The Roadhouse Chronicles Box Set [Books 1-3]

by Cox, Matthew S.

  “Call it a better apology for trying to kill you.” Zara fidgeted, looking away. “How did we go from sitting next to each other in grade school to this?”

  “The Enclave is twisted. We’re not people to them; we’re numbers on a citizen resource allocation grid.” Tris put her hand atop Zara’s. “Thanks. Ready?”

  “I’m sitting here dressed aren’t I?” Zara stood. “Actually, I should probably hit the bathroom.”

  Tris nodded. “Okay. I gotta pull the van around front anyway.”

  They walked together down the side hall, until Zara hooked a left into the former ladies’ room. Tris kept going to the back door and jogged over to the grey van parked by the garage. Kevin had charged it already, but sitting a couple days unused drained a little. She drove it around to the front, got out, and plugged in the charging cable concealed under the front license plate. Kevin looked up as she walked back in; the hope in his stare stabbed her. He practically asked her to stay without even speaking.

  “Plug two?” She sighed an apology at the floor.

  Zara emerged from the hall, and Tris led the way through the other hallway to the ‘employee’ entrance for the store.

  Tris surveyed several weapons on a shelf. “M-16, shotgun, or a… whatever that is.”

  Zara brushed past her and picked up a smallish weapon. “FN P-90. Nice gun, but good damn luck finding ammo for it. Wasn’t even made in this country. Looks like about twenty rounds left in it, and they’re at least fifty years old.” She put it down and picked up an MP5. “This’ll work. You said we’re going in quiet, right? Not going to be much distance shooting. Ammo capacity is king for this.”

  “Okay. I got an AK. Think that’s too long?”

  “Well, we’re not planning on distance work… doesn’t mean it won’t happen. Keep it, but go with the Beretta in close quarters.”

  Tris raided the 9mm stash, taking all 179 bullets on hand. She found four spare magazines for the Beretta, and filled them. “That’s eighty-five rounds for me.”

  Zara held up three magazines. “Guess that leaves four bullets for the store.”

  Tris pocketed them. “I’m not getting killed over four rounds. Anything we don’t use goes back.” Couple years from now, guns will be useless anyway. Ween will eventually run out of powder.

  “Sure.”

  Over the next twenty minutes, Tris carried a few water jugs, some of the salted dust hopper, her AK-47, katana, and a change of clothes out to the grey van. The whole time she loaded supplies, Zara sat playing around with the turret.

  When Tris finally climbed into the driver’s seat, Zara gawked at her.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you had one of these? This is so damn cool.” She waved her head around, causing an answering whirr of motors from overhead.

  “Great. I’ll drive; you shoot. But… try not to waste ammo.”

  Zara pressed her fist to her left shoulder in a mockery of the Enclave military’s salute.

  Tris rummaged an old folding map from a compartment in the console. “Route 80 east to 25 south… skirt Denver to 70. Then we take 287 south the rest of the way.”

  “Damn that’s a haul. What’s that… seven hundred miles?” Zara eyed the GPS on the dash. “Not using the system?”

  “No satellites left.” Tris folded the map smaller and jotted down quick route notes. “It’s about twenty minutes to midnight now. I’m guessing this is gonna take us about eleven hours, but we’ll be stuck at a charging station for at least an hour.”

  “I’ll sleep first.” Zara crawled into the back. “Oh, hey, there’s even a shitty mattress back here.”

  Tris slid to the ground outside and trudged around to disconnect the charge cable. “I can’t believe I’m doing this. They better have the damn decency to stay alive long enough for me to get there.”

  She pressed down on the spring-loaded license plate until the charge cord finished spindling back inside, and let it slap closed before trudging around to grasp the driver’s side door. She hesitated, staring at Kevin in the window.

  His lips moved, probably ‘I love you,’ ‘be careful,’ or something like that.

  A lump tightened in her throat. After taking a breath, she hauled herself up into the van and shut the door.

  “There better still be someone there.”

  19

  Las Cruces

  Kevin startled awake, not entirely sure at what point his determined ceiling-staring session came to an end. Based on the way the sun hit the walls, he figured it to be close to ten in the morning. The time would probably put Tris within visual range of Amarillo, assuming nothing went wrong and they didn’t stop. That he had fallen asleep at all surprised him more than he’d let her talk him into not going along.

  He sat up. “How’m I suppose to go do this thing worryin’ about her? No wonder Wayne never got involved with a woman. They twist your brain around in a god damned knot.”

  Grumbling, he slid off the bed and trudged downstairs while wiping at the right side of his face in an effort to dislodge a particularly tenacious eye crumb. A light smattering of applause startled him out of his stupor.

  “Morning, boss,” said Bee.

  “Rough night?” asked Fitch with a raised eyebrow.

  “What?” Kevin stared at Fitch for a few seconds before noticing everyone in the room had stopped whatever they had been doing to gawk at him. At that point, he looked down at his lack of clothes and the usual rigid effect of morning. “Oh. Right.”

  He turned on his heel and went back upstairs. A few minutes later, he returned, dressed and carrying his armored jacket. Fitch stood behind the counter with Neeley on the ‘client’ side, two small metal pails between them. One half-full of peanuts, the other three-quarters filled with shells.

  “You still wanna do this?” asked Neeley.

  “Can’t sit around here worrying.” Kevin grabbed a jar of water and downed it in one breath.

  Sang appeared in the window, handing him a dust hopper sausage on a long roll, covered in scrambled egg. “You sure you can pick these guys out?”

  Neeley nodded. “Positive.”

  “Wayne’s hat oughta be obvious.” Fitch nodded.

  “Got a week of canteens in the Challenger for ya, boss,” said Bee. “Mister Fitch said he had the food covered.”

  “Got enough MREs to handle it if we can’t find ’houses.” Fitch leaned back until a rippling crunch came from his spine, and a relieved grin spread over his lips. “Ahh…”

  Kevin inhaled the sandwich while going over a few last-minute reminders with Sang. As much as he tried to get the old man to understand the logbook, his cook kept circling around to talk about Athena’s progress learning to read.

  “Fine, forget dealing with drivers. I got two out on runs now. If they come back, just tell them to wait for me ta get back.”

  Sang nodded. “You got it. Be careful with yourself.”

  “You too.”

  Kevin shook hands and headed out front, where Fitch muttered to Nevada by the end of the counter. He wandered over to them. “Morning.”

  “Nev here’s willin’ to stick around ’til we get back. Help out with uhh, physical security.”

  “I appreciate that, but… things are strange now. I wouldn’t feel right askin’ you to take that kind of risk when I’m not even here.”

  Nevada bowed at Kevin. “I respect what you are going to do. If, as you say, these people are targeting Roadhouse operators, they will not suspect me as a threat when I appear to be just sitting at a table like a driver.”

  “Okay.” He shook her hand. “I’ll owe you. Any ammo you use up defending this place is on the house.”

  “How you wanna do this?” asked Fitch.

  “I’ll take point. You two follow me in the behemoth. I’d prefer to take Route 24 down and stay well away from Denver. We can top off the batteries near Steamboat Springs, stop again on 25, little southwest of Santa Fe. At Willie’s.”

  Fitch gave him a thumbs-up.<
br />
  Neeley rubbed his hands together so fast it looked as though he attempted to start a fire with a stick and tinder. “Let’s get it on!”

  “Murderous little bastard, ain’t he?” Kevin chuckled.

  Fitch smiled. “He likes his rifle. A lot.”

  Highway hour blurred into highway hour. Ninety-ish was about the limit of Fitch’s war wagon, but it felt like walking when he wanted to run. They could’ve piled into the Challenger; however, a trip like this all but demanded a backup vehicle. Of course, that also trapped him in a potential fight he could’ve ordinarily run from. Right before they’d split up to their respective vehicles, Kevin made sure they knew that if he appeared to be cutting and leaving them in the dust, he would only be exploiting his speed for tactical advantage and had every intention of coming back.

  Steamboat Springs Roadhouse proved quiet. The older couple who ran it, Vick and Ruby, almost didn’t believe Kevin’s story about what went on. Neither had received any updates as (in addition to their security computer) their radio was dead. They didn’t seem too worried about being killed. Both being in their mid-sixties, as Vick put it, someone would only be sparing them the ‘shitty years.’ Not like they had much to steal. All the food they sold, they grew themselves. More work, but essentially free, even though they served nothing more than vegetables and some handmade cheese from their goats.

  Three e-bikes and a blue Silverado covered in rusty metal armor plates came out of a ravine about two hours south of Steamboat. The pickup hung back while the bikes raced ahead. Only pirates or bandits would ride up in such an aggressive formation, and Neeley picked off two with his Dragunov before they got close enough to even try shooting back. The third man’s helmet shattered at about the same instant a burst of muzzle flare spat from the front of a submachine gun mounted to the handlebars.

  Another spurt of orange came out of the pickup’s grille, followed by sparks from the back end of Fitch’s truck. He wrenched the Behemoth into the left (oncoming) lane, and farther off onto the dirt, mowing down a series of old wooden fence posts.

  Kevin eyed the little screen in his dashboard, thumb hovering over the button trigger. He nudged the Challenger left a few inches and pushed. The AK-47 and M-16 in the trunk roared to life, each spitting about ten rounds before he let off the button. The Silverado swerved but kept on. Kevin yanked the wheel to ditch the lane an instant before the pickup’s machine gun went off again, skipping tracers over empty blacktop at his right. Neeley, poking out of a hatch in the top of Fitch’s truck, yelled about holding it steady despite them bouncing over dirt and bushes.

  Kevin stared at the screen waiting for the Silverado to adjust to line him up for a shot. The instant it did, he swerved to the right and tapped the trigger button. A short burst from each trunk gun chattered while the Silverado’s grille gun fired for only two seconds, again at empty road.

  This time, the blue truck kept gliding left, off the paving, and rambled out of control over scrubland, kicking up a dust cloud.

  Neeley swiveled after it; a few seconds after Fitch put the Behemoth back on pavement, he fired. The rear (unarmored) window of the Silverado shattered, as did the head of the man behind the wheel. From the way the truck had been careening, Kevin figured Neeley had mauled a corpse.

  Not being in any true hurry other than wanting to get back to Tris, Kevin stopped. He scavenged two UZIs and a .44 revolver from the bikers, as well as a few handfuls of bullets while Fitch and Neeley checked out the pickup. He didn’t bother counting any of it.

  Fitch came back with a belt of 7.62 x 51, perfect for the M60s he had on the front of the challenger. The bullets had Ween’s maker’s mark scratched on them, so he tossed it in the trunk for later. Both ’60s had full boxes already.

  “Driver had this.” Neeley held up a blue Kevlar vest. “Didn’t do his balls any good though.”

  Fitch and Kevin cringed.

  Neeley laughed and tapped himself across the waist. “Some of your bullets punched holes in the firewall. Think he bled out ’fore I shot him.”

  “Anything else worth grabbing?” Kevin slammed the trunk.

  “Couple shitty tools. Hammer, hacksaw, crowbar. All beaten to crap.” Fitch spat.

  The men lined up to water the ground, raided the canteens to wet their throats, and got back in their respective cars. Kevin stared over the hood at the road again and almost talked himself out of going on with it. He got underway eventually, accelerating up to 120 before he noticed the Behemoth fading back and flashing headlights.

  “Yeah, yeah.” He slowed to seventy until they caught up.

  Around 7:40 p.m., they diverted off to Route 25, a little out of their way since Kevin intended to take 285 to avoid having to pass through Albuquerque. Eight minutes later, they stopped at Willie’s. This ’house looked normal, insofar as it being a brown, rectangular wooden building with a giant red Roadhouse sign and a couple of cars parked in front. Lights on inside made everything appear the same as they had been for as long as Kevin could remember. The way he wanted everything to stay, but doubted it would. He suspected the radio here would probably be dead as well since Willie hadn’t been in on any of the wonderful conversations lately.

  Fitch pulled up to his left. They shut down, got out, and plugged in almost in unison.

  Inside, four men in biker cuts bearing New logos sat around a table. He didn’t recognize any of them, which likely meant they wouldn’t know him either. News tended to style themselves as the law around New Mexico, and usually left people alone unless they caused trouble, had a bounty on their head, or happened to be a distrusting asshole who wouldn’t untie a woman in desperate need of a ride.

  He frowned.

  Willie could’ve been Wayne’s somewhat younger, and much larger, brother. They both had a sort-of cowboy aesthetic to the way they carried themselves, though Willie had to be a couple fingers shy of seven feet tall with a jaw so square he looked like an amateur sculptor hadn’t quite finished him.

  Granted, not a lot of guys wanted to start a fight with someone who had normal human thighs for biceps.

  “Willie…” Kevin shouldered up to the bar. “Looks like you’re doing well.”

  “Not bad.” Willie greeted the three with a nod. “What can I do ya for?”

  “Charge on six and seven and a plate of whatever’s fast.” Kevin nodded toward the curtained doorway behind the bar. “Your radio workin’?”

  “Why? Need to call in a job?” Willie flicked two switches on the electronics panel behind him, activating the circuit to the charging ports. “Three apiece for the juice. Same for the food.”

  Neeley reached into his jacket, but Kevin held up a hand. He put down six coins for the charge and nine for food. “Haven’t been hearin’ you on the net.”

  “How’s you hearin’ the net?” Willie squinted at him.

  Kevin smiled. “Got my own place finally. Up on I-80, little west of Rawlins. Look. Can I”―he glanced over his shoulder at the News and three drivers―“have a word with you quiet like?”

  Willie unsnapped the leather holding a revolver in his holster, but nodded. “’Mon ’round. No shit, you got your own franchise?”

  “As a fact.” Kevin grinned and pulled out the laminated card he’d gotten from the old guy at Amarillo six months and a few weeks ago. It looked hand drawn, like something a grade school kid made, but so did they all.

  “Well, damn.” Willie relaxed and brought Kevin past the curtain into the inner hall. From there, four open archways led to a kitchen with a man and two women in it, a storage room, a small living space, and the room where he’d set up the security computer and radio.

  “There’s been some problems lately. That’s why I’m down here and not behind my own counter.” Kevin put his hands on his hips.

  “Erin. Bring out three roadrunners,” yelled Willie toward the kitchen.

  “Fuck you, Willie.” The twenty-something sounded amused despite her language.

  Willie grinned. “Tha
nks.”

  Kevin let out a long breath, and explained a quick summary of everything that had happened. He paused a moment at the end to let Willie mull. “I still don’t know what’s going on, but these Redeemed jackasses killed Wayne, probably Nash too. And who knows how many others where the radios don’t work.”

  Willie raised a hand. “Hold on. You said Amarillo’s… gone?”

  “Well the city’s still there, but the only thing in it are Infected.” He gestured at the table full of electronics. “You ever use your radio? We’ve been talking about all this for days.”

  “Never had anyone mess with me.” Willie grumbled. “Never saw the need.”

  “I don’t really understand all that computer shit. Tris says the systems are burned out. Cameras are watching but the thingamafuckit that keeps the images doesn’t keep them.”

  “Oh. That ain’t that hard to understand. S’like talkin’ to mah wife. I say everything, but don’t keep in her brain.” Willie chuckled for three seconds before a tomato burst across his head. He reached up and pulled the larger mass of it away from his eye, glanced at it, and took a bite. “She’s a spitfire, that one.”

  Kevin glanced at a wild-eyed woman with black hair and a deep tan. She muttered something in Spanish before brightening up―a little―at Kevin.

  “Need ta trade ’er in for a model with a sense of humor.” Willie took another bite of the tomato, and winked at her.

  “Any of those Redeemed guys come in here, stay alert. They messed with Wayne first. Orderin’ an’ not payin’. Nash’s, they just came in shooting.”

  Willie wandered over to the radio, toggled a switch or two, but couldn’t get it to do anything. He looked somehow wrong tinkering with electronics, as if a man that big had no business coming within ten feet of anything technological. “Reckon yer right. Thing’s deadern’ my―”

  “She’s got another tomato,” said Kevin.

  “Car,” said Willie.

  The fortyish woman smiled at Kevin before returning to the kitchen, tossing and catching a tomato.