“They probably started shooting at each other after the first person succumbed and went feral.”
Zara dodged a pushcart full of PC keyboards and whirled to the left with her MP5. “You sure there’s anyone even here?”
Tris stopped and stared down. “No… but I can’t leave until I find their last stand.”
“What was that in the kitchen?” Zara relaxed, lowering her weapon. “I’m jumping at shadows here.”
“Looks like people were shooting each other… before I spoke to Cassie.” Tris pushed open a door labeled ‘Manager’ and swiveled around to put the katana between her and a dim office.
She almost wet herself as a pair of sentry guns on either side of a huge metal desk trained on her and emitted a rapid clicking sound. Her body refused to move for two seconds, until the paralytic terror fled her muscles.
Tris slumped back into Zara’s arms, panting. “Shit… they’re out of ammo.”
Zara lifted her upright and indicated the wall with a nod. “Blood all over this little alcove here… too much for whoever bled to have walked away.”
“Yeah… that means someone cleaned up the mess.” She took a moment to recover her breath, and advanced.
Behind the desk, two folding tables held piles of computer equipment: PC cases, drives, wires, motherboards, memory chips, keyboards, and six flat-panel monitors. To the far right in the corner sat a tall safe, the type used for rifles. Near the safe, between a pair of bookshelves loaded with old software manuals, a plain grey metal door led deeper into the building. Next to a bathroom on the left, a steel-framed bed and dingy mattress oozed the stink of whiskey and sweat.
“Someone’s been here recently.” Tris eyed the table of tech; nothing was powered up, but a panel similar to the one used to charge cars hung on the wall nearby, rigged with standard 110-volt outlets instead of on/off switches or the ‘Roadhouse-custom’ plugs that everything else used these days. That someone had bothered rewiring the panel to pre-war outlets suggested it might’ve come first.
Zara moved left, sweeping the bathroom with the MP5. “Nothing.”
Tris approached the gun safe, as tall as her eye level, and stared at a hockey-puck sized disc in the middle of the door, bearing a numeric keypad. Hmm. She thought back to the site inspector’s jacket. Naah… couldn’t be that easy? She tried 2061, which didn’t work. 1602 didn’t work either, but she noticed an unused space on the display. Five-digit code.
“What’cha doing?” asked Zara.
“Trying to open this. If there’s weapons in here, the survivors are going to need them.” She tried 2061 with 0 through 9 added at the end. When she keyed in 02061, the thing beeped. “Shit, it worked!”
She twisted the handle ninety degrees counterclockwise and pulled the door open. Rather than the weapons she expected, the safe was packed top to bottom with coins, many still in cardboard boxes. Her gaze settled on several pennies cartons she remembered helping carry into the building months ago.
Her mouth went dry; her heart pounded.
“Holy shit.” Zara gawked. “That’s like all the money.”
“We could get the van in here…”
Zara chuckled. “Have we gone from rescue mission to looting?”
Tris opened her mouth to say something, but whirled at the squeak of a door moving. Not thinking about the weapon in her hand, she raised the katana like a pistol.
“Get yer asses away from that,” yelled a rickety-looking old man with waist-length hair in pewter squiggles. A camouflage poncho obscured most of his body to the knees, but left his weathered AK-47 exposed. Strips of cloth tied around the weapon dangled at varying lengths, though whether they held it together or had been added to disguise it, she couldn’t tell. “Easy now.”
Tris felt like a fool holding a sword to a rifle. She lowered it slow and easy. Zara didn’t move.
“You said somethin’ bout a van?” asked the old man. He relaxed his rifle two or three inches.
“Is this where you tie her up and make me go get it?” asked Zara.
Tris bug-eyed at her. What is she doing?
“Uhh… not ’zactly.” The elder coughed, launching a pea-sized glop of something white from his mouth that landed six inches down his beard. “Figgered on offerin’ ta split the money with yas fer gettin’ me outta here ’live. I cain’t really drive no more, and I much prefer not havin’ ta watch my back all the damn time. I force ya ta do shit and you’ll stab me soon as ya can. Be better if’n I don’t gotta hurt no pretty ones like you two.”
“Do you know anyone named Cassie?” asked Tris.
“Yeah. She used ta work for me. Damn good with ’lectronics, that one.”
Tris let her arms hang at her sides, sword pointed down. “I spoke to her two days ago over the radio. She said there were about twenty people left. Is she dead? You said ‘used to.’”
The old man wagged his rifle to the left. “Look at this place. Shit’s done. No one works fer me no more.”
“So, she might not be dead?” Tris took a step closer. “We’re more than willing to get you out of here, but I can’t leave other survivors behind.”
He twitched, left eye winking three times in an involuntary spastic motion. “T-they’re all gone. The whole damn place is dead. Thousands. Ya gotta get me outta here!” Wide yellow eyes bored into her soul. “There ain’t much time.”
“I don’t think you ever had thousands of people here,” said Zara.
I know this voice… the old guy from the radio. “You’re Amarillo… you were going to send…” Oh, no. “Did you send a site inspector to Gertrude’s Roadhouse?”
“Whotrude?” The old man blinked. “The zombies are in the vents. I can hear them thinking about us.”
Zara twirled a finger at the side of her head while eyeing Tris.
“Okay, whoever you are…” Tris raised her hands in a placating gesture. “You are obviously scared. We can get you out, but I need you to wait here until I find the others.”
The elder’s body trembled. Already-wild eyes grew more crazed. “No! Forget ’em. It’s all a lie! We made it up. Never was any damn army. They’re all gone. All two-hundred of ’em. They’re gone.”
“This guy’s nuts,” said Zara. “He’s gonna―”
Blam!
The old man aimed and fired in a half-second. Zara let off a noise like a kicked chicken and crumpled in a ball. Tris leapt at him, raising the katana. The old man lunged back, getting his AK up in time to deflect the blade to the side. Before Tris could react, the butt stock caught her across the cheek.
Her vision filled with spots of dancing lights. Body followed head, and the next thing she knew, she lay atop a pile of pain on the table full of half-built computers. Circuit boards, aluminum cases, and other sharp corners jabbed into her everything. The old man had boosters… not quite as fast as Enclave tech, but he was almost as strong as an Infected, stronger than a normal human could be.
Pain faded in a wash of adrenaline. Tris flung herself into a roll that got her off the table a tenth of a second before the AK barked three rounds through the particleboard and one unhappy Dell computer. She landed flat on her back and spun into a floor-skimming kick that took the old man’s legs out from under him.
He put two more bullets in the ceiling on the way down.
Zara struggled to push herself up and aim the MP5, but decided to dive behind the desk when he swiveled to aim at her. Tris hurled the katana at him as a distraction, which he fell for by blocking with the rifle again. Her jaw popped as nanites pulled it back into socket. Pins and needles swam over her face, riding the tail end of a wave of numbness.
She tore the Beretta from the holster, firing five times in the process of aiming. The first bullet shattered linoleum a hand’s width from his leg. The second pierced his shin. Bullet three landed at the crown of his right hip, four and five hit with sharp slaps over his stomach. They holed the poncho, but within a quarter second, mushed bullets fell away from the Kevlar he had
on underneath.
Tris raised her hand to go for his head, but the man’s rifle came up too fast. She dove to the side, aborting her shot as he fired. One round skimmed past the Beretta, the second dug into her forearm, an inch below the wrist, and passed out clean. A burst of pain lancing from hand to elbow said the bullet had glanced off bone.
“Argh!” she screamed as her leap landed in a slide. The Beretta slid from her grip; her hand released without conscious control.
Three seconds later, the old man scrambled upright and rushed toward her for a kill shot. Zara popped up over the desk, waving the MP5 side to side. She found her target and fired three rounds into his back, which caused him to lurch to the side, firing past Tris’ head by a few inches instead of into it. Shattered linoleum flecks stung her cheek.
Tris rolled forward into a punch with her left hand. He brought the AK up to defend; her edge in speed let her switch from punching to grabbing. Again, he tried to crack her in the face with the stock, but she ducked, expecting it. Fighting someone moving almost in real time reminded her of the simulation; it had been awhile since anyone but the trainer could keep up with her.
Zara angled for a clean shot, but didn’t find one. She yelled something Tris’ time-slowing combat booster dragged into an unintelligible demonic warble.
The old man lifted Tris off the ground by her grip on the rifle, twisted about, and slammed her down on her back atop the folding table full of computer junk while screaming, “Crazy! The lot of ya. You’re after my money, but y’ain’t gettin’ it!”
Shit. This old fucker is strong. Ignoring whatever sharp mass of junk dug into her ribs, she raised her knee to her shoulder and stomped him in the chest. He went flying; wide, shocked eyes said he evidently never expected a girl her size to have that much power in her legs.
His shout of “Aiyeeeee!” ended with a wooden crunch. He hit the shelf to the left of the grey door and fell in a waterfall of books, figurines and DVD cases.
Zara fired somewhere between six and twelve shots, triggering one at a time but so fast it sounded like full auto. The old guy rocked and shuddered amid a spray of bloody paper bits. The AK fell from his grasp and clattered to the floor. He wheezed and slid down to his knees, teetered a second, and careened over sideways.
“Lieutenant,” rasped the old man. “Takin’ heavy fire. Got hostiles on three sides. Situation critical. Requesting immediate air support at my location.” He gurgled. “Copy?”
Tris growled, left hand clamped around her forearm where the bullet had struck. She oozed down to her knees, gasping for breath. Her back felt like a knife-thrower’s target board, her arm burned as though a red-hot rod remained jammed in it.
“Linda,” wheezed the old man. “Captain, you gotta tell Linda I tried… Tell her I love her.” He sucked in a short breath, then his voice rose to a shout. “Enemy sighted bearing zero-two-two degrees high. Incooooommmming! Fire for effect!”
The man’s body twitched and thrashed out of control. His right leg locked rigid, left undulating. Torso and arms jittered and bounced with the staccato motions of a dying android. Blood seeped down over his poncho at the base of the neck, and one bullet hole in his left cheek gushed crimson.
Zara strode past Tris, scooped up the katana, and speared the old man in the skull. His body went still and his eyes lifeless, though both arms kept twitching. “Son of a bitch.”
“You okay?” asked Tris.
“Cracked my sternum I think.” She rubbed her armored suit between her breasts. “Already knit, but it’s still sore as hell.” Zara made a sudden face as though she’d gone waist-deep in ice water.
Three seconds later, Tris’ right forearm exploded with burning tingles so bad the idea of cutting it off seemed reasonable. Zara let out a strangled scream, which Tris soon joined in on.
A moment later, they stared at each other, out of breath and panting.
“Do you…” Zara shuddered, a tendril of drool hanging from her lip. “Have any idea what the fuck that was?”
Tris held up her healed arm. “Yeah. We haven’t had enough food. Nanites are eating us to fix things.”
“Great.” Zara grumbled.
“That means we’re close to the point where they’ll stop doing anything.” Tris stretched and clenched her arm, working out stiffness and a trace of burn. “We need meat soon or we’re going to die to systemic shock if we get roughed up much more.”
“Have we reached the ‘fuck this’ point yet?” Zara jerked the katana out of the old man’s head, and chucked it to Tris.
“Almost.” Tris caught the sword, eyeing the safe full of coins. “All ten grand of Kevin’s money… plus everyone else who ever bought in. What was this guy planning to do with it all?”
“Fill a bathtub and smear it all over his wrinkly-ass nipples?” asked Zara.
Tris cringed. “Thanks for that mental picture.”
“Hello?” crackled a female voice from near the floor.
Tris whirled to stare at a smashed radio unit, probably one of the uncomfortable things she’d landed on. She darted the two steps to it and swiped up the mic in her hand. “Hey. Cassie?”
“Yeah.” The woman sounded even more like a little girl. Her voice quivered with fear and a trace of sniffles. “It’s me. You… you’re not coming, are you? You haven’t even left yet.”
Zara handed Tris her Beretta, then raided the old man’s body for AK ammo.
“Cassie, listen to me. We’re here. We’re in Amarillo. We almost got killed by some crazy old man. Where are you and is there anyone else left alive?”
“Really? I… can’t believe it.” Cassie sniffled. “Yeah… there’s fourteen of us now… but it’s gonna be one less real soon.”
Oh, shit. “Where are you?”
“We’re under the United Market. You’re at the HQ right?”
“Yeah.”
“Go out the back door through the kitchen to the loading dock. Hop down and go right past the chain link fence to the alley. It’s the sixth building on the left.”
“We’re coming. I’ve got a van. We can get everyone out. Don’t do anything stupid.”
“It’s not me.” Cassie sniffled again. “It’s Warren.”
“What’s happening?
“Uhh… He’s gonna kill Abby.” Cassie started crying. “He won’t listen! She’s only eleven.”
Tris threw the mic aside and ran.
ith each mile closer to Pinos Altos, Kevin’s confusion mounted. Dallas’ characterization of the Redeemed didn’t sit well with what he’d constructed in his mind about them. He wondered if perhaps Wayne had made enemies with some specific individual before he took on the mantle of Roadhouse proprietor, but dismissed it because the Redeemed trashed other ’houses. If there had been some specific problem with Wayne, why attack others? At least he’d gotten to watch that boy own Neeley at pool for a few hours.
Hell, Neels said they were pretty civil when he saw ’em, and they were the sons o’ bitches who killed Wayne.
He slapped his hand on the wheel. “Shit, this doesn’t make any god damned sense.”
Light brown dirt studded with rocks zoomed by on both sides of NM-15. Wouldn’t take too much longer to get there… question was, what waited for him in Pinos Altos?
A sudden change in light on the rear-view monitor drew his eye; reflexes not quite dulled by a mere six months off the road caused him to hit the master arm switch for his guns without thinking. Two ethanol-eating dirt bikes leapt up out of a culvert on the side of the road, shedding sand-brown tarps studded with scrub bush and sticks. He couldn’t make too much detail out of the eruption of beige dust, though muzzle flare gave away their intentions before the second bike got all the way on the road.
Fitch swerved side-to-side, a spray of sparks dancing over the Behemoth. Black motorcycle helmets obscured the faces of both riders, though piecemeal leather riding gear, Kevlar kneepads, and emaciated bodies made him sure these two weren’t Redeemed.
The slowe
r bike steered for the Challenger while the first continued spraying the Behemoth from a submachinegun-sized weapon mounted on the handlebars. Kevin tilted the wheel a hair’s breadth to the left and squeezed the button for the trunk guns. By some miracle, the rangefinder actually worked, and the two trunk guns converged on the same point.
A brief flash of orange fire came from the second bike’s gun before its fuel tank ruptured, covering the man in a bath of ignited ethanol. The flailing, flaming, figure tumbled off the road in a heap.
Fitch slammed on his brakes, forcing the other dirt bike into a hard swerve that left him wobbling and more worried about not dumping than shooting anything as he zoomed past the truck. Neeley popped up out of the hatch in the roof with his Dragunov, but a tremendous boom boom boom shook the air as the cannon under Fitch’s hood went off.
Four feet of muzzle flare looked more like a flamethrower from the center of the grille.
The biker exploded in a shower of arms, legs, and helmet, soon followed by bike parts going everywhere. Kevin blinked. That giant pipe was a gun! What the fuck does he have in that thing?
He slowed to a stop, relieved for only a few seconds before the sight of dark grey smoke peeling out from the Behemoth’s left rear tire put a sick weight in his gut. The enormous black pickup truck stopped within two feet of his rear bumper. Fitch and Neeley got out. While the skinny man headed toward the tire, Fitch stomped down the road and paced about, crushing fragments of gore under his boot while cursing.
Kevin decided to let the man vent. He jogged over to Neeley.
Three small holes in the metal hubcap over the in-wheel motor made him cringe. Said smoke exuded from them.
The Redeemed Page 29
