The Roadhouse Chronicles Box Set [Books 1-3]

by Cox, Matthew S.

  “Fox,” said the kid.

  His shirt consisted of dust hopper hide scraps stitched together into a larger piece with plenty of holes. Not that he’d have been old enough for breasts or visible chest hair; he looked about seven. Dark grey pants had a lot of dust, but otherwise seemed a recent score from a prewar clothing store. No wonder… a place like San Francisco, no one would dare go for scavenging. There had to be a gold mine here, if not for the looming threat of tens of thousands of Infected. The light brown coloration to his skin triggered Kevin’s bad memories of Mexican ‘orphans’ who acted like kidnap victims to help their parents ambush the unwary. Of course, nothing about this kid felt like an act.

  Shit. That name could be boy or girl. “Why were those guys shooting at you?”

  “They…” Fox bowed his head, gasping for air. “They…” The hard-muscled little body clinging to him trembled. “Took my family.” He coughed. “My mom and sister. They shot my dad.” He sniffled, but seemed too terrified to cry. “They started tyin’ me up, but I bit the guy on the nose and took a gun. Please help!”

  Tris walked sideways around the car, keeping her AK trained on the alley. “Did you see where they went?”

  “Yeah.” The boy’s eyes grew wider. “Please help me get them back.”

  Kevin gazed at the sky. “This is what got my dad killed.”

  Fox tilted his head. “The Boatmen killed your dad?”

  “Nah. Trying to do the right thing did.”

  The boy’s lower lip quivered.

  “Hey.” He patted the kid on the head. “I ain’t saying no, just grumbling.” The weight of Tris’ stare boring into the side of his head lessened. “Okay, kid. Lead the way.”

  12

  Stoking the Flames

  Fox pointed at the corner.

  “Is your dad… uhh…?” Kevin looked off to the side.

  “They took him… I don’t think he’s dead.” Fox wiped at his nose.

  Screw it. Little bugger will correct me if I’m wrong. He looked at Tris. “I dunno about bringin’ a little boy into a gunfight. Takin’ Abby with us on a ride was bad enough.”

  “I’ll stay down. I gotta show you where they are.” The kid bounced on his toes. “Please, before they hurt them!”

  Tris nodded. “Show us.”

  Okay. He is a boy. Kevin looked around at the surrounding buildings, several two-inch thick clear plastic slabs (pieces of e-tram tube), the Challenger, and the three dead men. “How far is it?”

  “Couple blocks.” Fox stopped clinging to Kevin and backed up a few steps, pointing with his handgun at the street from where he’d emerged. “They have a fort.”

  “How many?” asked Tris.

  Fox’s eyes widened. “A lot.”

  A scream somewhere between girl and woman echoed in the distance. Fox started to run, but Kevin grabbed his arm.

  “No! That’s Hawk! They’re hurting her!” Tears finally ran free. “My sister…”

  Tris sprinted off toward where the boy had pointed.

  “Stay behind me.” Kevin ran after her with Fox at his heels.

  She flowed up against the wall at the intersection like a specter of white, leaning into the stone building before whirling to point the AK around the corner. Kevin halted behind her.

  “Barrier of metal pieces… looks like they took a welding torch to dumpsters. Hanging cages… seven or eight people, men and women. Big fenced-in area in the middle with razor wire. Two guys on the wall and the gate’s still open. They’re watching this way, probably wondering where those three morons went.”

  Kevin glanced down at the dead bodies. All three had tattoos of coins on their eyelids so it looked like pennies covered their eyes when they closed them. “Huh. Guess these are Boatmen. I was expecting worse. They look like primitives.”

  “Never underestimate the power of stupid people in large numbers,” said Tris.

  Kevin raised an eyebrow. “Think we can sneak in?”

  She shook her head. “Doubt it. Besides, I’d rather pull the fight to us so the people they’re holding captive don’t get shot in the crossfire.”

  “You wanna yell like you’re scared, see if they come running?” Kevin winked at Tris before pushing Fox against the wall. “And you… You stay here until the shooting stops.”

  A teenaged girl’s voice shrieked, “Get off me!” in the distance.

  Fox sniffled. “Okay. Please hurry.”

  “I’d rather just shoot them.” She teased her fingertip at the trigger. “That girl screamed, who knows what the hell is going on in there. We don’t have time.”

  “Crossing,” whispered Kevin. “Cover me.”

  Tris fired, shifted aim, and fired again in under a second. “Wall’s clear.”

  He ran across the street and took up a position opposite her, rifle aimed around the corner. The ‘fort’ Fox had mentioned sat a few blocks down, not an easy shot with iron sights. A wall made out of a patchwork quilt of metal plates blocked off the whole street by a four-way intersection with a crude medieval style gate in the center. Beyond it stood a tangle of steel I-beams, narrow walkways, and hanging cages. Through the Enclave scope, he did a quick scan for hostiles. Four or five people in cages stared at the ground inside the wall, probably at the two men Tris killed. Two other cages either contained corpses, or people beyond caring.

  Tris fired again. A blue helmet bounced into the air above the gate. “Here they come.”

  Muzzle flash burst from an elevated balcony inside the compound. Powdered beige stone sprayed off the wall about a foot over Tris’ head. The gate doors swung apart with an ear-splitting screech of rusting metal and clattering chain, leaving an opening wide enough for two cars abreast. Boatmen in various outfits from nothing more than a yellow hard hat held over a crotch on leather straps to full-body metal armor came storming out onto the street. Tiny snaps, deafening booms, and midrange bangs rang off walls from an array of different guns. Fox squatted, back pressed to the building at Tris’ side, clutching the pistol in both hands.

  Kevin estimated between twenty and thirty Boatmen rushed toward them, a quarter or so carried improvised clubs, axes, or swords while the rest brandished firearms. A handful had blue vests with SFPD in white letters across the chest.

  This rifle is from the Enclave; that armor came from before the war… Kevin’s attention went straight to the largest figure in the middle of the pack, a behemoth in armor that looked like a cross between football pads and scrap metal. He carried a weapon resembling a massive double-barreled pump shotgun, and sprinted hard, suggesting he really couldn’t wait to get close enough to use it.

  Uhh, fuck that. Kevin triggered three times, perforating the giant with six rounds. The man went from sprinting to sliding on his face in an instant. Kevin shifted and fired again at the left-most armored figure. Though not much happened visually, the Boatman collapsed in a heap.

  Tris let off three shots and blurred away from the corner. Less than a full second after her image solidified against the wall, the stone at head level exploded in a spray of dust from a good portion of the charging gang all firing at her position.

  Kevin resisted the temptation to switch to fully automatic and hose the street. He aimed, fired, shifted, fired, shifted, fired, as fast as he could put crosshairs over bodies. While he tried to focus on guys pointing weapons in his direction, he didn’t waste much time being choosy or going for head shots. The Enclave rifle pierced the prewar Kevlar like papier-mâché. A few held up riot shields, but his high-tech bullets laughed at those too.

  Some of the Boatmen got the hint and leapt for cover behind buildings.

  Tris spun around the corner in a low squat; her AK let off what sounded like a chatter of automatic fire, but seven heads exploded more or less at the same instant.

  Kevin glanced at her, mouth open, frozen in momentary awe. She is goddamned scary sometimes.

  The sharp pop-pop-pop of a nearby pistol startled him. He spared a half-second glance to the r
ight. Fox had stepped away from the wall, two-handing his weapon straight up. A dead woman in piecemeal armor and a skirt made of studded leather panels fell from a second story window. A crude katana bounced out of her hand as she struck the pavement. She lay still on the ground; her bug-eyed gas mask, painted with an exaggerated grin, stared at him. Fox shot her again in the back.

  Kevin looked up. His building had no gaping holes on that side, and no one watched him from the roof. As a ripple of fire chased Tris around her corner again, he popped out and shot two guys in matching white hockey masks with bright pink plumes.

  A pop came from his left at the same time a dull, throbbing pain jabbed into his left side. An answering pop sounded from near Tris, and a bullet mushed into the armored jacket by his right shoulder. The boy’s attempt to help wound up hitting him instead of the man shooting at him. Kevin grunted and spun to the left, letting gravity take him down. An emaciated man in white paint and a skirt made of shredded tire rubber clicked a handgun at him, but it didn’t go off.

  Enraged, the ghoulish figure threw the gun aside in disgust and drew a pair of machetes off his back. Kevin fired from the ground, nailing the guy in the right hip. Before the tiny silver confetti squares from his caseless ammunition fluttered to the ground, Tris’ AK barked and the man’s chest caved in from a lone bullet striking him in the sternum. Gurgling, the machete-wielding lunatic took two steps away as if he’d merely changed his mind about fighting and decided to go for a walk.

  And fell on his face.

  Fox scampered out into the street to grab a submachinegun off one of the dead guys who had initially chased him. Bullets pinged off the paving behind him as he dashed back around the building, holding it out to Tris. She took it, reached around the wall, and sprayed full auto at a spot where three Boatmen clustered behind a concrete porch.

  Kevin cringed. That was an expensive waste of ammo.

  Using the distraction of the gangers flinching at her barrage, Kevin popped up and picked off two. Tris tossed the micro-Uzi over her shoulder and two-handed the AK. Her lips moved, but whatever she said didn’t make it across the street.

  Fox nodded and took off at a sprint for the Challenger.

  Kevin flicked the mushroomed bullet off his arm and winced at the forming bruise. Both hits felt similar, so he figured the boy had a 9mm as well as white-paint-man. Being able to identify bullet type by how much it hurt striking his armor made him shake his head. I’ve gotten shot too goddamned much. He swiveled and fired at a hint of motion along the opposite wall. Another Boatman in a blue flannel shirt and green camo pants staggered into the road, clutching a geyser of blood spouting from where his neck met his shoulder. Kevin finished him off with a double-tap to the chest. His rifle emitted an electronic chirp that sounded like a warning.

  At the lower right corner of the scope view, 06 flashed in yellow. Damn. Oh well. Was nice while it lasted. Not like I’m going to go shopping for ammo at the Enc― He laughed. “Maybe I will.”

  At the rapid clap of tiny sneakers striking the road, Kevin looked to the right. Fox raced from the car with an AK magazine in his left hand. He zoomed up to Tris and handed it over. She reloaded while the boy ran the empty back to the car. After two minutes of silent calm, Tris stepped onto the road, rifle raised, and started a slow walk toward the gate.

  Kevin moved out from behind cover, cringing at each breath. At the sight of blood on Tris’ shirt, he ran over to her. “You’re hit!”

  “Graze. Already closed.” She jumped and aimed, but didn’t shoot the grey cat that raced out from behind a porch.

  “I need me some nanites,” muttered Kevin.

  A moan from the left caused Tris to swivel and put another bullet into a fallen Boatman. He went still. Kevin pulled the Enclave rifle over his shoulder and stooped to grab an AK from a dead man. On one knee, he did a quick check of the magazine, which had about two-thirds left of a thirty round capacity.

  Better than six.

  “We’re lucky these guys are on the lower end of the brains scale,” muttered Tris. “Think they all came charging?”

  A young dark-skinned woman with frizzy hair, no shirt, and torn jeans, stood inside the nearest hanging cage. She reached an arm through slats of metal that reminded him of leaf springs, and screamed, “Hey! Get us outta here!”

  “Probably.” Kevin waved the AK as a pointer toward the cage. “Doubt they’d scream for help if they had guns pointed at them.”

  “Or she’s been told to lure us in.” Tris pointed her AK off to the side in one hand and shot another moaning body while barely glancing at him.

  The slow crunch of tires on grit made Kevin look back at the Challenger coming around the corner not much faster than a walking pace. Fox barely managed to peer over the console, but did a serviceable job of navigating the turn.

  “God dammit,” muttered Kevin. “He’s being helpful.”

  Tris glanced over her shoulder. “Shit. Hope he doesn’t find the button for the machine guns.”

  “Hang on.” Kevin jogged away from the camp toward the approaching car.

  Fox dropped out of sight, and the Challenger lurched to a halt. When Kevin reached the door, the boy still had both feet planted on the brake.

  “Thanks, kid.” He reached in and shut down the drive system. As soon as the boy crawled out the window, Kevin punched in the security code. The windows closed on their own, and the car chirped. “Come on.”

  Tris peered into the gate. “Are there any Boatmen left hiding in there?”

  “I-I don’t think so,” yelled the topless woman.

  Kevin jogged up behind Tris. “Guess we go in careful.”

  She nodded.

  A young sounding voice scream-grunted in frustration amid the clatter of metal on metal.

  “Hawk!” yelled Fox.

  “Charlie?” shouted a female voice, high up. Another hanging cage creaked as a late-thirties woman with red hair forced herself upright. Blood dribbled from her nose onto a new-looking white tank top; she appeared to be bound hand and foot with rope.

  “Mom!” yelled Fox, pointing. “That’s my mom!” He darted forward until Kevin caught him with an arm around the middle and hauled him off his feet. “Mom! Where’s Dad?”

  “Over there,” yelled the woman, moving her head in an attempt to point. “Kwan?”

  A man in one of the other cages moaned.

  Kevin held on to the struggling boy until he went still. “There could be more of them hiding in there. Don’t run in.”

  Fox looked furious, but nodded.

  After setting the boy down behind him, Kevin raised his AK and glanced up at the creaking of rusty chains. The center of the encampment, which occupied an intersection of two four-lane streets, contained an arena-like enclosure rimmed with concertina wire. An assortment of melee weapons including knives, hammers, axes, all the way up to giant swords and one chainsaw littered the edges by the fence. Eighteen hanging cages dangled from steel I-beams welded into a maze of rickety walkways and cubbyholes among sniper nests made from steel plates.

  Tris pointed her AK at one of the nests. “I see you up there. Come out or I’ll shoot you right through the wall.”

  “I can’t,” yelled a boy. Hands gripped the top of the enclosure where she pointed. “I’m chained to the wall.”

  “He’s the feeder,” said the young black woman. “They make him crawl around up here an’ bring us food. Come on and get us out.”

  Chain rattled from a ground-level structure near the back, a building made from the rear end of a flipped garbage truck with the hydraulic crusher removed. A girl inside grunted and growled.

  “They all gone,” yelled the topless teen.

  “Hawk!” Fox sprinted past Kevin, heading for the truck.

  He ran after the boy, colliding with him when the child skidded to a halt at the ‘door’―a flap of heavy plastic hanging from rope hinges.

  An Asian girl in her middle teens struggled at a chain padlocked around her neck,
tethering her to a ring in the wall by a mattress so foul shitting on it would’ve been an improvement. Her clingy pink T-shirt covered to the base of her ribs, but below that, she didn’t have anything on. A lump of denim, jeans, lay out of her reach to the left, thrown against the wall on top of brown work boots that looked factory new. Somewhat-clean smears in the floor suggested she’d spent a moment or two trying to reach them with her toes. At the crunch of Kevin’s boot, she whirled, blushed scarlet, and let go of the chain to cover her crotch while staring at him. Kevin averted his gaze to the left.

  Fox ran over and hugged the―possibly Korean―girl. She squatted and wrapped her arms around him, using the boy as cover to hide her lack of pants.

  “That’s your brother?” Kevin tried not to sound surprised or doubting. Post-war families often formed from people who happened to find each other. Hell, neither he nor Tris had the least bit of Hispanic in them and they called Abby their kid. Her embarrassment suggested origin within a larger settlement closer to prewar society. That, and her mostly-clean clothing. Then again, in San Francisco with so many infected, maybe they’d found a store no one had had the balls to scavenge yet. But a feral or tribal girl wouldn’t be embarrassed.

  He walked to the left, the garbage truck booming with his footsteps, grabbed the discarded jeans, and held them out to her without looking.

  Tris eyed an eight-inch wide wooden board leading up into the I-beam structure. The treacherous pathway spanned three distinct ‘floors,’ the topmost of which thankfully had only empty cages. Adoring her agility enhancements, she ran up the beam headed for the metal-walled spot that looked like a perfect place for a sentry to take cover. Along the way, she pointed the rifle at a few other ‘nests,’ but none had anyone in them. She turned right at the second story and hurried past the cage with the dark-skinned topless girl in it, heading for the ‘sniper nest’ where the boy claimed to be unable to get up.

  “Hey, where you goin?”

  “Kid,” said Tris, not slowing down.

  Still not entirely trusting the situation, she led with her rifle around the corrugated steel wall, but lowered it as soon as she made eye contact with a scrawny pale-skinned boy of about twelve. A padlock held a crisscross of chain around his bare chest like a harness. Only a few inches spanned from the middle of his back to the wall, secured with another lock. A chain collar ringed his neck, but didn’t connect to anything. Two buckets sat at his left: one held a dried coating of nasty-looking stew as well as a ladle, the other contained an inch or so of urine. Aside from the chain, he wore a battered pair of dark brown shorts that ended in frayed tatters halfway down his thighs, covered in all manner of stains.