One More Run (Roadhouse Chronicles Book 1)

by Matthew S. Cox

  Stocky moaned from the road.

  Wayne appeared in the doorway, holding a shotgun. He gestured at the railing and flashed a pained expression. “Goddammit. Again?”

  “Stay outta this, Wayne,” said the hood-sitter. “We followin’ the Code.”

  “Messin’ with another man’s car while it’s parked at a roadhouse is skirtin’ the line, Raphael.” Wayne leaned back as Kevin grappled with Scar, trying to stay in too close for the chain to work. “Even your dumb ass should know that.”

  “Dumb?” Raphael yelled. “Where you get off?”

  Kevin forced Scar into the wall, squeezing his forearm into the man’s neck and getting a close view of the man’s name patch. “Road Rash eh? Guess you should learn to ride before you join a pack of morons.”

  Rash gurgled, unable to get Kevin’s arm off his throat. His eyes rolled up.

  “He knocks motherfuckers off their bikes,” whined the skinny man, still on the ground holding his crotch.

  “Yeah, dumb,” said Wayne. “Who the hell gives a flying fuck where the Mexican border is now?”

  Stocky grabbed the porch and pulled himself upright.

  “Cuff this bitch already,” said Long Hair, still struggling to contain her.

  Kevin let go of Rash, letting him slide to sit on the floor, and ran at the man holding Tris. He grabbed Long Hair’s leather at the same instant Tris faked a kick to Stocky’s face with her left, and drove her right foot into his groin.

  Smack.

  The hit echoed loud enough to cause every man on the porch to cringe. Stocky fell to his knees, emitting a high-pitched keening wail. The handcuffs slipped from his fingers and clattered to the porch.

  She slipped away from Long Hair as Kevin wrestled him backward. An unexpected fist found Kevin in the forehead and knocked him scrambling for balance as the big man stomped after him. He rolled to the side and got upright a second before Long Hair punched again. His already-tender ribs didn’t need another dose, so he threw himself to the right and adopted a boxer’s defensive stance.

  He traded jabs and blocks with the big man for a few seconds. Rash recovered and got to his feet, heading for Tris with a swinging chain. Wiry limped upright and pulled a knife. Wayne coughed. Tris shrugged the katana off her back, still in its sheath. Kevin looked away to duck an overextended haymaker and capitalized with a right hook to Long Hair’s jaw that sent him reeling. A rapid three-smack echoed, like a burst from a low-caliber assault rifle.

  Wiry, head turned and spit flying from his lips, tilted back on his heels as if he’d taken a baseball bat to the cheek. Stocky fell to his left, blood spraying from his nose. Rash stumbled away, favoring his broken right arm as the chain fell from his grip. Tris blurred again, smashing the katana once on each of Rash’s knees before crowning him with a glancing stroke across the top of his head, all in the span of a second and a half. Kevin winced at the thought of what the attack would’ve done were the blade exposed.

  Rash, unconscious, hit the ground, forearm and knees broken.

  “Don’t,” yelled Wayne, aiming at Raphael.

  Kevin managed a two-second look at the revolver in the fat man’s hand before Long Hair staggered at him again. The leader of the News stared at Tris with an expression as though he faced off against some manner of demon he needed to send back to hell. Kevin leaned away from the first punch, but the second caught him in the chest and bounced him into the wall next to the door. This time, Long Hair didn’t come right in. Kevin coughed and wheezed, searching for a second wind.

  Raphael stared at Wayne, though his gun aimed in Tris’s direction. “You got a li’l Enclave exile. Ten grand you know. Split it with ya.”

  “You know as well as I do that’s bullshit.” Wayne narrowed his eyes. “They’d sooner kill either one of us than pay.”

  “That’s a rumor.” Long Hair took a step back, relaxing his posture a little. “They can make all the coins they want. Shit’s worthless to them. Won’t bother ‘em none ta pay.”

  “Alamo’s right, Wayne.”

  “No, he isn’t.” Tris faced Raphael. She didn’t even seem to be breathing hard. “They don’t think of anyone out here as a person. They made the goddamned Virus to wipe everything out so they had nice open land to take over. Do you honestly think a group capable of doing that is going to pay you? Killing you brings them closer to their goal.”

  “Listen to her,” wheezed Kevin. “We’re dogs to them.”

  The Challenger’s shocks creaked when Raphael stood. “We can handle it.”

  “Can you?” Kevin filled his lungs and stepped forward. “Look what one little woman from the Enclave did to your crew. She’s not even trained for combat.”

  Tris glared at him. “I got combat training… two weeks’ worth before they sent me out here.”

  “Two whole weeks.” Kevin gazed up at the cobwebs in the porch roof. “Now think about full-time soldiers?”

  Raphael’s right eye twitched.

  “Look,” said Kevin. “Why don’t you go prick and dick about with the Olds about where Mexico starts and leave us the hell alone. The only reward you’re gonna get for her is a painful death.”

  Tris blurred forward, drawn katana gleaming in the sun. The point stopped at Raphael’s neck. “If I even think that you and your boys intend to cause me problems, the Wildlands are going to be minus one pack of shitheads.”

  Silence reigned for a moment. A steady breeze lofted Tris’s waist-long hair to the side. Alamo tensed, eyeing Kevin. The other three remained unconscious. Wayne lowered the shotgun. Raphael held his hands up.

  “It’s only out of respect for Wayne I haven’t killed anyone yet.” Tris took a step back. “You were about to shoot me in the back. I really should kill you.”

  Wayne spat over the railing. “I’m a neutral party. I got no ‘pinion ‘bout it s’long as it ain’t my blood hittin’ the floor. Then Amarillo gets involved. If you do it on the porch, their shit is mine.”

  “I’m half tempted to shoot the fat bastard for sitting on my car.” Kevin pressed a hand on his side where Alamo hit him. “Damn, you got an arm.”

  Alamo grunted.

  Raphael holstered his revolver. “Come on, let’s go.”

  Kevin glanced at the three still on the ground. “Your boys look tired, Raph. Guess she wore them out.”

  Wayne handed him the cube. “Clock’s tickin’.”

  “Yeah.” Kevin swiped the box. “I’ll get right on it.”

  Bang.

  Clatter.

  Kevin twitched. His hand slapped on the handle of his .45 as he spun toward the sound. Tris had the Beretta out, inches from the holster. The katana she’d dropped to free her hand had hit the porch after she fired from the hip. Raphael lingered upright for three more seconds, a trickle of blood from the small red hole in the middle of his left eyebrow ran over his nose and dripped from his chin. His revolver fell from his grip, far enough out of the holster to topple over and hit the road.

  Kevin glanced at Alamo. “Well, looks like you got promoted.”

  “Bee,” yelled Wayne. “Need ya ta gather some stuff.”

  “Horseshit.” Kevin rounded on Wayne. “He’s in the middle of the damn street.”

  “Her boots were on my porch when she fired.” Wayne winked. “Shit belongs to the house.”

  “Not all of it.” Alamo loomed at Wayne. “His cut stays with the News.”

  Wayne made a ‘be my guest’ gesture at the big man.

  Tris put her gun away and picked up the sword. “It’s okay. Let him have it.”

  “Good eyes,” said Wayne. “Was wonderin’ if you were gonna see that coming.”

  Kevin stared at him. “You were―”

  “Neutral party.” Wayne leaned the shotgun up, balancing it on his shoulder.

  Bee slipped through the door behind Wayne, who pointed at Raphael.

  Kevin shook his head. He jogged to the plug board and disconnected the Challenger’s line before walking it back as the
spring-loaded spool pulled it into the fender. Tris passed behind him and stood by the passenger side door. Bee ambled by in front of the car.

  Kevin slapped the charging port closed. “How many rounds you got left?”

  Tris pulled the Beretta and checked it. “Eleven.”

  He whirled toward Wayne. “Got any nine?”

  Wayne scratched his goatee. “Think so.” He raised his voice to a yell. “Bee. Nine mil para?”

  “Seventy-four ball and thirteen hollow point.” The android seized Raphael by the belt and dragged him toward the side of the roadhouse building.

  “Lemme get thirty ball.” Kevin keyed in the code to open the car. “She’s gonna need it for this one, and I’ll take twenty .45 too.”

  “That’s a lot of ordinance. What’re ya runnin’?” asked Alamo.

  “Tampons,” mumbled Kevin. “Whole trunk full. She’s a bit of a bleeder.”

  Tris glared.

  “You’re a funny man.” Alamo grunted and slapped the skinny man until he woke up.

  Kevin dropped into the driver’s seat, but left the door open while watching Alamo and Stocky drag the still-unconscious Rash off down the street. A few minutes later, Bee emerged with a small cloth sack, which she carried to his window.

  “Thanks, Bee.”

  “Welcome.” The android smiled, ducked to wave at Tris, and limped back inside.

  Kevin swiped his hand over the switches, causing the dashboard to light up like a Christmas tree. He tossed the ammo in her lap. “Here goes.”

  Tris glanced down at it and frowned at the ‘package’ stuffed in the center console. “Did that count for forty percent?”

  This girl is scary. He squeezed the wheel, wringing his hands on it. Heck with it. The longer I’m with this one, the shorter my life will be.

  “Sure.”

  Silence lasted for a hair shy of an hour before Tris broke it by snapping bullets into the Beretta’s magazine. Dry, dusty nothingness streaked by on all sides, the road a line of dark over the endless beige. Kevin’s jaw twitched as each bullet clicked in. Half of his brain screamed with worry that the innocent looking, small, wide-eyed girl he sat next to could probably leave him wrapped around a cactus, stranded and car-less for the second time in his recent life.

  He watched her with a sideways stare, measuring his odds at taking her out if he had to. From what he’d seen, she didn’t seem any stronger than a human could be. She’s definitely stronger than a girl her size should be. Speed’s the problem.

  “What are you thinking?” Tris looked up with a hint of a smile.

  The red LED ticked up to ninety MPH. At least Route 285 north of Roswell had remained relatively intact. Old abandoned cars and trailers flew by every so often, long ago picked clean of anything worth taking. One disgorged a family of dust-hoppers, startled by an approaching car.

  “Wondering if those jackasses are going to cause more trouble.”

  Tris sighed. “What’s wrong with them anyway? They try to grab me and they’re acting like we started it.”

  “They think they’re peacekeepers or some shit.”

  “Yeah right. Keeping the peace by abducting me?” She holstered the Beretta. “Thanks for the ammo. I’ll try not to waste it.”

  “You really only had two weeks of training?” He risked a three-second look away from the road at her.

  “Well, yes and no.”

  “If you don’t wanna talk about it…”

  Tris flashed an impish smile. “I wasn’t sure if your tech-limited mind could handle it. Two weeks of real time plugged into virtual reality. It felt like eight months.”

  “What, like a dream or something?”

  “Close enough.” She leaned left to peer at the rearview monitor. “So you’ve been paid almost ten thousand coins for driving stuff around?”

  He flared his fingers up for a second, keeping the wheel steady with his thumbs. “It ain’t that simple.”

  “Driving stuff back and forth?”

  “There ain’t that many cars left. An’ the ones that are ain’t in the best shape. They need constant work.”

  “You’re a mechanic?” Tris raised an eyebrow. “The wheel motors on this thing aren’t so different from Bee.”

  “Different enough, and yeah. I’ve been around cars since I was three.” He steered around a scattering of wreckage, a truck judging by the amount of scrap. “There’s parts here an’ there, but none of that fancy prewar shit. You wanna drive, you better know how to fix the damn thing.”

  “If working cars are so rare, why do people shoot at each other on the road?”

  Kevin tilted his head side to side. “Couple reasons I can think of. Stupidity, greed, because they can. Someone gets wind of that box of void salt, they’re gonna come after us hard. They ain’t gonna care about somethin’ like one less working car in the world when they’re thinking of an easy couple thousand coins.”

  “That’s why it’s important for me to get this data out of my head.” Tris raked her fingers through her hair, trying to gather it in some attempt at order. “Without the Enclave’s manufacturing and tech resources, we’re headed straight back to the Dark Ages.”

  He shook his head. “Maybe humanity will be better off living in small isolated pockets that never talk to each other. The Enclave tried to kill the world. Even if you did have the cure, it’s not gonna make them want to play nice.”

  Tris sighed, and turned away with a hand over her mouth.

  Great. Here come the waterworks. He squeezed the wheel.

  “Shit.” Tris whipped her head around and stared at the center console targeting screen. “Bikes.”

  Kevin glanced at the door mirror. Sure enough, a pair of motorcycles gained on them. “No sidecar guns.” He leaned to his right, almost touching heads with her. A tweak of a button on the steering wheel zoomed in the view. “Doesn’t look like any mounted guns. Amateurs.”

  “Maybe they’re not planning to attack us?” Tris glanced at him.

  “They are.” Kevin couldn’t tell from looking if they were electric or ethanol, not that it mattered. Either way, the bikes wouldn’t have any problem catching up. “If this thing still had a gas engine, I’d smoke them…”

  “How can you know they’re hostile?”

  “Same guys from Wayne’s. No reason they’d come after us unless they overheard what we’re carrying.”

  The man on the left pulled a compact submachine gun out from under his jacket.

  “Did you clear the ‘16 yet?” Tris asked.

  “Fuck!” Kevin punched the center of the steering wheel.

  “I got it.” Tris twisted through the gap in the front seats and crawled into the back. “Can I get to the trunk from inside?”

  “Yeah, little pull strap.” Kevin swerved left two lanes when the man aimed.

  Tris screamed and bumped into his seat.

  He cut the wheel the other way. “Sorry.”

  “No… no… keep doing that. There’s a tank of incinerator fuel behind you. Don’t get shot.”

  The idea of catching a biker with the side-mounted flamethrower made him smile. He glanced up and left at the thin steel cable along the roof at the top edge of the window. Effective as it was, if a lucky bullet hit the tank… it would be him going crispy instead of a biker. I should really move that fucker elsewhere.

  Bullets whizzed overhead and left, ricocheting off the paving. Kevin steered hard toward the barrage, expecting the biker to overcompensate. The next shots hit the road on the other side. Kevin eyed the rear viewscreen. Bike two rode the centerline, trying to line up a shot with a massive revolver.

  Crap. He’s either an idiot or he’s got explosive bullets.

  Kevin flicked the arm switch for the rear-facing guns. The AK-47 mechanism still worked, even if the ‘16 on the other side remained jammed.

  “You turned them on?” Tris yelled. “They’re moving.”

  “Can’t help it.” Kevin feathered the steering wheel, wagging the tail
of the car and easing the crosshair over the bike.

  A short burst of fire came from the subgun, pinging off the road. At least one slug hit the car―somewhere―with a clank. Kevin swerved right, sliding across three lanes.

  “Son of a bitch!” He looked over his shoulder at Tris’s ass sticking out from a folded-down rear seatback. “You okay?”

  “Yeah. Didn’t see the hit.”

  “Hang on to something.” Kevin hit the toggle to switch the firing system to the twin M60 machine guns on the hood.

  “What are you do―”

  Kevin swung the wheel left while simultaneously yanking the parking brake and stomping on an improvised clutch pedal to throw the in-wheel motors to neutral. Tris’s question became a scream as the Challenger screeched into a flat spin, tires emitting a banshee’s wail.

  He jammed down on a glowing red thumb button at the top right part of the steering wheel. Both machine guns went off, throwing three feet of muzzle flare. Bullets raked over the bikes as the car spun past. He let off the brake and clutch as the Challenger completed the three-sixty, powering out of the spin.

  The submachine gun biker fell backward off his ride a second before it burst into flames. His body tumbled on the road behind a skidding fireball. Handgun biker broke off his pursuit, guiding his bike to a stop a few seconds later before collapsing. Sweat ran down the sides of Kevin’s head; he focused on not rolling or losing control of the car. Once sure he’d recovered, he slowed down, stopped, and backed into a K-turn.

  Tris crawled into the passenger seat and held up a single 5.56mm bullet. She twisted it to show off the bottom. “There’s your problem.”

  “No primer.” He grumbled. “That’s gotta be one of Wayne’s.”

  “Where else do you buy ammo?” Tris blinked at the windshield. “You’re going back?”

  “Yep.” Kevin stopped the car about ten paces from the unexploded bike. “These two idiots made me use about twenty rounds of 7.62. They owe me eighty coins.”

  Kevin shoved his door open and stood, pulling his .45 at the same time. Handgun biker stopped dragging himself away from his bike. For an instant, he expected the man to beg for help. As soon as a glint of steel flashed by the biker’s hand, Kevin fired.