The Roadhouse Chronicles Box Set [Books 1-3]

by Cox, Matthew S.

  “You steer, you’re the scrawniest.”

  Gene let off a dry chuckle and slung his M-16 over his back. “Won’t get an argument outta me. You sure you don’t wanna let the chick drive?”

  “Tweet. Tweet,” said Tris. She jogged to a spigot on the wall and washed off the blade.

  Rod chuckled. “She’s probably stronger than any of us.”

  Kevin ran to the back end of the bus and slammed the battery housing cover. With Tris at his side, Rod, Marty, and Paul pushing as well, he grunted and heaved. They may as well have been attempting to move the building. After a few futile seconds, Gene appeared at the corner.

  “Sorry. I’d have yelled, but… yeah. Took me a minute to find the parking brake. Gimme ten seconds and try that again.”

  Kevin sighed.

  Soon, they shoved again, and the massive vehicle crept forward. Once clear of the row of parked buses, it turned to the right, and a laborious minute later, they got it close enough to the charging station for a cable to reach. While everyone collapsed to catch their breath, Gene ran around and plugged it in.

  “Awesome,” said Marty. “This is gonna work? Be awesomer if I got to pulp something’s head.” He rattled the SPAS.

  “Awesomer isn’t a word, dumbass,” said Rod.

  “Two words.” Marty tapped index and pinky finger under his eyes before holding up ‘metal horns.’ “Nuclear fuckin’ war.”

  “Isn’t that three words?” asked Gene.

  “Naw man. The ‘fuckin’ don’t count. It’s like a modifier or something. Who gives a rat shit about grammar now?”

  “There’s always one,” said Tris. “Always.”

  “So… how long?” asked Rod.

  Kevin stood. “Well, nothing’s caught fire yet, so that’s a good sign. Means I got the wires hooked up right. If the cells were stone dead… we’re looking at six to eight hours. Maybe half an hour before I know if we’re going to get a charge at all.”

  “That ain’t good man.” Paul paced in a tight circle. “Gotta get out of here.”

  “Chill, man.” Rod patted his arm. “We got at least seven hours of sun left.”

  Tris walked out of sight beyond the corner of the bus.

  Kevin went the other way, heading for the door. He jogged up the steps and flopped into the driver’s seat, staring at the blank instrument panel. So strange being this high up off the road. The cushioned seat felt wonderful, even if it did smell like an old sweat sock. White hair drifted by the window. He leaned up to watch Tris root around inside the wheel. She shut the cover in a few minutes and moved past the front to the other side.

  Kevin closed his eyes. The next thing he knew, a light ping noise happened, making him sit bolt upright in the chair. The instrument panel lit up with blue and green glow. A square sub-panel near the speedometer scrolled with a boot process, the battery charge meter showed 8%. Another panel displayed a number of maintenance alerts.

  Tris bounded up the steps. “We have a problem.”

  “Shit. How bad?”

  “I think there was a surge when the previous battery got shot out. No way to know for sure but to try it, but if we turn this thing off, it might not come back on again without replacing the power management board and maybe a third of the wiring. There’s melted insulation on most of the lines going to the wheel motors.”

  “How long?” He rubbed his face.

  “Two or three days, maybe four… with a crew of trained mechanics and parts on a shelf. Double that if we have to scav it from the other buses. Also, the rear wheel fuses melted. I can replace those easy though, plenty of spares in the other buses.”

  “Damn, and I was about to get happy it turned on at all.”

  She shrugged. “It might come back on.”

  “So what you’re saying is if we turn it off, we’re probably going to kill it… so we gotta drive outta here today.”

  “I’m saying it’s very likely that this thing will become a brick if we try to shut it down for the night.”

  Kevin glanced at the roof. Two plastic-domed skylights, one near the front and one closer to the back, gave him an idea. He jumped up and ran outside, waving at the others to gather. Tris jogged over to the next nearest bus and opened the wheel cap, gripping at a cylinder fuse the size of a pair of beer cans stacked on end.

  “What’s up?” asked Rod.

  “Tris found an electrical problem with the bus.” He held up a hand as the groaning started. “The bus may or may not turn back on if we kill the power. I don’t really want to walk back and pick this bastard up in the morning. Be just my luck some idiot finds it and takes off. There’s roof lights we can cut out and make holes. What say we get some metal welded on over the side windows, open those hatches, and pick everyone up through the roof?”

  “What like drive up under the ladder?” asked Gene. “Might work. Though, the bus ain’t that tall. Infected could climb over each other and might reach.”

  “A couple of us on the roof can hold them off.” Marty stared into space, clearly daydreaming about a ride of glory with his shotgun.

  Rod made faces. “I dunno. Rushing is risky. We could spend the night here.”

  “In a lit up bus?” Kevin cringed. “Infected would be on us like moths on a headlight.”

  “Can’t you shut down the lights?” asked Gene.

  “I couldn’t find a switch. If the power’s on, the interior lights are on.” Kevin tapped a finger to his mouth. “I suppose I could take the bulbs out.”

  “If we don’t go back, they might think the worst happened.” Paul flicked a switch back and forth on the Mp5, making a continuous clicking.

  “I honestly don’t think it will matter.” Kevin pointed at the gate. “When we drive this monster out of here, it’s going to make noise. All that crap in the road. The gate… grinding metal. Dark or not, we’re going to be up to our eyeballs in them.”

  Tris trotted back over with her prize and looked toward the city. “Light may make them hesitate and buy us a couple of minutes.”

  “How much chance is there something else could go wrong?” asked Rod. “If we sat on this bus overnight?”

  “Gamble either way.” Tris shrugged. “The electrical system on that thing might tolerate holding a full charge all night… or we come back to a bonfire.”

  “I haven’t got any experience with a vehicle this big,” said Kevin. “But… there’s a roadhouse about two hours away. It should have enough juice to make it there. If it drops dead then, no big deal. Place will have food and beds, and we can worry about running everyone back and forth a couple at a time… no pressure.”

  “Uhh, Kevin?” Tris poked him in the side with the fuse. “Are you gonna drive that bus at 110?”

  “Shit.” He held his hands up in surrender. “Okay, make it four hours.”

  “Fuck it.” Rod glowered. “I’m gonna head back to the building and get everyone off their asses, ready to move out fast. We do this tonight.” He looked at Kevin. “Think you can find your way back?”

  Kevin scratched his head. “Quick map might help.”

  Tris jogged off. “There’s some paper and pencils in the office.”

  “No problem,” said Kevin. “Got the feeling you wanna head out tonight.”

  “Yeah, man.” Rod shook his head. “Fuck this shithole. I’ll have everyone ready to move. Drive this pig back as soon as you think it’ll make it to that roadhouse.”

  “Got it.” Kevin waved at Marty and Gene. “Gimme a hand with some welding.”

  Tris returned with a yellow pad and a standard pencil before heading over to replace the fuses in the back wheels. Rod sketched out a crude map of lines and arrows ticking off how many side streets to pass before turning right, another handful and a left, then a right on the next street.

  “Y’oughta know where you are then.” Rod handed him the paper.

  Over the next several hours while the bus batteries charged, they affixed slats of scrap metal to the windows. Marty, claiming t
he only protective mask in the garage, appointed himself “King of Weldonia” and ran the acetylene torch after a quick lesson. Kevin got up on the roof and tore open the skylights, creating two square holes big enough to accommodate a person with ease. Inspiration hit him, and he dragged a pair of stepladders into the bus and had Marty weld them in place by each opening. Once they exhausted available scrap metal, and the oxy tank ran dry, Gene muttered something about taking a piss and walked off, headed for the rear of the garage. Marty tossed the welding mask, collected his SPAS, and followed.

  46

  Seventeen Plus One

  Kevin relaxed in the driver’s seat, studying the map he’d hung on a suction cup clip to the windshield. Late afternoon sun made the yellow paper glow. He smiled, tapping a finger over the charge meter, which read 72%. The dash clock claimed the time as 6 p.m. He spun around to face the interior, feeling confident about the irregular zigzag of metal banded across most of the side windows. An occasional gap where a bar fell off or never existed didn’t bother him much, being too small for a body to squeeze through. Marty wasn’t getting graded on being ‘neat.’

  Paul leaned in the door, grasping the railing on both sides of the steps. “How’s it look?”

  Kevin smiled. “It’s holding a charge. How much time do we have?”

  “Sun’ll probably go down about eight or so.” Paul looked at the sky. “Yeah ‘bout that.”

  “I’d like to give it another hour before―”

  Bang.

  “Oh, shit.” Paul took off running for the garage area.

  Gene’s screaming echoed out of the hollow garage followed by a series of rapid gunshots. After nine or ten sharp bangs, a heavy boom sounded.

  “First wave,” yelled Marty.

  Kevin snagged the Enclave rifle from where he’d rested it against the wall under the side window, and ran after Paul.

  “Fuck! Run!” yelled Gene from inside the garage.

  “I got this!” shouted Marty, right before three heavy booms went off in a staccato ripple.

  Tris came running from the office door, swinging the AK off her shoulder. Paul tucked up to the open garage door and aimed inside. He fired two shots, swiveled a bit to the right, and fired again. His Mp5 sounded feeble next to Marty’s portable howitzer.

  Kevin ran in a rightward circle from the charging station to get a firing angle in the garage door. He took a knee sixty-some yards away. The Enclave rifle’s scope zoomed in automatically on Marty’s back. Two doorways in the rear wall of the garage spat Infected into the room like meat oozing out of a grinder. Marty unloaded the SPAS into the crowd, cheering. Every so often, he’d yell “Headshot” or “Fatality.” Each time a belch of orange came from the front of the shotgun, a detonation of blood and pulp flew.

  Gene, apparently in a panic, ran face first into a tool cart and fell. Screaming, he rolled upright, seated, and offloaded his grenade launcher into the oncoming throng. As soon as the loud foomp sound went off, Marty flung his arm up, putting the trenchcoat over his face before an explosion showered him with gore. He backpedaled, gagging and puking on the run.

  Kevin sighted on Marty’s face, half tempted to put a bullet in his brain when no one would notice… but he had no blood or fleshy bits anywhere near his mouth or eyes. He switched aim and triggered twice, taking down a handful of Infected with each bullet as the slugs tore through three or four close-stacked bodies each.

  An infected fell in from a hole on the roof, landing within feet of Gene. Another rifle fired twice, detonating a rotting woman’s head. A patch of scalp trailing once-ginger hair sailed off like a frightened flying squirrel. Gene leapt to his feet, shrieking, and ran for the door while looking back over his shoulder.

  “Gene, look out!” yelled Paul, firing a short burst into the two once-women pursuing him.

  Gene tripped over the ridge of a maintenance pit under one of the jacks and fell out of sight. Orange light flashed on the walls of the sunken chamber as an M-16 went off on fully automatic. Tris joined in from the left with the AK, detonating about eight heads. Though she likely fired single shots, she triggered fast enough to sound like a machine gun. Kevin fired as fast as he could pull the trigger into the onrush. Between all the bullets flying, Infected bodies burst open and rained gore. Some fell by the wayside, trampled by the unrelenting press of an endless stream of disease-riddled people forcing their way in. The throng, despite the assault, spilled like a lava flow into the pit.

  Gene’s scream cut off with a gurgle as if he’d gone underwater.

  Marty emptied the SPAS and seemed half tempted to jump in after him. He stood in place, screaming “Gene!” over and over.

  “Come on!” yelled Tris. “He’s gone!”

  Paul somehow managed to contain himself, firing deliberate single shots into one Infected after the next.

  “Time to go!” shouted Kevin. “This is fucked. Stop wasting ammo!”

  Marty jogged out of the garage, looking dazed. He stuffed shells from his pocket into the SPAS and kept trying to force another one in after he’d filled it. Tris ran up behind him, yelling at him to get rid of his coat. While Paul and Tris fired into the crowd, he scooped shotgun shells out of his pockets and dropped them to the ground. Once he emptied his pockets, he peeled the coat off and flung it.

  Tris looked him over. “I don’t see any blood on you.”

  Marty stared at her. “Gene’s gone… Gene’s not supposed to die; he’s one of the player characters.”

  She grabbed his arm and dragged him to the bus. Paul hustled over to the shotgun ammo and collected it in the thigh pockets of his fatigues. With the Infected occupied by the momentary distraction of a screaming body in a pit, Kevin ran for the bus, disconnected the charging cable, and sprinted to the driver’s seat.

  Tris shoved Marty up the stairs. Paul followed, headed right away for the rear ladder and climbing it high enough to allow him to aim over the edge. Kevin grabbed the wheel and exhaled. Here goes. He shifted into reverse and stepped on the pedal. The lights faltered, but the bus didn’t go anywhere.

  “Oh, shit.” Tris jumped on to the forward ladder.

  Kevin stomped the accelerator to the floor. The bus lurched backward, causing Tris to swing away from the rungs for a second, screaming. Marty fell into a seat, his forlorn stare going into space. Creaks and groans shuddered in the frame as Kevin maneuvered the bus into a turn. Tires chirped when he slammed it into drive and charged the yard gate. The bus laughed at the chain link fence, launching it against the brick wall to the left.

  Paul’s Mp5 went off a few more times and fell quiet. An empty magazine clattered to the floor inside the bus a few seconds before he reloaded.

  Marty roared. “I’m gonna kill them all!”

  “Save your ammo,” yelled Kevin.

  Small cars bounced like tiddlywinks off the front bumper, spinning into collisions with walls or bashing through storefronts. The sand-filled construction barriers burst open on impact. He veered left, brushing the tail end of a box truck. Paul’s legs swung off the ladder, but he held on to the roof.

  Not prepared for the boggy braking, Kevin came close to crashing into the face of a building on the first right turn. He took out a few more parked cars, tossing old fallout ash into the air. Cracks splintered the windshield. Something flew up and slammed into the left side with a hollow metallic whump, but stalled on the scrap metal.

  Tris slid down the ladder. “Road’s clear behind us.”

  Marty climbed to the roof, armpit deep in the hole, muttering ‘sons of bitches’ in an endless loop.

  Kevin didn’t bother trying to avoid the crude barricades of dead cars, relying on mass and a steady, albeit slow, pace to push them out of the way. Paul twitched, but held his fire.

  “Couple behind us,” yelled Marty. “Four blocks back, looking confused.”

  Oh, good. He’s sane again. He counted side streets and cornered left where Rod’s map indicated. The next right put him on Fullerton about a half mil
e from the building. With the street relatively clear, he accelerated for a little while until the building came into view. He brought the bus to a halt, half turned into the little parking lot.

  “Move the Challenger.” He gave Tris a light nudge.

  She blinked. “Really? You want me―”

  “No time. Go.”

  Tris darted out the door, ran around the bus, and hurried to the car. The mere sight of it made him long for a vehicle with agility and acceleration. She hopped in, and within a few seconds, rolled it backward out of the way. Kevin eased the bus forward, parking it as close to under the ladder as the first floor columns would allow.

  He slapped it in park and climbed the ladder after Marty, onto the roof. Patricia’s head poked out the fifth-floor window.

  Kevin waved. “Change of plans. This train is heading out now.”

  “They’re coming,” yelled Marty.

  Patricia nodded, and disappeared into the building, shouting orders.

  The two men and the Asian woman who had first met him shimmied down the flexible ladder to the bus. Marty and Paul helped guide them to safety. Six more people, three women, two men, and Cody, clambered down soon after. Kevin hovered at the side of the flexible ladder, spinning in a paranoid’s dance, and aiming the Enclave rifle at every shift in shadow. Cody seemed intent to stay on the roof with a handgun out, but Paul stuffed him down into the hatch.

  A child’s wailing at the top caused a delay. Star shrieked and threw a tantrum when they brought her to the window. “I don’t wanna!” echoed in the canyon of skyscrapers.

  “Duct tape,” yelled Marty.

  Danielle backed off, letting others go while she tried to quiet the girl. Nine more men came down. The last, in his seventies, lost his grip on the ladder when his shoe slipped. He fell three stories, landing flat on his back on the bus roof. He made no attempt to move, face twisted in a grimace of pain. Paul and one of the fifth-floor sentries carried him to a hatch and lowered in him inside. An elderly woman made it down intact, followed by Dennis, Patricia, and two more women in their early twenties, one of whom screamed at the top of her lungs.