Kevin walked around to the driver’s side door and stuck one leg in the car. “Hopefully, this is a quick trip and we’ll be back in a day or two. If that scrawny little bastard got her hopes up for nothing, I’m gonna bounce his head off his computer thingee a few times.”
Bill laughed. “See ya soon.”
Kevin slid down into place behind the wheel. As comfortable and familiar as the car felt, he found himself unenthused about leaving Ned. A couple days of ‘safe normal’ hadn’t even gotten boring yet. He chuckled before muttering, “This is either going to send us off on some other ridiculous trip, or she’s going to be crushed at another one of that prick’s jabs.” He’d only gotten a brief glimpse of Nathan the two times he appeared on screens, and he still wanted to twist the man’s head off.
He drove back to the house, where Tris and Abby waited on the front porch. She picked the barely-awake girl up and carried her to the car. Kevin leaned over to push the passenger door open and pull the seat forward. After easing Abby into the back, Tris got in.
“Hope you don’t mind if I let myself drift too.” Tris reclined and closed her eyes.
“Go right ahead.” He pulled a U-turn in front of the house and drove east toward the city gates, a pair of dump trucks flipped on their sides.
Socrates, the old man in the ancient brown trench coat, waved from atop the dump truck gate a few minutes later as Kevin pulled up. It took the elder a little while to navigate a ladder down and amble over. “What’s yer plan?”
“Runnin’ out to Omaha. Apparently, Tris got mail.” He flared his eyebrows. “Should be back in three days.”
“Safe trip then.” Socrates waved to a younger man, likely only months past eighteen, who opened one dump truck bed before jogging across the road to move the other.
“Where’s Emma?” asked Kevin.
Socrates smiled. “Gate duty rotates. Bill don’t want her up here anyway. First place trouble shows up usually. That kid’s got balls of steel, an’ she’s gonna get herself shot one of these days.”
Kevin thought of Athena and her immortality complex, wondering where the fine line sat between feeling untouchable and plain old not caring about survival. He squinted at the sliver of sunlight peeking over the horizon. “See you in a couple days.”
“Come back alive.” Socrates tipped his hat. Long strands of cobweb-like white hair trailed around the shoulders of his duster coat.
“That’s the plan.”
With a final wave, Kevin nosed the Challenger past the gate. He took 119 east before hooking left into Boulder and proceeding northeast to Route 52. That afforded him a straight shot east without having to go into Denver. If his last experience there offered any clue, the place had to have thousands of Infected.
Route 52 had seen better days. Most people liked skirting around Denver, and many drivers had picked fights with potholes their cars couldn’t handle. A few succumbed to traps of barbed wire and old telephone poles, the sort of thing marauders without wheels set up to catch cars for roadside ambushes. He kept his head on a swivel while driving around and among rusting hulks.
By the time he approached the ramp to Route 76, the road clogged with a river of bumper-to-bumper rust. The carnage in the eastbound lanes had to have been there when the bombs fell―the only way that many cars would’ve ever been in one place. He spent a few minutes in the lane once used for oncoming traffic, driving past hundreds of wrecks that hadn’t moved since 2021, some fifty-two years ago.
The sight darkened Tris’ mood. He squeezed her hand. Scenes like that always got her emotional, sending her mind whirling around what it must have been like for the people trapped in such a nightmare. Once they cleared the traffic jam, he left the oncoming lane and sped up, going as fast as the paving allowed. Tris settled down in her seat and closed her eyes again.
Kevin drove for hours while Tris and Abby remained asleep. A bridge spanning 76 proved intact, and soon after crossing it, he hooked a left past a barricade made of two smashed school buses crowned with concertina wire. He braced for a fight, but thankfully, whoever had tried to block off the southeastern end of the bridge hadn’t remained around to harass them. Once on Route 76, he leaned on the accelerator and got up to 140 mph without a complaint from the car.
The vibrating hum of rubber on paving hammered at his willpower, threatening to drag him back into the sleep he too readily spurned earlier. He rolled down the window to let some air in. Although the early summer offered a warmish breeze, it wound up being cooler than the car’s interior.
Tris stirred and sat up with a yawn. “Hey. Where are we?”
Kevin surveyed the land outside. “Probably getting close to Nebraska by now.”
The rattle of a magazine ejecting and snapping back into a pistol came from the back seat.
“Good morning, kiddo,” said Kevin.
Abby leaned her head into the front, one arm draped over each seatback. “Hey.”
Tris fished some sandwiches out of a bag between her feet, and handed them around.
“We’re moving fast.” Abby munched while peering out her window. “I’ve never gone this fast before.”
Kevin tapped the wheel, imagining a bit of old music that used to play at Wayne’s. “This thing’s got a bit more pickup than that van.”
“That van is carrying a couple hundred pounds of machinegun.” Tris winked. “And it has motors optimized for torque, not speed.”
“Huh?” asked Abby.
Kevin sniffed at the sandwich reflexively before biting it. “She means it’s meant for hauling heavy crap, not going fast.”
“Oh.” Abby leaned back and nibbled on her lunch.
He pulled over for a rest stop about two hours later. Abby insisted on holding Tris’ hand the entire time. As the girls went one way, Kevin crossed to the other side of the road and watered the grass. Worry of Enclave snipers kept him glancing back out of the corner of his eye at her white hair until she returned to the car with Abby.
Kevin glanced down and coughed at a whiff of shitty coffee in the air. “Damn. That can’t be a good sign… smells the same coming out.”
Abby hovered close to Tris’ side by the car during a few minutes of ‘leg stretching,’ while Kevin performed a neurotic check of the car. After they got back in, he twisted around to look at her.
“You okay?”
She smoothed her dress over her legs and nodded. “Yeah. It’s creepy being alone out here. Like… there’s no one left in the whole world.”
He patted her on the knee. “It’s okay to be scared. I never really knew how scared I was until I didn’t have to be anymore.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Abby scrunched up her nose.
“Got a taste of it at the ’house.” He faced forward and eased the car underway again. “First time in a lot of years I wasn’t out here, not knowing if someone was looking at me over a gunsight, wanting ta take what I have. Wondering if I’ll wake up if I try to sleep… ’Course, that rug got pulled out from under me.”
“Sorry,” muttered Tris.
“Not your doing.” Kevin squinted. “That Nathan prick.” He shot a quick glance back at Abby. “So, anyway… it never hit me how worried I always was, because I always was. With livin’ in Ned for a bit now, it’s different.”
“Oh. Is it dangerous to drive?” Abby leaned forward. “Can I have water?”
Tris handed her a canteen.
“Depends on where you are. Route 80 is relatively safe since it gets used so much.”
Abby squinted at him. “Wouldn’t that make more people want to steal there?”
“Yes and no. Drivers who take this road are on long trips for the most part, which means they have cars they think can handle some nasty sh―crap.” Kevin picked a crumb from the corner of his mouth. “There aren’t a whole lot of cars left, and the kind of jackasses who’d attack a driver for the chance they’re carryin’ somethin’ worth taking wanna find easier pickins.”
“Oh.” Abby
drank a few gulps before returning the canteen. “What’s it like being a driver? And you don’t have to stop swearing ’cause I’m here. I’ve heard worse.”
Kevin grinned. “Most of the time, it’s just like this. Long times of watching road go by. The problem is those twenty second ‘aww shit’ moments when someone wants what you have and believes their guns are bigger than yours.”
Tris ran her fingers through her hair. “Think that Komodo guy was right? More people can set up rest stops without worrying about bounties on them…”
“No clue.” Kevin shrugged. “They still gotta find panels from somewhere, and with no Code, nothing’s stopping someone from deciding they want a roadhouse and killing the guy running it.”
Tris glanced at him, nose raised. “Didn’t you say most people are decent?”
“Decent people aren’t the type to spend their life out on the road.” He glared at the decaying stripe of paint flowing under the hood.
“Oh, I don’t know.” Tris put a hand on his thigh. “You turned out okay.”
“What’s that?” whisper-shouted Abby. “There’s something coming at us.”
Kevin raised an eyebrow at the rear view screen, where a buggy made out of aluminum tubing with two huge rear wheels and tiny front tires appeared to be gaining on them. “Wow… that guy’s desperate.”
“Is he a bad guy?” asked Abby.
“Yeah, more than likely. That little thing is working too hard to keep up. He ain’t drivin’, he’s tryin’ to catch us.” He smiled. “One way to find out.”
He pushed on the accelerator. Red LED numbers in the center of the console ticked up past 140, 160, 175. Abby grabbed the back of Tris’ seat and whimpered. Tris stared at the road ahead.
Eleven seconds after he hit 184 mph, a great plume of white smoke billowed out behind the driver of the buggy, engulfing the entire vehicle in a cloud, which rapidly fell away to the distance behind them.
“Yeah, he was trying to come after us.” Kevin laughed. “Rickety ethanol rig couldn’t keep up. Pretty sure he blew his head gasket.”
“Can we slow down now?” whispered Abby.
He eased off the accelerator and let the car settle down to 120. “Yeah. Better for power.”
The girl released her death grip on the seats and slid back to the center of the rear seat. “What did he want?”
“Probably the car.” Kevin frowned. “Or what he thought we were carrying.”
“Oh,” said Abby. “Please don’t let them catch us.”
Kevin grinned, squeezing and releasing the wheel. “I won’t. I’ve had a little bit of practice at this driving thing.”
3
The Opposite of Alone
With the sun weakening in the sky, Kevin kept his eyes focused on the north side of the highway. By his estimation, they’d be somewhere between Lexington and Kearney by now, and he knew there should be a ’house in the area. Sure enough, the glowing red neon of a Roadhouse sign emerged from behind a small clump of trees about fifteen minutes after he started looking for it.
“Goin’ to spend the night here,” said Kevin.
Tris nodded.
He overshot it on purpose, pulled a U-turn, and headed off the highway onto a concrete lot with a bunch of dead semi-trucks left to rot. Beyond a row of rusting trailers, a sturdy brown-walled building bore a smaller version of the Roadhouse red sign, in paint. Some of the truck trailers closest to the building appeared to have been converted into homes. Two large German Shepherd dogs relaxed on the dirt by a stairway made of cinder blocks leading into one such home. He had the feeling another nuke could go off and neither would bother moving.
Old toys, a small pink bike with white tires, one of those red plastic pedal cars (faded to pink), and more rubber balls of various shapes and sizes than he felt inclined to count littered the area. Tris stared at the evidence of children and got that look on her face again, likely wondering if someone had scavenged all that crap up for a present-day kid, or if the former owner of all those toys had survived the war.
Kevin steered around in a wide right turn that lined up on the roadhouse proper, aiming for one of the defined parking spots out front with a charging plug. The sight of a roof laden with solar panels stirred the faintest hint of regret at walking away from his dream. Fitch would no doubt let him take over again if he went back there, but he couldn’t risk some random lunatic shooting the place up and catching Tris… or Abby in the crossfire. Roadhouses were for men like Wayne, who had nothing worth losing but the house itself and no other warm soul who’d give a crap if they bit a bullet. More than his life, though, he couldn’t bear to watch something happen to Tris. If anything ever did, he’d probably turn straight into Wayne—and go back to running a Roadhouse, not caring at all if he lived to see tomorrow.
By the time he brought the car to a stop, he had to blink water out of his eyes.
“What’s wrong?” asked Tris.
“Dust.” He smiled, and pulled her in for a kiss. “Just some dust.”
She gave him a pouty look. “You miss it.”
“No. Actually I don’t.” He caressed her cheek with his thumb, smiling. “I was thinking about the reason I don’t.”
A hint of blush shaded her face.
Abby fiddled around with the rope she’d been using for a belt, untying it to add a leather holster Tris had borrowed from the militia. Once she had the Sig on her side, she scooted out of the back seat. She spent another half a minute fussing with how it sat against her hip. No matter how she fidgeted at it, she couldn’t get comfortable. Kevin locked the doors while Tris plugged in the charge cable, and they walked up four steps to a porch and into the Roadhouse.
The scarecrow behind the counter looked like he hadn’t seen a decent meal in months: emaciated, bald on top with scraggly strands of brown hair draped past his shoulders. A pair of six-shooters hung in oversized holsters from his belt. The man regarded Kevin and Tris with a brief wary glance before his expression warmed to a smile as soon as Abby slipped in behind them. Apparently, having a kid along somehow proved they didn’t intend to cause trouble. Multiple female voices murmured from a hallway beyond. All the tables were empty.
Kevin approached the counter, raising a hand in greeting. He’s twitchy. “Evenin’. Charge on port six. What you got that’s good eatin’?”
The man flashed a nervous smile. “Two coins fer’ chargin’. Uhh, chicken’s fried. Pretty decent. Best we got but tek awhile. Got some ’tato thingees too, but ain’t quite’s good as the one by Rawlins.”
Kevin grinned. “Yeah, Sang’s got a way with spices.”
“You know the place?” asked the proprietor.
“Yeah. It’s technically my ’house, but I’m havin’ friends run it for me.” He indicated Tris with a nod. “That’s the runaway sheep.”
“Oh, damn.” The man’s tension evaporated. He rendered an enthusiastic handshake as though they’d been brothers for years. “Name’s Ben. True ’bout ’Rillo?”
“It is,” whispered Abby. She wrapped herself around Tris’ left arm.
Tris raised an eyebrow at him. “I don’t remember ever hearing you on the radio.”
“Ehh…” Ben grimaced. “I listen. Don’t like talkin’ in public much.”
“Yeah.” Kevin shook his head. “Whole thing was a pile of bullshit.” He looked at Tris and Abby. “You two okay with chicken?”
They nodded.
“Three orders of the chicken then, some of those taters as well. And a room for the night.”
“Seventeen fair? Usually charge five fer that chicken, but I’ll do four for yas.” Ben tucked a strand of greasy hair behind his ear.
“Sure.” Kevin set out nineteen coins to cover the charge as well. “And turn on port six.”
“’Ave a seat.” Ben scooped the coins into his hand, gave them a quick count, and dropped them into a box under the counter. “Drinks?”
“Oh… right. Water’s fine.” He dropped three more coins on the counter
.
Ben whirled around to a machine made of copper pipes and plastic tubing. A wire mesh rack held about a dozen paper coffee filters in a vertical stack, with a feed line mounted to the topmost basket. He held a glass to a spigot at the bottom and opened a valve up top, allowing water to run down through the series of papers.
Tris headed for a booth-style table near the back hallway, which left most of the room in front of them. Kevin chuckled to himself. Old habits die hard. Ben set three glasses of water up, and Kevin carried them over to the table. He settled in at the end of the bench seat facing the room with Abby at his left, sandwiched between him and Tris.
Ben ducked into the back for a little while before returning with the news their food would take about twenty minutes.
Abby leaned against Tris; the way she held her hands together at her chest made her seem younger, or more frightened. Kevin tried to make eye contact, still wondering if bringing her along had been a good idea.
Tris put an arm around her while smiling at Kevin. He allowed himself to relax a little, and let his mind wander along a fantasy of a prewar family going out to eat for the night like they did in some of the old movies he’d watched.
They sat waiting for their food for a few minutes before a rumble outside announced the arrival of another vehicle. Tris’ smile faded to a look of caution. Seconds after the clatter of the roadhouse door opening, her expression of caution bloomed into the same rageful glower she had right before shooting Neon through both eyeballs.
Kevin twisted around to peer toward the door.
A man walked in with an assault rifle in his right hand, his left arm around the chest of a scrawny girl a year or two younger than Abby, with frizzy red hair down to her shins. She hung over his forearm like an annoyed housecat resigned to being carried. The child wore nothing but a dense layer of grime from head to toe and handcuffs on her wrists as well as ankles. She locked stares with Kevin for a few seconds, a mixture of curiosity, fear, and pleading on her face.
The man had the look of a raider―baggy brown pants and armor made from old tires wrapped around his dirt-smeared bare chest, with six-inch nail spikes on both shoulder pads. He approached a table near the door and set the girl down on her feet right next to a metal-framed chair with a battered red vinyl cushion. She hopped and shuffled a few inches before plopping down to sit.
The Roadhouse Chronicles Box Set [Books 1-3] Page 88
