The Redeemed

by Matthew S. Cox

  Here we go again. “I’d like to know why your people have declared war on the Roadhouse. I’m trying to understand why you think the Code doesn’t apply to you, and I am here because some of your people killed a man I considered family.”

  Belt buckles and boots clattered on the loft, likely the overly casual getting dressed. A nude redhead woman grabbed pants from a man trying to put them on, grinning at him; they wrestled for a few seconds before he shoved her away, hard enough to send her over the edge, dangling by her grip on the loft. The others up top chuckled. She decided the two-foot drop easier than climbing, and walked as casually as if dressed back up the stairs to recline on a fur-covered couch next to a pile of clothes: judging by the size of the boots, hers.

  Komodo regarded him for a painfully long moment, stroking a finger up and down over his lips. The man had to be into his mid-forties, nascent crow’s feet and eye wrinkles marked his face, and he didn’t show any of the rapid bloodlust he’d come to expect from bike marauders. “Your so-called Code is a sheep in the guise of the wolf. There is no stalking darkness pursing those who resist the thieves.”

  Kevin huffed, almost a chuckle. He brushed a thumb at the bottom of his nose. “Who told you that? Amarillo’s got a standing army of almost two thousand. Someone breaks the Code, it’s five thousand coins for a head. No one picks it up, they come looking themselves… and then it’s painful.”

  The right corner of Komodo’s mouth pulled up in a half grin. “So in the thrall of the Coyote are you that you cannot see the earth at your feet. Your Amarillo is gone.”

  Kevin stared at him. His mind raced over Tris’ claim of Infected, no radio contact. No responses. How could he possibly know…?

  “The truth of it shows in your eyes, boy.” Komodo tapped his fingers on the armrests of his great chair. “Your thieves’ dens have been cleansed, yet where are those who would chase the spoils of treachery? You are the only one to appear, and you walk a path of vengeance.”

  “I didn’t come here about some bounty. Nine of your boys killed Wayne.”

  At the mention of the name, murmuring started among the Redeemed by the pool tables, and spread around the room.

  Komodo offered a slight bow of the head. “All is not as we are led to believe. You are young, and so the world appears as it does to the young. The mists of time have not yet revealed the truth.”

  “What the shit did this guy smoke?” whispered Neeley from behind and left. “I want some.”

  “Wayne…” Komodo gazed up into the distance, as if seeing something only he could perceive. “The man you knew is not the man who was. A coyote becomes too old, and curls up beneath the protection of your code and its false shield.”

  “I’m serious,” muttered Neeley. “I want some of that shit.”

  Kevin glared. “A guy could call Wayne a lot of things, but thief ain’t one of them.” His conviction faltered at the unwelcome memory of Tris telling him about the ledger. Could one of the Redeemed have been a former driver?

  “When he was as young as you are, he made his company with a group who feed upon the efforts of others. Those who travel the land in great beasts of black, and prey upon any in their path. They raided settlements, including this one. Stealing, shooting, doing everything else men like that tend to do.”

  “Night Riders,” said Phoenix, making finger guns with both hands.

  Breath swelled up in Kevin’s lungs, but he resisted the urge to yell ‘bullshit.’ He let anger simmer down to a low boil before letting words off his tongue. “There’s no damned way in hell Wayne was ever part of that crew. For one thing, they’re a bunch of psychopaths. Two, even if he had been… they don’t let people leave.”

  Komodo raised an eyebrow. “And if two of their trucks depart on a mission of plunder, and one of the drivers betrays the other, how would the rest locate him before he has crawled deep within the smoke? You speak of unprovoked attacks. The Redeemed have avenged those who have been wronged. Your road houses, the ones we attacked, were all men like this who used the fear of Amarillo to hide from their sins. Now that we have learned the panther has no teeth, they must answer for what they have done.”

  “I don’t know where you’re gettin’ this from, but it sounds like a load of manure.” Kevin couldn’t get the image of Wayne dead in his basement out of his mind. “They killed him like a dog. Your boys got into a beef over not wanting to pay for their food. They were the ones stealing. He had an android who saw the whole damn thing go down.”

  “This is beyond Wayne.” Komodo raised his arm, turning his hand palm up. “Do you not see the harm they brought forth upon this land? Ten thousand coins to purchase their permission to operate. Their law permitted too few oases. How many innocent people who wanted nothing more than to make a living helping travelers were crushed by this Amarillo and their bounties?”

  Kevin exhaled past gritted teeth. “That’s got nothing to do with anything.” Grief swirled around in his head; all the feelings of rage and loss he’d experienced at finding his mentor hit him at once.

  “Oh, my friend.” Komodo’s voice, deep and silken, pervaded the room like it came from everywhere at once. He lowered his hand, grasping the armrest again. “Look at yourself. What trials did you endure to collect their money for them?”

  Kevin looked up, his gut clenched. This guy install speakers or something?

  “You think we don’t know who you are?” Komodo smiled. “You slaved away for years, collecting coins for someone else. For what? To be allowed to operate a place where people eat and rest. You paid only to be free of your fear that those you so revered would kill you.”

  Kevin pointed at him, and thrice opened his mouth to shout back, but all three ideas jammed in his brain.

  “It is my turn to be curious,” said Komodo. “There is a proud wolf who hunts for himself, the strongest in the forest. Then, one day, Coyote tricks him… convinces him he can be lazy and have lesser wolves do the hunting for him.” The man raised his head, eyes widening. “If you could have opened your road house at any time without the fear of retribution because you failed to pay tithe to the lazy wolf who no longer hunts, would you have continued to drive?”

  Kevin closed his eyes. “Naw. But buying in was how it had to be. It kept everyone safe. Yeah, I would’ve set up a ’house sooner… but was I supposed to eat a bunch of sand and shit out solar panels?”

  A few of the Redeemed chuckled in the wings.

  Neeley slapped his shoulder as fast as a humping dust hopper. “Kev Kev Kev.”

  He glanced back.

  “Loft. Far left.” Neeley flicked his gaze up and to his right. “Sorry took so long. Big bastard.”

  Kevin followed the stare to a group of Redeemed watching from the loft edge. A tall man all the way to the left with ginger hair and massive arms wore Wayne’s hat. Dried blood mottled his camo pants in a spray pattern suggesting he’d been standing next to someone else who’d been shot.

  The man locked eyes with him, and kissed the air.

  Kevin went for his gun, but Fitch grabbed his arm.

  Komodo raised both eyebrows.

  “Him. Right there. That’s the fucker.” Kevin pointed at the man.

  Fitch blinked. “Hang on a minute. You said you found Wayne ’tween his sentry guns in the basement, and y’all had ta shoot them ta bits to get in. How’d that guy get Wayne’s hat?”

  The man on the loft laughed. “Fell right off the sumbitch when he ran.” His smile gave way to a deadly glare. “Them little fuckin’ machines killed four o’ my brothers. You’re the one oughta be owin’ us blood.”

  Komodo raised his arm, the back of his hand toward the man. “Vicar, this outsider merely patronized the Hagerman road house. The weapons which killed the others are not on him.” He lowered his hand to grasp the arm of his chair once more. “The Redeemed have not been saints. We are far from it, but at one point or another in all our lives, we realized this wounded world is going to wither beyond hope if we continu
ed to act the savage. Our goals are not as random nor as violent as you have been led to believe. Without Amarillo demanding an unimaginable tribute, more places will open. More opportunities for civilization to spread will appear. Can you not understand that this group you so admire has prevented the phoenix from rising?”

  The woman at his right glanced to the side, muttering, “I prefer to sleep in.”

  Kevin stared daggers at Vicar. He couldn’t tell who else among the group here had been with him; Neeley glanced over a few others with indecision across his face. The hat, however, proved at least one. He might be able to draw and fire before they put him down, but that whole ‘putting down’ part was all but guaranteed. Thirty-three on three and no cover in sight would’ve been shitty odds even if the three of them had Tris’ boosts.

  “You seem conflicted.” Komodo gestured at him.

  “Yeah. Conflicted. Sure.” Kevin let his hand drift away from the .45. “Only thing I know for sure right now is I’d have to be a damn moron to piss in your beer.” He pointed at Vicar. “But I’m not leaving without Wayne’s hat.”

  Vicar thudded across the loft to the stairs, which didn’t echo quite so loud under his boots. Kevin pivoted to face him, expecting an attack, but the man stopped at the edge of the square dirt patch. He winked, grinned, and removed his gun belt. “Come and get it then, pretty boy.”

  For no reason Kevin understood, he glanced at Komodo as if asking permission. The leader of the Redeemed remained impassive for a few seconds before nodding once. Other bikers gathered at the edges of the ‘arena.’

  “You got him,” said Neeley. “He ain’t that much bigger’n you. ’Sides, he’s probably a pussy.”

  “How you figure that?” whispered Fitch.

  Neeley shrugged with a grin. “He didn’t die at Wayne’s… Means he was the last one down the stairs.”

  Kevin didn’t feel like losing his pants due to having no belt, so he cross-drew the .45 with the wrong hand, holding it upside down by the slide, and gave it to Fitch. No one so much as twitched. He removed the armored jacket after Vicar shed his leather one, exposing the Glock 17 under his left arm. That, too, he pulled in a telegraphed motion, and handed to Fitch.

  His boots clunked over wooden floorboards until he stepped four inches down onto dirt. More Redeemed filled in the sides, creating a living wall around the ring. This didn’t appear to be the kind of fight won or lost by ring-out, and getting too close to the edge would likely add a few extra fists. He eyed the crowd, wondering if they’d give Vicar a jab or two as well. He hoped they had some kind of honor thing and not a ‘screw the outsider’ rule.

  Vicar leaned his head side to side, cracking his neck. He circled to his right, his expression said he’d been impressed that Kevin hadn’t wimped out. The man had a two-inch and forty-pound advantage give or take five, though a good portion of the weight difference sat in his gut. A large knife perched in a sheath on the outside of his right boot, but Vicar didn’t make a move for it.

  Kevin expected a brawl, not a lethal fight, but tried to stay ready in case the situation escalated. When his opponent shifted, Kevin ducked, but the attack proved to be a feint. The crowd chuckled at his flinch. He grumbled and got in close again, the two of them still pacing about like a pair of dogs about to go at it. A quick jab landed on Vicar’s cheek, the man having evidently expected a feint for a feint, though too much power traded for speed made it more insult contact than punch.

  Vicar snarled and lunged in.

  Arms up, Kevin blocked two high shots before he ducked and drove his fist into the man’s gut. Vicar let out an oof and draped forward over him. Before Kevin could shrug him off, the man seized him by the shoulders and hurled him toward the floor. Kevin clamped on, legs airborne for a few seconds. The instant Vicar put him down on his feet, he fired an uppercut into the man’s chest.

  They popped apart, each taking a step or two back. Vicar appeared more angry than injured.

  “Stop fuckin’ dancing,” yelled a man.

  Figuring Vicar wouldn’t expect it, Kevin charged. The man brushed his punch aside and rammed a forearm into Kevin’s face, knocking him away in a stagger, seeing spots. A fist filled his vision for an instant before the ceiling did. Kevin snarled and rolled to his feet, the taste of blood on his lip.

  Vicar, both hands raised in a crowd-goading triumphant gesture, turned back to face him as he ran in again. Kevin led with a lure of a fake left hook, switching to his right with a straight, hard punch. While Vicar grabbed his left wrist, Kevin’s knuckles hit him in the pectoral with a meaty slap. He stared at Wayne’s hat, no longer trying to hold back the mixture of rage and pain. Ever since he found his mentor dead, he’d wanted to end the life of the person responsible. That person stood in front of him, grinning, spinning round and round before a backdrop of bikers all cheering. Except for one or two voices yelling Vicar’s name, the Redeemed appeared to adore the fight in general, the bloodletting, the contest.

  Kevin roared and leapt in with a high shot, going for jaw. Vicar saw it coming and got under it. A right, left, right, left, right barrage to the chest blasted Kevin off his feet for the second time. He wheezed and gasped, trying to remember how to breathe. The biker took three steps back and came rushing at him like a field goal kicker with his eyes on Kevin’s skull. Kevin rolled aside with barely a second to spare, ducking the boot and wrapping himself around Vicar’s foundation leg. He took the man to the ground on his chest, giving him a mouthful of dirt, before pouncing on his back and pounding him in the head.

  He managed to land four hits before Vicar’s elbow knocked him away into a reverse somersault. Vicar shoved himself upright, dirt spraying from his mouth with an angry howl. The big man leapt on him, and they spent a moment or two wrestling and rolling on the floor before breaking apart again and clambering to stand.

  Damn. Maybe I should learn some of that kicking shit Tris uses. He wobbled, wiping at his face during the short reprieve of two men staring, waiting for the other guy to move first. An empty beer can hit Kevin in the back; two more bounced away from Vicar’s chest and shoulder. Neither man allowed the distraction to divert their attention.

  A few tentative punches and blocks passed between them. Fire burned in Kevin’s lungs; sweat covered him. The room spun worse than it had been before from the stifling heat. Vicar had lost some of his confidence as well, or at least the cockiness had gone away. Good. He’s getting tired.

  Kevin roared and feigned a charge. Vicar shifted to block the attack that wasn’t, at which point Kevin lunged for real. The mistimed block allowed an uppercut to snake between the larger man’s arms and find chin.

  Vicar’s head rocked back, sweat trails streaming from his hair. He flailed his arms, staggering. Kevin pressed, punching him again across the nose with two back-to-back rights, each with as much strength as he could wring out of his weary muscles.

  Blood oozing from his mouth and nose, Vicar snapped his head up snarling, wild-eyed desperation on his face. He made no attempt to stop Kevin’s third punch from landing in his cheek, but the attack cost Kevin a haymaker to the forehead. A pronounced snap―one of Vicar’s finger bones breaking―reverberated in his skull.

  Both men careened over sideways and hit the ground. The room swirled into a blur of color and shouting. After what felt like minutes of having his face in the dirt, Kevin pushed himself up a little. Vicar lay a few feet to his left, also blearily trying to stand again. Wayne’s hat had fallen off a short distance behind his opponent.

  Fitch’s baritone yell lofted over the crowd’s taunts and cheers. “Kev, get the fuck up! You got this!”

  Anger filled his veins.

  Kevin shifted to a three-point stance before letting off a wild battle cry and launching himself at the teetering Vicar. He tackled the biker over backward, kneeling on his chest, and punched him again and again in the face until his arm refused to move again.

  Out of breath, he looked down. Red streams came from Vicar’s nostrils, r
unning down either side of his head to his ears. The man’s nose looked broken, blood infused his teeth, and he moaned on and off, not quite unconscious, but far from lucid.

  Kevin pulled himself off Vicar to the right and knelt in the dirt, gasping for breath. He stared at Wayne’s hat, but lacked the energy or the inclination to stand. He met the stares of the Redeemed surrounding the fight pit, who regarded him with an almost malignant curiosity.

  Well, shit. This just got complicated.

  olding an AK-47 in an unsupported firing position for ten minutes got Tris’ arms aching. Abby alternated between clinging to her back and trying to squeeze her hand out of the cuffs securing her to the steel bedframe. An Infected moan pierced the web of shouting and gunfire outside. Isla, still under the bed, hadn’t made the slightest sound.

  Abby screamed.

  In the subsequent silence that filled in after the girl’s lungs emptied, a tiny whisper came from under the bed, eerie in its calmness. “Don’t scream. That will only tell them where you are.”

  A single gunshot, sharp like a firecracker, rang out.

  “Got him!” yelled Trisha.

  Sergeant Ellis shouted, “Get your ass away from that thing!”

  “You’re bit,” shouted Zack.

  “No,” said Ellis. “It got a mouthful of armor. I’m good.”

  “You gonna shoot Ellis now, Warren?” snapped Lauren.

  Emilio stormed in, left arm extended with a handcuff key between his thumb and forefinger. He thrust it in Tris’ face. “I’m too wired up and pissed off. It’ll take me a damn hour to get it in the hole.”

  Tris tossed the AK on the bed and unlocked Abby, who clamped on to her father with both arms, trembling and sobbing in silence.

  Zara marched in, MP5 held up in her right hand, aimed at the ceiling. “We have to leave now. I think that old man was right about the two hundred thing, and they all know we’re here. Wish the damn Infected gave me more than two minutes to rest my arms. That shit was heavy.”

  Tris tossed the key on the bed and recovered the rifle. “How’d they get in?”