kicked him in the shin.

  “Ow. Aww.” He rubbed it. “Easy… I’m wounded.”

  Stacy shivered, seeming feverish. She looked up as if to add something to the conversation, but her head dipped down.

  “Well, the upside is, Petersen’s not a big fan of Neon and his slave trade. Too many complications. Though the drug thing is here to stay. So, about that job.
”

  Tris sipped her coffee in silence for a few minutes. “1800 coins to run medical supplies to a settlement. It’s not on any roadhouse channels, so it should be a mystery run.”

  “That’s good.” He stared at her. “You haven’t once mentioned the destination, so I’m going to assume I won’t like it.”

  “Dalmmnfths.” She mumbled into her hand.

  His eyebrows flattened. “Out with it.”

  “Dallas.”

  Kevin stared at the ceiling. “Oh for fuckety fuck’s fucking fucked sake.”

  An uninspired giggle hiccupped from Stacy, sounding half-alive. She raised a hand in a lame attempt to point at him. “He said a bad word.”

  “Do I want to know?” Tris raised an eyebrow.

  “Dallas took a direct hit. The place practically glows at night. Plus, it’s a major pop center, so there’s gonna be Infected coming out of the goddamned walls.” He glared at Stacy, not that she noticed. If she hadn’t suggested it… “I’d rather eat the 1700.”

  Tris grabbed his hand. “Hey, don’t be like that. There’s a settlement there, so obviously the stories are a little exaggerated. Jasmin did say we had to take route 75 in from the north, so maybe it’s not inside the city itself, but near enough to be called Dallas?”

  He grumbled.

  “Hey, can I tell you something?”

  The sincerity in her voice caught him off guard. “Yeah.”

  “When I heard the payment’s waiting for us in Dallas, my first thought was ‘bullshit.’ I… I get why you didn’t trust me. I understand now.”

  He let all the air out of his lungs in a slow sigh. A feeble sense of vindication withered away at the look in her eyes. He felt like the guy who told a little girl Santa Claus was made up. “Yeah….”

  Kevin stomped out the small door from the Garage office to the parking area, twenty coins light. Greedy, mercenary prick. He ignored the shiny silver car and hooked a right past the cinderblock wall separating it from the Challenger. Tris, Stacy, Tina, Shailaja, and the four other women from Cloud 9 all crowded at the passenger side door.