“Focus,” said Zara.
Tris let out an eep, and stopped short of walking straight into an open manhole.
“Where’s your brain?”
Her face warmed with blush. “I got categorized as ‘overly sensitive’ in tenth grade.” She indicated the cars with a nod. “Whenever I see stuff like that, I start getting all sad about everyone who died.”
“Aww.” Zara’s pout looked eminently fake. “You’re adorable.”
Tris punched her in the shoulder, and shook the ‘ow’ out of her knuckles.
They both laughed for a second before remembering where they were, and stifled it.
A grunt emanated from a dumpster about forty yards to the left.
“Shit,” whispered Tris.
She sprinted along the open driveway behind the warehouse and across the street into a narrow alley flanked by stacked pallets and huge blue trash bins. Two Infected groaned and crawled out of a mound of garbage bags. Tris beheaded the one on the left, and stabbed the one on the right in the heart two strides later.
Bang!
A wet splat followed a gunshot.
Tris whirled, cringing and ducking a flailing Infected who’d launched herself out of a second-story window. Zara’s shot had killed the former woman in midair, giving Tris enough warning to get out of the way.
Moaning rose up from everywhere. Pallets fell over, plastic trash bins bumped against each other with hollow thuds, and shuffling shoe-scrapes set the hair on the back of her neck on end. A distant slam conjured the image of a bloodthirsty Infected hurling a refrigerator out of the way.
“Sorry.” Zara grimaced. “Guess we go loud.”
Tris pointed at another fire escape. “Not yet. They can’t do ladders.”
A thirty-yard sprint later, Tris leapt up to a dumpster and the bottom of a second story fire escape porch. She jumped up under the grating and monkey-barred it to the far end and the ladder. Zara fired a few more times; Tris winced inside with each shot as she slithered around the ladder onto the platform. Zara held her ground, shooting into a pack of about fourteen stumbling Infected out on the street. The wall of the building across the alley swelled outward, split with racing cracks and flaking faux stucco.
“Zara! Move!” yelled Tris. “Behind you!”
The black-haired woman whirled and let off a clipped, “Dammit.” She dropped the MP5, letting it dangle on the strap over her shoulder as she jumped up to grab the bars along the underside of the fire escape porch. She followed Tris’ acrobatic lead, but had to keep her legs up to avoid a sea of hands jutting up from the throng spilling out of the broken wall and flooding the alley. Tris drew the Sig she’d taken from the guy at Mac’s, and shot six men and four women in rapid succession as they tried to pull Zara down. When her friend made it to the ladder, Tris grabbed her and pulled her up onto the deck, hard enough to fall over backward, dragging her away from the endless wave of moaning bodies.
Zara landed with her hands on either side of Tris’ head, two inches from an intimate kiss.
“Well… I didn’t know you had this in mind.” Zara winked, and pushed herself upright.
Tris scrambled to her feet. “How can you even think about jokes right now?”
Zara sashayed to the ladder. “What makes you think it was a joke.”
“That’s not funny.”
Her friend’s high-tech armored boots took the metal stairs without sound. “Oh shit, Tris. I’m trying to cope, okay? I… zombies? My job used to be nabbing curfew breakers or dealing with vandals… zombies!?”
A man with almost-green skin rife with leprotic sores appeared without warning, clinging to the railing at the end with a clank. Zara screamed as he’d appeared in arm’s reach of her. Tris shot him twice in the forehead, strode to the end of the platform and shot the one who threw him. “They’re not dead. Just… vegetative, and highly aggressive.”
Zara raced up, stopping at the fifth floor, the end of the fire escape. Someone had blocked off the window with a pile of furniture from inside. “I read a little about them in a briefing… Since I wanted nothing to do with the outside world, I didn’t pay attention. I know I can’t catch the Virus. Seeing them up close is another whole level of fuck.”
“Yeah.” Tris smiled. “We’ve got the advantage.”
“What advantage? Guns?” She grinned. “Vanister was shocked I didn’t put in for a hovercraft gunner given my aptitude scores.”
“No. Opposable thumbs.” Tris grinned and wiggled her thumbs.
Zara stared at her.
“Okay. I meant rational thought… but thumbs was funnier.” Tris lost her smile a second later, and ran both hands over her hair, clutching it to the back of her neck for a second. “Shit, I hope there’s still some survivors left alive… at least one person. Oh, who’s Vanister?”
“Deputy commander of training division. The guy who assigns jobs. I guess I got on his bad side when I said I didn’t want to go outside since everything was so perfect…” Zara pointed her MP5 over the railing, down at the throng of Infected. “Looks like about fifty or so. Scary, but nothing like you were worried about. Shouldn’t there be a lot more?”
“All those bodies by the gate?” asked Tris. “And maybe that’s why you got sent after me. I hope Nathan had to get on his knees for that request.”
“Out front? That was maybe thirty. Plus these poor bastards, that’s seventy or eighty. Where are the thousands?” She scowled. “My record wasn’t bad. It had to be a random assignment.”
That’s a damn good question. This place should be a nightmare worse than Chicago. She pulled Zara back and stuffed the Sig in her belt. “Don’t waste ammo. Let’s go on the roof to get out of sight. They’ll forget us in a little while.”
Zara held her hands together in a boost step. “You go first.”
Tris grabbed Zara’s shoulders and put her right foot in the woman’s hands. Zara all but threw her upward. Tris windmilled her arms and landed on tiptoe, standing on the edge of a three-foot high wall around the roof. Seven armored men milled about; two sat on folding chairs, three paced, and two hovered near the edge of the roof holding rifles.
Rifles made of wood and paint.
There before her stood four mannequins and three androids even more primitive than Bee.
Her mouth hung open. “Oh, shit.”
little under an hour after the last Infected stopped moving, Kevin discovered a trapdoor hatch behind the counter that led down to an underground storage room. Some (probably dust hopper) jerky wrapped in burlap still smelled decent enough, and the men helped themselves. The far end offered a concrete stairway up to an angled metal cellar door. Whoever had run this place transferred the padlock to the inside, making it a relatively simple matter to batter open.
They resumed their sleep/watch rotation once they’d returned to the cars. Much to his surprise, the time between settling into the Challenger’s seat and Neeley thumping on the window felt like only a few minutes. The sun peered over the eastern horizon, flooding the sky with clear blue. To the west, indigo clung to the barren earth.
“Time,” said Neeley.
“Yeah, yeah.” Kevin blinked and shook his head. His old life came back faster than he’d liked, years spent on the road allowed him to brush off the fatigue and discomfort of sleeping in the car with ease. “How’s that arm?”
“Sore, but it’ll be okay. Fitch hit it with ’shine.”
Kevin glanced at Neeley’s black eye. “And punched you back?”
Neeley laughed with a snort. “Heh, yeah.”
Fitch walked over as Kevin got out and stretched his legs, offering a canteen. “Water?”
Kevin took a long drink, and eyed the western dark. “You two’re ’bout the closest thing to friends I got. Not sure what that means seein’ as how I’ve known your sorry asses for about four months.” He laughed.
Neeley grinned. Fitch slapped him on the back.
“You two g’won back to my ’house. Help yourselves to w
hatever food ya need ’til I get back. I can’t ask you to get dead over this.”
Fitch grabbed his wrist, holding the canteen back from another drink. “You think we’re gonna let you run off on yer own?”
Neeley nodded. “No way man. Your chick would kill us.”
Kevin chuckled, and drank when Fitch let go.
“I kinda wanted my own Roadhouse for a while.” Fitch scratched the back of his head; something fell from his afro and fluttered away to the ground―a piece of drywall. “But I didn’t want it near bad ’nuff to suffer up ten grand, and I sure as shit don’t want it bad ’nuff to let you walk off and die.”
“Wait.” Neeley took a step back, pointing at him. “You get bit or somethin’? Blood on ya? That what this is? You’re dead and you wanna go down shootin’ fore ya turn into one of them fuckin’ things?”
“Maybe it’s that pretty little woman. Guilt’s a bitch.” Fitch squeezed Kevin’s arm. “She was already dead. If we weren’t here, she’d still be dead. Might’a looked innocent, but―”
“Yeah, I know. Nothing I could’ve done… all that shit. Kinda reminded me of someone.”
“For real you ain’t bit?” asked Neeley.
“Is it going to require me getting naked to make you feel better?” Kevin winked at him.
“Nah. You’s covered ‘cep for your hands an’ face.” Neeley leaned left and right. “Don’t see no tooth marks.”
“Good. It’s settled.” Fitch clapped him on the shoulder. “Let’s get going.”
Kevin stared at the ground for a moment, decided to accept their continued help, and nodded.
A few miles later, a settlement spanned the road, outlined by semi-trailers, buses, box trucks, and a handful of house-trailers reinforced with scrap metal and junk. The perimeter surrounded a ‘town square’ of sorts, containing some-teen number of e-bikes and a group of men in leather jackets and biker cuts, all with the Redeemed symbol.
Odder still, for every Redeemed, he counted two or three settlers. Silver City appeared to be a large settlement where a biker gang had moved in. He’d been expecting something like what the News did, where they ‘owned’ the entire place and ran it a bit like a military encampment, only with less order.
The most shocking realization about Silver City hit him in the form of a long black-painted building with twelve e-car charging ports arranged in front of parking spaces and a Roadhouse-style restaurant/shop inside―but no Roadhouse sign. Instead, flickering purple neon letters named the place ‘The Lower Deep.’
If Amarillo got wind of this, there’d be coins flying. Curiosity got the better of him, and he rolled through a gate formed by a pair of blunt-faced semi cabs, one black and one green. Both were in such awful shape he doubted they could move to ‘close,’ and had been set up more as a decorative accent.
Fitch followed, and parked the Behemoth in the space to his left. Neeley looked down at him, baffled, matching Kevin’s mind. A couple of the Redeemed glanced at them on the way in, but none had any trace of recognition or hostility he could detect.
“Anyone look familiar?” asked Kevin.
Neeley climbed out onto the Behemoth’s running board, twisting about and craning his neck. After looking at everyone in view at least twice, he shook his head. “Nawp.”
Kevin slithered up out of the Challenger and stood in the crook of the door for a moment, taking in what had always been verboten. An independent place operating in the manner of a roadhouse, without being a Roadhouse. A third of his brain felt like the little boy who always told on others when they did something bad. That hunk of cerebellum wanted to run squealing back to Amarillo and point at this place, waiting for the brute squad to go out to mete justice.
Two thirds of his brain glowered, the part that felt like an utter idiot for slaving away to hand over ten thousand coins instead of just setting up shop on his own. Granted, he’d still have had to find solar panels and all the charging gear… but abandoned ’houses did exist here and there.
Angry at the guy who did this, but angrier at himself, Kevin stormed in the front door.
Music emanated from a flashing onyx and violet box on the far left side past rows of square tables tilted to diamonds. A man’s voice wailed high over straining electric guitars, shouting something about a holy diver.
Three men in piecemeal armor, leather, and pre-war clothes occupied separate booths along the front wall. One had a woman with him with an eruption of dense, inky curls hanging down to her waist. A frilly black skirt, thigh-high leggings, and thick-soled shoes that looked more like bricks with straps made her look like a dark version of Alice in Wonderland―if Alice carried an assault rifle.
Kevin took two steps forward, Neeley and Fitch behind him to either side.
A tall, athletic-looking man behind the counter, shaved bald with a dark goatee, paused in his conversation with a dark-skinned woman. He stood about two inches taller than Kevin and his tight black tee shirt revealed the sort of musculature had by people not used to playing by the rules.
The woman gave Kevin the up-and-down glance before smiling. He guessed mid-twenties, despite a hint of childishness caused by large brown eyes and a button nose. Her tie-dye half-shirt left her midriff bare over faded fatigue pants loose enough to hide the curves of her legs. Toes poked out from the mottled green fabric, atop hand-made sandals of twine and wood.
“New boy,” said the bald man. “You look like you just saw somethin’ you’d rather forget. Maybe I can help ya do that.” He flashed a grin while nodding at a row of bottles behind him. “Everything’s fair.”
Kevin approached the counter. Sure enough, a control panel for the chargers glowed red, amber, and green from the wall behind the man, though it wasn’t the same model he’d gotten. It looked more cobbled together from random parts, probably one of a kind.
“Hey, pal. Did your ship just land or something?” The man waved a hand past Kevin’s eyes. “Welcome to planet Earth… what’s left of it.”
An identical woman came out of a heavy, dark curtain in a doorway to the right of the counter, carrying a tray bearing plates of food. Her plain white dress hung down to mid-thigh, and she didn’t bother with the homemade sandals. She almost had Tris’ slender build, only the twins were taller, leggier, and had larger breasts. Except for their clothing, the women were exact copies of each other.
Kevin found himself staring at her until she set the food down by the driver with the Goth pixie clinging to him. He pulled his gaze off her and scratched his head. Is it wrong to get a damn charge here? Oh, fuck it. Power is power. “Uhh… Charge on six and seven. Beer?”
“So you are considered sentient.” The man offered a hand. “Name’s Dallas.”
“Kevin.” He shook.
“You’ve got that ‘my world is falling apart around me’ look.” Dallas laughed. “I never get tired of that. Right now, you’re wondering why I’m still standing here, operating this place and not getting my face adjusted by a pack of Neanderthals.”
Kevin glanced left at an old pool table perched under a ceiling fan hung by loose bolts. “Yeah. Something like that.”
A Hispanic boy of about nine paced around the table, idly making shots alone. He caught Kevin looking his way and gave him an ‘I’d beat you easy’ smile, followed by a ‘c’mon over and play me’ nod.
Dallas leaned aside as one of the twins filled three plastic cups about the size of beer cans with suds. “Coin each for the drinks. You, and most of the rest of those drivers out there, got the brainwash put on you. Just like those damn idiots up in Wichita who think the war was all some ‘god wrath’ horseshit.” He leaned away to let the woman put the beer in front of Kevin, Fitch, and Neeley. “There ain’t no bounty comin’. Never was. Never will be.”
Kevin put three coins down. Half the price… he must either brew his own or steal it. “You’re so sure?”
The woman took the coins with a smile, dropped them into a container under the counter, and wandered off to check on on
e of the men at a table.
“Been here seven years now. Figure if that story had any teeth, they’d long ago been sunk deep in my ass. I get your type in here now and then. Bet you’re gonna run to the nearest ‘Roadhouse’ and go all ‘gee wilikers’ on the guy runnin’ it.” Dallas smirked. “I don’t consider myself to be a genius, but even I can smell bullshit of that magnitude. They don’t give a shit. Now, with the Redeemed around, I ain’t got a bit of trouble sleeping at night. Even if some jackass gets it in their head to start some shit, they got my back.”
“Yo, Mary,” yelled the guy sitting closest to the machine emitting music.
The song had changed since they’d walked in. This one slower, without the wailing guitars, had a bassy-voiced singer and some woman chanting about “Some day” and “The minion” or “dominion” or something.
Both twins whirled to look at the man at the same time. The women did a rock-paper-scissors thing with a stare, and the one in the dress walked over to the table while her sister ducked past the curtains.
Kevin raised an eyebrow. “They’re both named Mary?”
Dallas laughed. “Their momma wasn’t the most imaginative critter on the face of the world. Guess she didn’t want to forget who was who.” His grin faded to a cold stare. Kevin glanced over his shoulder at the leering ogle connecting Neeley’s eyes to the girl’s bare legs. “I found ’em when they were around twelve or so. They’re like daughters.”
Neeley didn’t react until Fitch slapped his head.
“Sorry ’bout him. Boy’s like a dick with eyes sometimes.” Fitch grumbled.
“Redeemed…” Kevin rolled a mental boulder around inside his skull, tilting his head side to side. “Don’t seem like you got much of a problem with ’em. Also don’t seem like there’s too many here.”
Fitch and Neeley took their beers and headed off to a table that left their backs to a wall.
Kevin sampled his drink. Weaker than Wayne’s, but not gonna bitch for one coin.
The Redeemed Page 27
