“Eww,” said Maribel.
“Whazzat?” asked Whazzat.
“Have you seen Gertrude?” asked Harold. “She is protection.”
“I know vhere you live,” said Gertrude. “You are not ze shpring chicken either.”
“A site inspector will be there soon.” A few more gunshots snapped like popcorn in the background of Amarillo.
“Central, what’s all the shooting?” asked Enrico. “You boys havin’ a party in Texas?”
The old man let out a dry chuckle. “Training. Just some of the recruits on the firing range practicing.”
“Amarillo,” said Kevin. Tris released the mic and wrapped her arms around him. “Hastings Roadhouse, on I-80. We found a site inspector there, dead.”
Several gasps came back over the radio, but the old man remained quiet.
“Someone’s got a damn death wish,” said Mirabel. “Killed a site inspector? They’ll cut someone’s balls off for that.”
“Oh, she’s adorable,” said Harold, with extra gravel.
“Kevin. This is Amarillo,” croaked the old man. “Do you have any information on who killed him?”
“He was infected.” Kevin waited for the chatter to die down before continuing. “As best I can tell, he’s the one who brought the Virus to the Hastings Roadhouse. Gave it to some prostitutes who shot him dead, but they didn’t tell anyone and well… you can figure out what happened. Didn’t look like anyone made it out of there alive.”
“Oh, poor Sierra.” Beth sighed. “So eine Schande.”
“Got any more inspectors?” asked Mac. His voice sounded mirthful, but no one laughed.
Kevin flicked his thumbnail over the talk button, waiting for Amarillo to reply. The entire radio channel waited as well. It took a little over three minutes for someone to break the tension.
“That a no?” asked Beth.
Another forty seconds passed.
“Whazzat?” asked Whazzat.
The channel erupted with laughter.
“Amarillo?” asked Beth.
“Yeah, yeah,” said the old man from Amarillo, sounding annoyed. “Keep your panties on. Got a private channel for inspectors. Got Larry headin’ your way now, Brownstown.”
“Gut,” said Gertrude. “He can make die maschine work, ja?”
“Or replace it, yes.”
The radio chatter gave way to multiple reports of non-working systems, though Mac, Earl, and Clive claimed their hardware appeared fine. Kevin leaned away from the radio as Amarillo ran the three through a test upload to see if the camera data would make it intact. Apparently they did have a way to send the video files over the radio. Tris hadn’t recognized the modem as the tech would’ve been considered old even in 2017.
“Yo Kev,” yelled Fitch. “You busy? Got a full house.”
Tris sighed and started for the door, but Kevin grabbed her by the wrist.
“Hey… You’re better with this shit.” He stood, pulling her into a kiss. A minute later, their lips parted. “Why don’t you stay here and get Bee back on her feet. I’ll go.”
“Okay.” She hugged him, cheek to his chest. “As long as you’re happy.”
“Couldn’t be happier.” He touched foreheads with her for a second before winking.
Tris leaned against the desk as Kevin walked out. He’s a shitty liar, but he’s trying to make me feel better. She looked down, kicking the toe of her black sneaker at the floor until a faint whirr from Bee’s internals got her attention.
“Oh, Bee. I’m sorry.” She hurried over to the worktable.
“It is okay. I am incapable of becoming either bored or sore from lying on a table.”
Tris picked among the random junk until she found an old microwave oven, which yielded a length of wire close enough to one-eighth inch thick. After removing it from the appliance, she crossed the room to Bee and compared it to the lead that ran from the main power cell to the gyroscopic unit bolted to the robot’s spine. Her salvaged wire wouldn’t have any slack, but the gauge of wire appeared perfect.
She spent the next half hour clearing bits of melted copper and insulation from the contacts before soldering the replacement in. Fortunately, she’d managed to swipe all of Wayne’s tools―at least anything useful for electronics work―while Kevin worried about guns and bullets. Even if Alamo and those idiots had noticed, they probably wouldn’t have considered the tools worth much. She eyed the ammo can full of coins and Wayne’s ledger that Bee had smuggled to her. Though she thought it silly, she respected Kevin for being true to his beliefs and wanting to hold those accounts for the drivers.
The gyroscope housing vibrated and emitted a faint scraping noise for a few seconds before it faded to an almost inaudible whirr.
“That feels good,” said Bee, wagging her head from side to side.
“Just a bit longer… and I’m sorry.” Tris flipped the android’s skirt up over her back to expose her from the waist down. Aside from two scuffmarks and a .22 bullet hole, Bee’s nether regions were smooth and featureless.
“Why are you sorry?”
“For taking your pants down.” Tris pressed at the thigh until a previously-invisible seam appeared and a long narrow hatch opened to expose the femur and surrounding components.
“I do not understand. You seemed quite pleased to remove your clothing before. Perhaps someday you can explain the meaning of―” Bee’s speaking voice cut out to a recording of Tris emitting orgasmic moans. “I was unable to determine a language for those vocalizations.”
Tris covered her red-hot face with both hands. It took her over a minute to find where her voice ran off to hide. “Uhm… Bee… It’s not a language. It’s an… umm, involuntary noise triggered by a biological process. It doesn’t really mean anything.”
Bee’s head rotated back, farther than a human ought to be able to, but not quite backward. The android smiled. “I am teasing you.”
Tris burst out laughing. She peered into the hollow leg, at a loose wire with a flat four-prong plug. “Oh, there’s your problem. The connector popped loose.”
“One of the men who attacked us threw me to the floor.” Bee drummed her fingers on the table. “If not for the first law, I would have shot him.”
“First law? Oh… that whole cannot harm humans thing? Asimov?” Tris scratched her head for a second before sliding her hand into the narrow space and grasping the connector between two fingers. She bit her tongue while trying to ease the thing back onto the four naked pins jutting out of the knee actuator. “Damn, there’s not a lot of space in here.”
“No, Tris. Wayne’s first law of robotics.”―Wayne’s voice played out of the android’s mouth―“If someone starts some shit, use the biggest god damned gun you can get your hands on and blow his god damned head off.” Bee’s eyes blinked with a click, and her normal voice returned. “The handgun on my belt was a .357 Sig. A 12-gauge shotgun loaded with solid slugs located under the counter was the largest weapon in the area. I was shot while attempting to retrieve it. Alas, I was unable to determine the weapon’s relationship with a theoretical higher power.”
“You shouldn’t have taken him literally, but I suppose that’s not your fault.” She twisted her entire body up on one foot while seating the connector. After nudging it with one fingernail until it clicked, she relaxed.
“I’m reading everything online. You are wonderful to me, Tris.”
Tris closed all the panels and adjusted the android’s clothing back in place. “Since Wayne isn’t around anymore, I’m giving you a new, uhh, prime directive.”
Bee climbed off the table and tested her limbs’ range of motion. “Programming mode on.”
Is she kidding or did I open the firmware? “If anyone threatens Kevin or me, or any innocent people in your vicinity, use the closest weapon at your disposal to protect them. Firearms take priority over melee weapons, but only if it is safe to discharge a firearm in the area without harming the innocent.”
Bee blinked. “I underst
and.”
“Great. Let’s go see if the boys need help.” Tris examined her filthy hands. “After I clean up.”
Kevin nudged meat patties around the grill, working elbow to elbow with Sang. The old Korean tended to another four burgers as well as the fryer. The oil smelled a little off. He’d need to see if Carver had any fresh stuff soon… without Sang’s increasingly famous fried potato discs, he’d probably have a riot in the restaurant.
He grinned, though the humor faded before the sound of a laugh could escape his mouth. Scary as it was, someone might actually pull a gun over them not having fries, especially if word got out that the Roadhouse security system was faulty. Sounded like people had a seven-in-ten chance of finding a ’house where the security’s as useless as a blind dust hopper. He flipped patty after patty, poking them back into place one after the next so they remained in neat rows. Pretty stupid of me. He sighed, thinking of how he once regarded the Code as this mythical law that protected drivers and ’house operators… as if the mere instant someone so much as thought about doing something, the entire Roadhouse network became aware of it and would come down on them with a hammer. That’s how a little boy looks at it. Ol’ fuckin’ Road House Santa Claus will just know who’s the asshole.
Sang handed him a plate of bottom-buns, toasted.
“Thanks.”
Sang nodded.
Kevin set the plate at his side and scooped burger after burger onto the bread Sang had likely baked that morning. He stared at the giant spatula, wondering at what point in the past seventy-two hours the thought of making his living with it instead of a .45 felt more dangerous. At least on the road, I knew someone was trying to kill me. He glanced at the little hole in the wall to the main room. Days… weeks… months could go by of total quiet. One kook having a bad day and blam. That’s that. Shot in the back without warning. He used to have faith the Code would keep people too scared to dare try.
Not so much now.
Sang started flicking top-buns at him across the grill from where he’d set them to toast. “Need ta buy more cheese from Cahvah. We out.”
“Yeah.” He plucked the sliding bread domes from the grill and covered the burgers one after the next. “Maybe I’ll run over there myself tomorrow.”
“Sound good.” Sang nodded. “Mister Fitch good man. Otha driver respect him.”
Kevin shook his head at the grill while chuckling.
“Oh. They respect you too.” Sang grinned.
“Oh, sweet Laird Jeebus,” yelled Fitch out in the front room. “What in the hell is that?”
“My name is Bee.”
Kevin aimed his voice at the passé-plat. “Fitch, it’s okay. She’s here to help.”
Tris popped in through the door, wiping her wet hands on a small beige towel. “Hey. Need any help in here?”
He carried the plate of twelve burgers to the hole, and passed it to Bee. Tris trailed after him. Kevin sidestepped Sang coming in with a giant wire basket of seasoned fries, which Fitch grabbed.
Damn those smell amazing. Tris put a hand on his growling stomach. He stared into her eyes. Rather than the upwelling of adoration the sight of her usually stirred within him, he felt dread. His brain seized upon her small frame, delicate features, and the concern in her eyes. All at once, his world came crashing down. Could his dream be a tomb? He found his hands shaking as he threaded them around her neck and drew her close. If the Code had holes in it, anything could happen to her.
We’re sitting ducks on the side of the road… out here, alone. He couldn’t find a way to force words out of his mouth, so he held her in silence.
“Kevin?”
Her voice stalled his mind. She’s not as helpless as she looks. He smiled. Still… What if she doesn’t see it coming? “Yeah?”
“You okay? I… know losing Wayne wasn’t easy on you.”
“I’m okay.” He loosened his grip to clasp her shoulders at arms’ length. “Just thinking about everything going on.”
“You two hungry?” asked Sang. “I can hear your stomach across the room.”
Tris ducked her head between Kevin’s arm and chest to peer at Sang. “Yes! Starving.”
“Yeah,” said Kevin. “Food sounds good.”
She popped upright and grinned at Kevin, who eyed the outer room past the hole in the wall where the din of over ten people rumbled. “Be right back. Gonna make sure everything’s under control out there.”
12
Dead Code
Tris stretched her arms up over her head, basking in a warm breeze washing over her naked body. The stretch evolved into a lazy yawn. After, she rolled onto her side, gazing blearily at the open window near the bed. Subdued scratching and the muffled grunt of Kevin attempting to rummage around for his clothes without waking her made her smile. With a soft moan of contentment, she stretched again.
“Morning.” Kevin leaned over the bed, shirt still unbuttoned, and kissed her.
She ran a hand up his chest to his neck, drinking in the smell of him. “Mmm. Where are you rushing off to?”
“Just a quick run over to Carver’s farm for supplies. Fryer oil’s old enough to demand pay, and we’re going through potatoes like hell.”
Tris closed her eyes, grinning at the soft scratch of a calloused hand sliding over her breast and down her side, settling on her left hip. “Okay. I’ll be up in a little bit.”
He patted her butt twice before drifting away. A moment later, he drew in a long breath. “Love the smell of morning.”
Tris laughed, one eye popping open. The mattress hovered as an off-white blur a few inches in front of her face. Sweat and musk filled her nose. “Smells like sex over here.”
The bed shifted from his weight settling at the edge. She crawled closer and rested her head on his thigh. Her limbs got heavy when he ran his fingers through her hair, her body losing what little urge she had to get up. For a while, she lay in blissful silence as he stroked her back, butt, and thighs in a continuous, gentle caress.
“I never thought I’d ever really know what it’s like to be happy.” He continued running his hand over her head as though she were a cat. She half considered purring. “Every day, I wake up expecting it all to be a dream, but there you are.”
Her brain sent ‘I love you, too’ to her mouth, but only a soft, “Mmm” came out.
The next thing she knew, she lay on her chest, cheek on the mattress, a sheet covering her up to the neck.
Tris pushed herself over onto her back, took a deep breath, and sat up, squinting at the room. The light hadn’t changed too much, so she figured she’d lost only twenty minutes to passing out again. After a yawn, she scooted to the edge and got up, stretched again, and reached for a shirt. The instant cloth settled around her shoulders, she got overwhelmed with ‘feeling sticky everywhere.’ Deciding to have a quick shower, she pulled it back off.
She clutched a black tee with a faded ankh silkscreen and one of the new items she’d liberated from Wayne’s―a mid-thigh denim skirt with only one dried bloodstain―to her chest. After peering into the hall to verify it free of prying eyes, she streaked across to the little private bathroom they’d installed in what had once been a huge storage closet.
Plastic tubing carried water in from the well pump to a bright orange nozzle with a butterfly valve. An upside-down spoon tied on with wire and bent under the spigot sort-of made it a showerhead. She set the clothes on a steel shelf and stepped over the edge of the kiddie pool up on cinder blocks. An improvised drain of radiator tubing ran through a hole in the wall.
A few rapid breaths prepared her for the cold water, and she hurried the process of cleaning herself with some of the tiny soap bars Kevin found in an old hotel years ago. By the time she’d rinsed free of suds, her teeth chattered.
Tris stepped into the skirt, pulled it up, buttoned it, and let go. It fell straight to the floor around her ankles. She leaned back and sighed at the ceiling. “Crap.”
The tee shirt didn’t cover enough
to act as a dress, so she held the skirt up by hand and scurried back to the bedroom. A few minutes of knife-and-thread surgery gave the garment a new buttonhole that kept it on. Two sneakers later, she added her gun belt with the Beretta and went downstairs to an empty room.
Sang mumbled to himself in the kitchen, a usual sign that he’d lost himself in a novel. She poked her head in.
“Going out for a little air. Been putting off checking that shack long enough.”
“Okay.” Sang looked up and nodded.
Tris wandered to the end of the inner hallway and into a small bare concrete room where a few stacks of old pallets had piled up against the wall. Two roll-top doors led out to a tiny loading dock. She went for the pedestrian door to the right, crossed the deck in three strides, and descended a short concrete stairway to the paved lot behind the building. Warm air rushed under her skirt, making her self-conscious about her lack of underwear. Not since leaving the Enclave had she even seen another pair to scavenge.
Probably why all the other women I see have pants… or long dresses.
Brown field stretched as far as she could see into the distance toward mountains, dotted liberally with green scrub bushes. Off to the left, a group of picnic tables held the ghosts of prewar travelers. A minute or two outside, and the sun had dispelled the chill from the shower
She closed her eyes at a sudden pickup of dusty wind and flapped her shirt to let the moving air pull dampness away. Once the wind died down, she headed to her right along the back wall toward the west end of the property.
The old central air unit supported a colony of brown and green beer bottles, likely there since before the nukes. She could almost hear the teenagers who’d worked here half a century ago complaining about wanting to get out of the middle of nowhere, or how poorly they were paid. The Enclave understood the concept of money as it had been before, and taught it to her as a child. She daydreamed about being eleven again, listening to the nameless instructor explain how foolish humanity had been for allowing a small minority to control most of the wealth instead of allocating it efficiently. Tris frowned. ‘Instructor’ had been the only name ever used to refer to the teachers, as if any dose of humanity in the classroom would’ve been some kind of terrible crime.
The Roadhouse Chronicles Box Set [Books 1-3] Page 58
