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

by Cox, Matthew S.

  A black box.

  With little wings and round fan shrouds.

  A drone.

  Pointing right at her.

  “Zoe!” yelled Abby, almost in tears. “They’re coming!”

  11

  Only the Good Die Stupid

  Reno came and went without fanfare. As luck would have it, the final roadhouse they stopped at had another portable solar charger in the store, and no creepy singing triplet girls dressed up like antique dolls. Ninety coins proved impossible to pass up. Every so often, stupidity came in handy. Something like that would’ve been an easy three hundred at most Roadhouses, four or five if the proprietor felt like gouging. The price came with due caution however; perhaps the frazzled old man knew the thing would blow up. Tris checked it out and gave it the thumbs-up. The proprietor seemed amused that a woman’s opinion on technology mattered to him, but neither of them bothered to make issue of it. Too tired, too much of a hurry, and not worth the bother.

  The closer they got to California, the more on edge Tris became. A heavy fog clung to the road, flanked by dark brown rocks covered in a scattering of green. Somehow, the metal railings on either side remained more red than ruined. For as much as he’d heard tell of the Boatmen running wild in the area around the Golden Gate, the trip had thus far been quiet. The relative desolation of the land north of the bridge suggested that any organized pack of raiders, marauders, pirates, or whatever they considered themselves, would’ve stuck to built-up areas to the south.

  Of course, San Francisco had been a major city before the war. He’d heard they’d outlawed cars about a decade before everything went to hell, after having set up a network of electronic trams. He couldn’t recall ever meeting a driver who’d been anywhere near the area. Fear of Infected plus fear of the Enclave on top of all the rumors of how wild and vicious the Boatmen were had likely kept all but the most desperate away.

  Maybe they’re spooked about Infected too and live in tents around here?

  He eyed the area on either side of the road along the approach to the bridge. The fastest map plot to Redwood City came straight down Route 101 over the bridge… of course he could go around, but that would add a day and change. If his luck held out, the bridge would have survived the war and half a century of neglect after the fact. Not like it had to put up with much traffic anymore.

  Tris stirred in the passenger seat and sat up. At the unmistakable sight of the Golden Gate’s red-painted superstructure emerging from the fog, she drew a hissing breath through her teeth and went from groggy to high-alert in seconds. She’d splurged on a loose-fitting short dress in a blindingly ugly green/brown/purple flower pattern when he’d picked up the extra portable charger. Made for a more comfortable ride, or so she said.

  She pulled it off, wadded it up, and tossed it into the back seat before wriggling into her jeans, T-shirt and shoes.

  “Good morning, sunshine.” Kevin smiled. “We’re here at the mouth of Hell.”

  “It doesn’t look as bad as I expected.” She yawned.

  “Oh, we haven’t gone far enough. Let’s hope I don’t drive into a giant hole and go swimming.”

  Tris froze, staring at him. “Take the bridge slow.”

  He eased back to about forty MPH soon after he reached the bridge proper. Kevin had gone over bridges in the past, but none this long. As soon as the sway of the suspension reached his awareness, he crept up to sixty, eager to find solid ground again. The road surface appeared to be intact, though barricades of old trucks and cars flipped on their sides riddled it. Few showed signs of damage from bullet strikes, and all looked as though they’d been set up for at least a few years. Based on the arrangement, his mind conjured images of people on the north side fending off swarming masses of Infected approaching from the south.

  “I wouldn’t want to have been the poor bastard they chased.”

  “What?” Tris jumped as if she’d been daydreaming.

  He gestured at the barricades, which had forced him to slow the car to an almost human running pace to weave among them. Small grey blocks like a huge version of a child’s building toy lined up in an attempt to differentiate northbound from southbound traffic lanes, but so many of them were either missing or scattered to the side, it didn’t really matter which of the six lanes he used to navigate. “Looks like they were fighting off swarms of Infected here. These are shooting positions, but there’s almost no damage from incoming fire. Only thing I can think of is people trying to hold off a huge mass of Infected.”

  She shivered. “Yeah…there had to be so many people here. The Enclave waited for survivors to start collecting in major cities before they set the Virus loose.”

  Once he cleared the last of the barricades, at about a third the way across, he accelerated hard and shot over the rest of the bridge doing 135. The sooner he got off swaying road, the happier he’d be. Perhaps he’d find a path home that would avoid the thing altogether. Chances are, the Challenger had been the first wheels to touch it in decades. He envisioned the disturbance of the vehicle’s weight causing bolts to rust in seconds and fall. Perhaps it would collapse out from under them on the return trip.

  Yeah, that would be my luck. Survive the Enclave only to fall into the goddamned ocean. Enclave. Yeah right. We’re going to find jack shit and I’m going to deal with her sobbing the whole way back. He reached over and held her hand. Better that than losing her.

  “What?” She looked at him.

  “Can’t I just hold your hand?”

  She smiled. “Yes, but the look on your face says there’s more.”

  “Oh, we’re like twenty miles from the heart of the Enclave. What would I have to be worried about?”

  She squeezed his fingers. “Only a phone call, right? Maybe it’s nothing.”

  “Yeah.”

  The area at the south end of the bridge contained a massive lot of derelict cars with the twisted remnants of former multi-level parking towers on either side. Judging from the amount of concrete debris, the towers had to have been six or seven stories tall―or bigger. Both had collapsed toward the west, suggesting an airburst detonation somewhere further inland. The city beyond didn’t look like it had taken a direct hit. Damaged buildings and smashed e-tram tubes proved it had experienced at least some manner of shockwave and heat, but San Francisco hadn’t suffered the same fate as central Dallas… blasted flat to desert sand. Many of the taller skyscrapers looked like standing ivy gardens, dense wrappings of plant matter threaded in and around all the glassless windows and cracks.

  He drove as southerly as possible, making the occasional detour around streets blocked off by collapsed buildings. His third alternate route dead-ended at a zigzag of e-tram cars that had fallen from an overhead tube like the entrails of some giant spilled into the road. Every other car lay upside down, wedged between its fellows. He backed up to the start of the block and went farther east.

  His plan called for following Route 280 down to Redwood City, or at least the northwestern most part of it. Hopefully, the waypoint Tris had set based on the coordinates Terminal9 gave them would kick in before they came within sight of the Enclave.

  “Hey, you know… maybe we should stash the car and go on foot so they don’t spot us from the air?”

  Tris shrugged. “With as many Infected as are supposed to be here… I didn’t think you’d want to risk being cornered.”

  His grip caused the leather-clad steering wheel to creak. “Thanks. How close can we get before they see us coming?”

  “No idea. Zara might know that, but I forgot her number.”

  “Heh. Maybe we should’ve asked that before we rushed off.”

  She smiled at the dashboard. “Yeah. I’m not thinking things through. So, umm. I suppose I should apologize in advance for all the stuff I’m going to call you when you tie me up in the trunk.”

  Kevin laughed. “You wanna turn around?”

  “Yes, but we’re minutes from finding out what, if anything, this is going to l
ead to. That feeling inside me is getting stronger. Half of me knows I’m doing the right thing and feels confident, and part of me is screaming to go home.”

  “Yeah, that makes two of us.” He looked at her, grinned, and winked. “Except the part about me having a confident half.”

  She closed her eyes, let out a long, deliberate sigh, and reopened them. “I’m trying to listen to the rational part of my―Look out!”

  Kevin whipped his head about to face forward. A little less than a block ahead of them, a small child in dingy rags darted out of a side street, long brown hair trailing after. He stomped on the brakes, chirping the tires as the Challenger went from fifty to a standstill in a sliding skid. The child whirled to face back the way he or she had come from, raised a silvery handgun, and fired twice before zipping forward, clambering up and over a wrecked car and hiding behind it amid a hail of bullets sparking off the metal.

  For a fraction of a second, the kid locked eyes with Kevin. Panting, back pressed against the vehicle, the child stared open-mouthed at the car as if superheroes had come out of the sky to help. In that near-frozen moment, with a better look at the child’s face, Kevin decided him a boy.

  “Aww shit.” Kevin flicked the car into park and shoved his door open, grabbing his Enclave rifle from behind his seat as he slipped out to stand.

  Tris took cover behind her door, her black AK47 leveled off at the corner.

  The boy peered around the tail end of the wreck, raised his handgun, and lit off four rapid shots before bolting from cover. Sparks danced across the pavement behind him as he sprinted hard toward the Challenger.

  Men’s angry shouts echoed in the street behind him. Kevin aimed at the wall by the corner building, zooming in with the electronic scope. The first figure to emerge, a bare-chested guy in a black skirt with a white plastic mask painted into a skull, died within a quarter second of striding into view. Despite Tris’ bullet blowing out the back of his head, Kevin fired into his chest, lacking the reaction time necessary to avoid wasting ammo on a moving corpse.

  Two other men rounded the corner next, both in scrap armor made of thin metal plates and leather. Kevin clicked the trigger twice, putting four bullets into the chest of the one on the left while Tris sniped the third man in the forehead.

  The clap of the boy’s sneakers got louder, and a little body slammed into Kevin’s side, clinging and shivering. Tiny lungs strained to process air. Kevin kept aiming at the street ahead, waiting for the sound of their shots to draw more trouble.

  “I hope we didn’t just fuck up,” said Kevin.

  “What?” Tris kept her rifle forward, but looked at him. “They were shooting at a little kid. They deserved it.”

  “You saved me.” The boy wheezed, hooking his fingers in Kevin’s belt to hold himself up.

  Kevin gave Tris a ‘keep an eye out’ glance before crouching and brushing long, thick hair away from the child’s face. Despite it hanging down near his belt, odds still leaned in favor of boy; however, his round face and large eyes held enough cute to make the point debatable. “What’s your name?”

  “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, n
ot 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.