The Roadhouse Chronicles (Book 3): Dead Man's Number

by Cox, Matthew S.

  “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,” whis
pered 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.

  “I’m gonna kill him,” muttered Tris. “Cover me.”

  Abby gasped and shrank down in the bench seat.

  Another man entered behind them, a bit older, dressed in army green complete with a Kevlar vest and helmet, also with an assault rifle. He had a muscular build and skin of deep, dark brown. As the first man walked away from the captured child toward the counter, the one in army green gave Kevin a ‘hey man, what’s up’ sort of nod.

  Ben’s face blanched as pale as Tris. The look he gave the new arrivals said he shared the same expectations about the men’s intentions toward their captive, but had frozen in fear.

  “Do they think she’s infected?” whispered Abby.

  “No, sweetie.” Tris grabbed her Beretta. “They’re not going to be thinking much of anything in a second.”

  Kevin reached across their adopted daughter to hold Tris’ weapon down. “Hang on. Don’t go starting a gunfight while you’re sitting right next to Abby.”

  Tris narrowed her eyes at him, muttering, “I wasn’t planning to start a gunfight; I’m planning to kill a pair of goddamned slavers preying on a child.” Her face reddened in anger. “Look at her. How could anyone do that to another human being, much less a little girl?”

  “Wait.” Kevin squeezed her hand. “There’s two kids in here and I don’t want either one of them catching a stray bullet. Got a feeling Twitchy McTwitcherson behind the counter is going to go crazy if something happens. That guy looks like he’d start throwing bullets everywhere.”

  The red haired girl raised her legs, set her heels on the edge of the chair, and fussed at the steel around her ankles with a demeanor more annoyed than desperate to escape. For a short while, the metallic rattle of her restraints held the room in rapt silence. Ben stared vacantly at the man in tire armor, oblivious to what he’d said. A woman in her early forties started out of the hallway, stopped short staring at the bound child, shifted her gaze to the man in tire armor, and backed away, eyes wide with fear.

  “Yo, you alive?” asked the raider.

  “Y-yes,” Ben stammered, leaning away as if expecting to be hit.

  “Enough.” Tris started to stand, but Kevin held her down by a hand on the shoulder. She shot a glare at him. “What?”

  Kevin watched the girl. Too thin, too dirty, far too casual about her situation. She barely gave either man any notice, continuing to fuss with the cuffs. “Gimme a minute…”

  The dark-skinned man in army green sat in the chair next to the feral girl, showing little concern at her halfhearted attempt to free herself. Either he didn’t care if she got loose, or knew she couldn’t. Kevin squinted at her. She’s more irritated than frightened. The kid sensed him watching and raised her head to make eye contact. He mouthed ‘are you okay?’ at her. She blinked, stared at him a little longer, and raised her hands before tugging the cuffs apart as if to ask if he could get them off her.

  “This is exactly what I was talking about,” whispered Tris. “That guy behind the counter is just going to stand there and let them make a slave out of a little girl. Look at him. He’s scared shitless. What if this was our Roadhouse? What would you do if this walked into our place?”

  “Hang on.” Kevin patted the table. “Something’s not right.”

  “No shit.” Tris glared at him. She pulled at the Beretta, but he held her hand down again. “Slavery’s horrible enough, but that’s a child. Disgusting. A bullet in the face is too fast for anyone who would do that.”

  Abby slipped off the seat and curled up in a ball on the floor below the table.

  “I don’t think this is as bad as it looks like. Their body language is all wrong.” He eased himself to his feet. “The kid is too calm. I’m gonna do the same thing I’d have done if this walked into our place—talk to ’em.”

  “What’s to talk about?” Tris continued to glare while squeezing the handle of her Beretta. “They haven’t put anything on her but handcuffs.”

  “Look at how long her hair is and how filthy she is. The kid’s probably feral. Maybe she bit them or they’re trying to take her to civilization and she kept running away. They found a feral back home when I was like fifteen; a boy, a bit younger than that kid looks. Took them six months to get him not to rip any clothing they put on him off in seconds, and they had to lock him in his room for a month to keep him from running back into the Wildlands alone. She doesn’t seem afraid of them. She ain’t even seriously trying to get free. That kid’s more annoyed than scared. Got a feeling she’s been stuck in them things a good while. Maybe these two found her like that. Give me a minute before you shoot two guys who might not deserve it.” He paused. “’Course, if you
turn out to be right, I’ll tackle the one in green.”

  Tris nodded.

  The man in the tire armor carried three plates of dust hopper burgers over to the table. He set one in front of the girl, who ceased chafing at the handcuffs on her legs and stared at the food as though it glowed with divine light. She managed to get a grip on it with both hands despite the metal on her wrists and jammed it into her face, snarling and chomping on it like a stray dog. The man in green leaned back in an overacted show of fear that he’d get caught up in her feeding frenzy.

  “I don’t wanna be a slave,” whispered Abby from the floor. She looked back and forth from the other girl to Tris. “Are they gonna take me too?”

  Tris started to raise the Beretta again. “No. They’re not.”

  “Just… give me a minute.” Kevin pushed the weapon down. “I don’t think they did that to her. She’s not trying to get away or screaming for help.” Kevin flashed a wry grin. “Or offering anyone money.”

  Tris glared at him. “That’s not funny.”

  “Stay with Abby a sec. Watch my back.” Kevin hurried over to their table.

  The red-haired girl gave him a wary look as he approached, hovering over her meal defensively.

  Kevin raised his hands. “Easy, kiddo. I’m not gonna take your food.”

  The men looked up from their burgers.

  “Somethin’ I can do for you?” asked Green.

  “Howdy. Interesting group you’ve got.” Kevin smiled his most disarming smile. “I, uhh, couldn’t help but notice the girl and… well, my lady friend back there’s a bit touchy about the whole slavery thing. Mind if I ask what the story is before she does something violent?”

  Ben got even paler and swayed on his feet. His fingers twitched over the gun on his hip.

  Finished with her food, the girl let her hands drop in her lap and stared up at him, swishing her feet back and forth. Small scratches and smears covered her skin everywhere, suggesting she hadn’t worn clothing in a rather long time. Unnatural red-orange spots in the grime on her chest and thighs made him raise an eyebrow. The discoloration didn’t look like blood, or anything he could remember. Some kind of chemical? What the hell?