The Redeemed

by Matthew S. Cox

  Tris decided to save ammo.

  Her friend spun around and brought the same heel down across his temple, bouncing his head off the floor and leaving him unconscious as well. The third man moaned, making no effort to get up.

  “He’s done,” said Zara. “You got him in the femoral.”

  Mac raced out the bead curtain, a submachine gun in each hand. “What’s goin’ on?”

  Tris struggled upright, head still spinning. “They thought we were for hire. We said no, so they tried to take it.”

  Mac spat to the side. “Surprised ya leave two alive.”

  “We’re saving ammo for Infected.” Zara winked.

  Tris picked up the two handguns she’d pinky-fired and dropped them on the counter. Matching Sig 226s in chrome.

  “Keep ’em. You didn’t kill the guy.” Mac winked.

  “Huh. You’re right. I guess technically, the Code doesn’t kick in unless someone dies.” Tris slid one to Zara.

  Zara pulled the mag to check. “Nice. Twenty round mag.”

  Tris rummaged another pair of magazines from the guy who’d kissed the counter.

  The third man, hand pressed into his upper thigh, hissed and wheezed. “C’mon… ya can’t let me die. I’m… bleedin’.”

  Tris started to look at him, but Zara pulled her away. The wheezing stopped a few seconds later.

  “Nothing you could do,” whispered Zara.

  Denise appeared in the bead curtain with two plated chicken sandwiches. Mac rushed at her, guiding her back into the rear hallway. A brief argument ended with Mac emerging with the food.

  “Stay back there for now. There’s a mess out here I don’t want you seein’.”

  “I’m fourteen, not four.” Denise barged into the room.

  Zara shrugged. “It’s really not that bad. Just blood. Not like someone’s head exploded. Ever see what a star-frangible caseless .50 cal sniper rifle does to a skull?”

  Mac stared at her.

  “I’ll take that as a no.” Zara blew a kiss at him and took one sandwich. “It’s kind of like dynamiting a watermelon. Oh, that guy is going to be hurting when he wakes up.” She punted the one at the base of the counter. “I think she cracked his pelvis.”

  “Sorry for the mess, Mac.” Tris sighed and stuffed the new sig into her left pants pocket.

  “Well, damn. You two might just be able to survive the Infected after all. I never seen no one move that damn fast.” He shook his head at the three men. “Be damn careful.”

  “Yeah. As careful as we can.” Tris shook his hand. “There’s no cavalry, Mac. Amarillo’s gone until we rebuild it. Secrets don’t last forever. Eventually, everyone will find out what happened. I know I’m about to walk into a meat grinder. Here, you think everything’s under control… until it isn’t. Be careful Mac.”

  Worry rattled in his eyes, but he offered only a grim nod as a reply.

  Tris plodded outside, wedged the sandwich in her mouth, and unplugged the charging line. She had to hold the spring-loaded license plate down to let the wire spool in, all the while drooling around the spiced chicken in her teeth. Zara climbed in the driver’s seat and Tris went straight to the back where a dingy, musty, lumpy, lovely mattress waited.

  “We should be there in about four hours give or take,” said Zara.

  Tris, flat on her back, chomped as big a bite as her mouth allowed. “Mmm. Kmm.”

  “I’ll yell if anything happens.”

  Swallow. “Okay.”

  Tris inhaled the chicken burger and curled up on her side, jostling about as the van returned to the highway. The vibration of the road latched on to her already exhausted body, fighting down her lingering adrenaline. A dull throb developed in her foot where she’d kicked the one guy.

  Kevin… whatever you’re doing out there, don’t take any stupid risks.

  evin stood still as a tree, eyeing the fourteen uniformed men standing in a line across the sunbaked road. Nothing quite made a man feel as dumb as winding up staring down the barrels of a bunch of automatic rifles he could’ve avoided simply by not racing off with his balls lit on fire by a stupid and reckless quest for revenge. He locked eyes with the man in the maroon beret.

  “Sorry.” Kevin spat to the side. “Guess we made a wrong turn at Albuquerque.”

  Three of the men snickered.

  “How you wanna play this, man?” whispered Fitch.

  “Any way that doesn’t wind up with a bullet in my ass.” What the hell. He walked toward the apparent leader in as nonaggressive a stride as he could muster. “Something wrong? My uhh, plate expired or something?”

  “I am Lieutenant Fernando Garcia Florentine Diaz of the Ejército Mexicano.”

  Kevin winced. “I’m sorry.”

  Lieutenant Diaz narrowed his eyes. “The National Defense Army of Mexico.”

  “No… I understood you.” Kevin gestured at the man’s chest. “I was expressing my sympathy about that name.”

  Four of the men stifled laughter.

  “I do not find your jokes humorous.”

  Kevin smiled. “Guess it’s a good thing I’m not a professional comedian then.”

  “We are going to search your vehicles for materiel support you are providing to your allies, enemies of Mexico.” Lieutenant Diaz waved at the formation of soldiers and pointed at the Challenger.

  “Ugh.” Kevin pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look, Lieutenant, I’m not working a run right now. I ain’t carryin’ nothin’ but my own supplies. And I’m not with the News.”

  “This car has been spotted frequenting Hagerman. That’s one of their installations.” Diaz raised his nose with a hint of imperiousness.

  Kevin chuckled, a reaction Diaz appeared rather un-fond of. “You’ve got a bit of a high opinion of them if you call that an ‘installation.’ A bunch of morons hanging out in an old grocery store ain’t an ‘installation.’”

  Diaz pursed his lips, glancing down for a few seconds. “If you are not running guns for the traitors, what are you doing this far south? You expect me to believe you’re sightseeing?” He gestured at Fitch’s truck. “That you’ve got a truck that big with nothing in it.”

  “Esta vacio,” said a soldier by the Behemoth’s bed.

  Diaz closed his eyes with an exasperated leak of air from his nostrils, arm still out indicating the vehicle.

  “Yeah, basically.” Kevin grinned.

  The Lieutenant put his hands on his hips. “What exactly are you doing in our territory?”

  “I’m tryin’ to track down a couple of Redeemed who put a bunch of bullets in a friend of mine. Another Roadhouse operator.”

  Five of the soldiers blinked and murmured amongst themselves.

  Diaz leaned forward, head tilted to the right. “Redeemed?”

  “Yeah. Was nine of them. Four died; three got out un-shot.” Kevin shifted his weight onto his left leg and waved at the surrounding buildings. “We heard Redeemed holed up around Las Cruces, so here I am. Ain’t complicated. Someone pissed on the Roadhouse, and I’m lookin’ for payback.”

  “Descansen,” said Diaz over his shoulder. The soldiers relaxed and switched to holding their weapons sideways. “You’re a little late, my friend. Redeemed ain’t around here anymore. We chased ’em off a couple weeks ago. Last I hear, they’ve gone all the way to Silver City.”

  Kevin closed his eyes, picturing the map. Two hours or so west, up in the hills. “Guess I’m goin’ to Silver City.”

  Diaz held up a hand as Kevin tried to walk past him. “Just a moment, friend. Where do your loyalties lie?”

  “With Amarillo; with my damn roadhouse.” He eased his left arm up, touched the back of his hand to Diaz’s wrist, and pushed the man’s hand out of his way. “I think you’re both tools.”

  “Excuse me?” asked Diaz, pivoting to keep facing Kevin as he walked past. “Tools?”

  Kevin stopped. “Yeah. News and the Olds. Fighting over a border that doesn’t mean a damned thing. In case you hadn’t no
ticed, there’s no U.S. and no Mexico anymore. Hasn’t been for like fifty years.”

  Diaz raised both hands, palms up, fingers splayed. “This land once belonged to Mexico, but was stolen by the United States of―”

  “Doesn’t exist anymore.” Kevin shook his head. “You wanna know what side I’m on? I’m on the side of not being an idiot. Killin’ each other over where some arbitrary squiggly line on a map goes is stupid. People ought’a be worried about rebuilding than where dead countries start and stop.”

  “We are rebuilding.” Diaz swept his arm down like a whip. “We are the establishment. You may be correct in that our respective countries have ceased to be… but we will make Mexico great again.”

  Kevin forced a smile. This guy’s been out in the sun too long. “Hear you and the Redeemed aren’t eye to eye.” Maybe I can talk them into helping us out.

  Diaz grumbled. “No. They are enemies of Mexico.”

  He eyed the soldiers. A few peered into the windows of his car and shook their heads at Diaz in a way that said ‘nothing here.’ Shit. Do I really want to start a legitimate war here? I roll in there with these guys, and bullets will fly. “Guess you’ve got no problem then with us going there to have a ‘chat’ with three of them.” Kevin patted his .45.

  “Muy bien…” He waved down the road. “Sal de aquí.”

  Kevin held his breath until he pulled the Challenger’s door open and slipped in to the seat. He exhaled hard out his nose and sat motionless, watching the Olds mount up in their trucks and drive past, heading east.

  The Behemoth rumbled up alongside. Neeley shoved the black-painted armored roof flap open and leaned out. Kevin poked a button; his window sank into the door with a faint electric whirr.

  “Oi, now what?” asked Neeley.

  Kevin blanked his mind and waited to see what urge hit him first. His system unwound from the tension of the confrontation. Two hours or so away could be the three men who killed Wayne. Maybe―just maybe―they could get in acting casual, find the guys Neeley recognized, and get out before they got caught up in a shitstorm.

  “Let’s check out Silver City.” He punched the six blue rocker switches over the dashboard with his thumb one at a time. “This ain’t worth weeks of chasing our tails. If it looks like we’re gettin’ nowhere, I won’t ask you two to keep on.”

  Neeley hung his head and patted the outside of the door like a war drum. “We gotta get them fuckers for Wayne.”

  Kevin clung to his righteous anger. “Yeah.”

  “Right on,” said Fitch.

  “Whoo hoo!” cheered Neeley. He ducked back inside, slammed the hatch, and a few seconds later, popped up again with his Dragunov rifle.

  “Well. I suppose if I’m going to do something stupid, I better commit.” Kevin rolled up the window. “Half-assing idiocy is asking to die.”

  He leaned on the accelerator, pinning himself into the seat for a few seconds until he leveled off at seventy to let the truck catch up. Hmm. Battery’s at forty-four percent. This is gonna get shitty if there’s no charging station there.

  Route 180 north offered a whole lot of nothing for the last fifty some odd minutes of the trip to Silver City. Brown dirt spotted with green scrolled by with nary a trace that humans had ever existed, save for the road itself. His tires double-thumped over a railroad track at the end of a long, sweeping curve.

  Silver City lay up ahead at the end of a short western spur according to his map. Three minutes along that route, he spotted a Roadhouse sign hovering over a building made of part white-walled trailer, part semi-truck, and part scrap. It sat at the center of a dirt lot off to the right. A more distant yellow building to the right had the name ‘Vern’s’ in green letters on a small white sign. It might’ve been some manner of auto shop before the war, with three garage bays, but something had hit it pretty hard. Not even rats would try to shelter in it now.

  Kevin tapped his brakes to flash taillights, and slowed while pulling a turn into the lot. He took the leftmost of four parking spaces with charge ports, and sighed at the meter showing twelve percent. Guess I shouldn’t be so annoyed at havin’ to go slow.

  Fitch parked to his left.

  Relief at finding a Roadhouse withered to unease at the sight of handprint in blood on a storm door. A crude porch shrouded it, made from a pair of pallets serving as walls with a car hood roof. More than a few bullet holes dotted the corrugated metal, wood, and white aluminum siding.

  “Shit.” Of course. A ’house this close to these assholes… He got out of the car with the .45 in his hand.

  Neeley raised a micro-uzi as soon as he noticed Kevin aiming at the door. Fitch leaned back into the Behemoth and returned with a pump shotgun.

  “What you seein’?” asked Fitch

  Kevin studied the building. “A whole lot of pain.”

  He aimed the .45 ahead and walked to the entrance. Foulness like rotting meat permeated the air, threatening to get worse inside. One boot nudged the door open the rest of the way, and he followed his gun around a quick left. Another ninety-degree turn, this one to the right, led into the larger share of the interior.

  The room had an L shape, with the short spur on the left side of the counter filled with booth seats. To the right, the longer section of the room lay scattered with freestanding tables all tossed about on their sides, chairs shot up or trampled. A handful of mirror slivers still clung to a large wooden frame behind the counter, where the control panel for the car chargers emitted a steady buzz. On the face of the counter, a hand-painted wooden sign committed first-degree murder on the art of communication:

  Bat Reez Charged: 2 koins

  Hamm Booger: 2 koins

  Big Rabid Stake: 3 koins

  Om Lit: 1 koin (if has)

  Warm Sudz: 3 koins

  Cold Sudz: 8 koins

  Ag Wah: 2 koins

  Room: 3 koins / day

  Tilla Chipz: Hep Yo Sef

  A huge basket at the middle of the counter still held a few tortilla chips, though they looked somewhere between petrified and fossilized. That even bugs had left them be alarmed him almost more than the dread of what happened here.

  Fitch tilted his head as if looking at the thing sideways might make it clearer. “Big rabid―”

  “Dust hopper.” Kevin aimed to the right at the other empty end of the room. “Big rabbit.”

  Blood had splattered over the rear wall by a pair of green plastic swinging doors labeled ‘piss room.’ A head-sized chunk of flesh and a length of guts lay on the floor a short distance in front of said doors, covered in flies.

  “Anyone here?” asked Kevin in a normal speaking volume.

  “Don’t look like.” Neeley headed for the counter, and the charge controls. “Panel took a bullet. Sparkin’.”

  “Damn.” Kevin lowered his arm and hurried over.

  A hole big enough to stick a finger in pierced the steel between the switches for bays three and four, exposing wires and a flickering electric blue glow deep inside the cabinet. Kevin went wide-eyed at it, and ran to the center of the room, spun in a circle looking for a ‘back hallway,’ and, finding none, dashed outside.

  The Behemoth’s hood proved to be enough of a boost to climb onto the roof. Sheet metal clattered as he dragged himself up among the solar panels. Fortunately, the hardware was almost identical to what he had, though with smaller solar panels that looked different in a subtle way he couldn’t quite place. Something about the shape or the edges… He shook the useless question out of his brain, headed for the master cutoff, and threw the breaker.

  Whatever caused this whole place not to go up in flames, thanks. He eyed the clouds and the early evening sky for a few seconds before climbing back down. Neeley jogged out the door.

  “I’m gonna check the rooms. Looks like this place used sep-rit trailers.” The skinny man held up a fistful of keys. “Nothing inside, alive or dead… ’cept that mess on the floor.”

  Kevin grunted, waited for Neeley to move out of th
e way, and went back inside. Thumping emanated from behind the wall by the counter; the sound made him imagine Fitch kicking something over and over. The panel no longer buzzed, which he took as a good omen. He stared at it, pondering how to open it with his bare hands. “I’m an idiot.”

  After running back to the Challenger to get his tool satchel from the trunk, he returned to the panel and managed to get the faceplate off with some creative hammering. The bullet had smashed the switch component for bay three, exposing wires to the metal housing as well as each other. The plastic bits of the switch had melted away from the copper elements inside, but one, two, and four appeared functional aside from severed wires.

  “God dammit,” yelled Fitch from a back room, between gagging heaves. “Son of a…” He coughed.

  Kevin took wire snips and got to work, tearing out the bay three switch and patching other wires to clear the short. Rewiring two of the bays looked relatively simple… he copied the pattern of the untouched switch in port one.

  A large flap of corrugated steel swung away from the wall in the approximate shape of a door. Fitch emerged from the hidden passage, his face a deep shade of dark chocolate and eyes watering. Kevin leaned back, holding two wires he’d been in the midst of twining together.

  “Do I wanna know?”

  Fitch waved him off, still trying to catch his breath. He lurched forward, hands on his knees, and choked out a few more coughs with a line of saliva dangling from his lip. Kevin cringed away, having no desire to watch that.

  “God damn.” Fitch sputtered, stood straight, and blew snot out of one nostril. “Don’t go in there.”

  “How many dead?” Kevin threaded copper wire around a contact at the top left corner of switch four, and tightened it with a flathead driver.

  “Fridge.” Fitch’s next cough mutated into a laugh. “Greenbeard’s living in the damn fridge. Reckon’ at least a month since anyone opened that thing. Somethin’ went down in the kitchen too. Fridge was shot to hell and back, along with everything else in there.”

  About ten minutes later, Kevin studied his wiring job. He couldn’t find anything obviously wrong with it, but he also didn’t trust finding out by flipping the switch. Fire sucked. “Hey, Fitch. This look right to you?”