One More Run (Roadhouse Chronicles Book 1)

by Matthew S. Cox

  Kevin shot a quick glance around the room, noting numerous couples seated at various tables. All were dressed in some sad attempt to recreate expensive high-society clothes from scavenged prewar garments. The women had low-cut necklines and shimmery gowns; a few had high heels. Mismatched logo tee shirts, flannel scraps, denim, and colored cloth stitched together into monstrosities as if someone had tried to recreate Old West Saloon dresses.

  Three men sat at the bar, in more austere attire, riding leathers, armor panels, and heavy boots. Tris squeezed his arm and directed his attention with a pointed glance at a young blonde woman struggling to clean a table. Her wrists were locked in cuffs linked to leg irons by a chain, preventing her from raising her hands higher than her waist. She had to climb into the bench seat to wipe a rag at a smear of sauce on the formica. A length of dingy white cloth tied around her waist and between her legs attempted to be clothing, helped along by another strip over her breasts.

  Another ‘waitress’ across the room sported leg irons in addition to a cheerleader miniskirt and white lace bra. Her dark hair hung wild, almost hiding a bruise on her light brown cheek. Kevin closed his eyes.

  Not my problem.

  “Are they slaves?” Tris snarled. “We have to―”

  “We should keep our heads down,” whispered Kevin. “Unless you want to wind up waiting tables here yourself. Don’t start any shit.”

  She shot him a wounded look. He put an arm around her and pulled her close enough to whisper in her ear. “Look, it’s not like I don’t want to. No one deserves that… but this is Glimmertown, and shit doesn’t work that way here. I can’t take out fifty guys.”

  Tris’s eyebrows moved together. “I only see five.”

  “Out in the open…” He got quiet as heavy footsteps thudded up behind them.

  “Yo,” said a deep voice. Meathead One pointed to the nearest table. “Have a seat while we check wit’ Neon.”

  The other patrons glanced at him as he walked over to the indicated table, staring down their noses at him. He basked in their derision. They have no damn idea how much coin I got. Kevin smiled at them, which seemed to further piss them off. These idiots probably thought two thousand coins was a fortune.

  A moment after they settled in, the blonde who had been wiping the other table shuffled over. Around her neck, a thin leather choker sported a round brass disc stamped with a number twelve. It didn’t seem sturdy enough to be a restraint, but in this town, the symbolism was enough.

  She raised her hands up to her navel, making the chain clink, and waved. “Hi. Welcome to Cloud 9. I’m Barbie. What can I get you?”

  “Barbie?” asked Tris. “Really?”

  The girl looked downcast. “My name is whatever Neon says it is. I’m his.”

  This one must be on someone’s shit list. She can barely move. Kevin made it a point not to look at her―or Tris. Two hundred fifty coins. In and out. No complications. Not my circus; not my monkeys.

  “How are you supposed to carry our food like that?” asked Tris.

  “I manage.” ‘Barbie’ puffed at a strand of hair in her face, twisting at her handcuffs as she spoke. “The dust hopper soup is fresh. We’ve also got yam fries, meatloaf, and chicken.”

  “Soup,” said Kevin. “Water too.”

  “Same.” Tris tried to stare holes in Kevin’s face.

  “Okay.” Barbie shuffled across the aisle to retrieve a bin of dirty dishes from the other table, and drifted off amid the clatter of leg irons that didn’t even allow her a normal walking stride.

  Tris tapped her fingernails on the worn faux-wood Formica table. “Bet those dancers are locked inside.”

  “We are not going to piss in Neon’s Wheaties. We’re here to deliver a package, get paid, and get out.”

  “What possible reason can you have for leaving them here?” Tris leaned close as she whispered.

  “Not wanting bullets in my ass and a chain around your neck too.” Kevin grabbed her hand. “I’m no crusader. All I want is a nice quiet life selling food and booze to other idiots young enough to get shot at for a living. I did my time. I’m done with it.”

  “All that’s necessary for evil to win…” Tris folded her arms. “You’re not old.”

  Kevin chuckled. “I’m twenty seven. For a driver, that’s a damn old man. If you live to see nineteen, you’ll understand.”

  She frowned. “Too late. I’m twenty.”

  A dark skinned woman with shoulder length black hair and a delicate frame carried a tray full of drinks to another table. Her gauzy shirt, ankle-long skirt, and lack of restraints made Kevin gesture.

  “See? They’re not all slaves. That one’s even got shoes.”

  Tris frowned. “More likely she’s never tried to run away. She’s still got a price tag on her neck.”

  “Huh?”

  “You didn’t notice?” Tris tapped her throat. “They’ve all got a tag on with numbers. Probably how much it costs to fuck them. Barbie’s said twelve, and she’s not that young. It’s gotta be a price.”

  “Or maybe their auction ID.” Kevin clenched his hands into fists. “You’re trying to talk me into doing something stupid.”

  “You know it’s wrong. Transporting drugs is bad enough, but you can’t look away from what’s happening to these people.”

  “Let’s get paid first, then we’ll talk.”

  I’m an asshole… it’s what I do. Ain’t no money in it. Only thing I’ll get paid in is lead.

  She didn’t try tears, though a little red ringed her eyes. Sapphire irises darkened as she stared at him without another word until Barbie returned with a death grip on the edge of a round serving tray.

  The woman shoved it onto the table before gingerly grabbing one of the bowls of soup in both hands and climbing half in to the bench seat with Kevin in order to put it in front of him. Tris reached over and took her bowl.

  Barbie offered a weak smile.

  “It’s stupid to make you work like that.” Tris scowled. “You’d be more efficient if you could use your hands.”

  “It forces me to get close to customers so they can touch me and pay for…”

  “She got a hold of a weapon once.” Kevin didn’t look up. The barely-dressed figure in the periphery of his vision froze. A strip of thin cloth dangling at her knee level fluttered back and forth. He ate one spoonful of soup. “You did, didn’t you?”

  “Knife,” whispered Barbie. She grasped Tris’s drink and climbed onto her seat so she could reach to set it close. “Luisa tried to run away two months ago. You’re Enclave aren’t you?”

  “Not anymore,” muttered Tris. She watched the unchained woman cross the room with a tray of beer mugs. “Is that one going to be a problem?”

  Kevin kept his attention in his food.

  “Shailaja? No. She is not happy either.” Barbie chafed at her restraints. “Please get me out of here. I can’t take this anymore. They never let me out of these fucking things.”

  “Any coins in it?” asked Kevin.

  Barbie glared. Tris kicked him in the shin.

  “Hey, I had to ask.” He looked up at Barbie, catching a glint from the brass tag at the front of her thin leather collar. “Need to think on it.”

  Barbie hung her head, backed out of the seat, and started to shuffle away.

  “Hey,” said Kevin.

  “Yes?” The waitress glanced back over her shoulder.

  Kevin smiled. “Still got that rag?”

  evin scraped the last of the dust hopper soup out of the black bowl. It wasn’t bad, but it couldn’t hold a candle to Jean’s stew. Tris ate while continuing to stare at him. The three dancers gyrated in their cages, entertaining a group of men seated at round tables in front of the stage. Two men leaned on the wall to the right, submachine guns at their side. A knuckle-dragging mouthbreather with long, brown hair lurked in the shadows near the cages, though his weaponry appeared limited to a sledgehammer. Behind the bar, an older man, missing a left arm and wearing
an eyepatch, seemed low on the threat scale. He’s probably got the biggest damn gun in the place.

  “Two on the right with MAC-10s,” said Kevin. “Paul Bunyan over by the cages has a sledgehammer. Might have a handgun concealed. Bartender’s gonna be a problem.”

  “How do you know his name?” Tris finally broke her stare to look around.

  “Books.” Kevin hung his head. “Ugh.”

  Tris raised an eyebrow. “Bartender’s old and he’s missing an arm. Don’t forget the four goons outside.”

  “Goons?” Kevin chuckled. “Normal people don’t use that word. Bartender’s dangerous because he looks harmless. He’s probably got a roomsweeper under the bar.”

  “What the hell is that?”

  Kevin finished off his water. “Automatic shotgun.”

  The clatter of light chain dragging on the floor announced Barbie walking up behind him. She stopped at the edge of the table, resting her hands on it. “Was everything okay? Do you want anything else?”

  I’m an idiot. He managed to keep the annoyance off his face while gazing into Tris’s pleading eyes. So close to ten grand… I’m going to die within sight of my roadhouse.

  Kevin pulled the damp rag she’d been using to wipe tables out from under her fingers. He snuck the P226 off his belt and wrapped the gun in the cloth. Barbie nodded. He set it on the seat to his left, out of sight between him and the wall. “Nah, we’re good.”

  “Seven coins please,” said Barbie.

  He dropped the money into her upturned palm. The cuffs looked like standard pre-war police hardware, easy enough to pick when it wouldn’t get anyone shot to do so. “Thanks.”

  Barbie eyed the rag, and shuffled to the bar to hand over the payment.

  “Yo,” said a deep voice. Tall and Dreadlocked waved. “Neon’s ready for you.”

  The room got quiet.

  “This guy sounds like a happy ball of fun.” Kevin slid out of the seat and stood.

  Tris followed.

  The other three meatheads from the front shadowed them as they crossed the restaurant portion of Cloud 9. Dreadlock pushed past a pair of swinging double doors covered in red padded leather with little buttons in three rows. Dim light emanated from clamshell sconces made of frosted glass every few feet along both walls of the corridor beyond. They passed two smaller doors on the right, labelled ‘men’ and ‘women.’ Another set of double doors fifteen yards from the first offered the only other path.

  A huge wooden desk stood on the far side of a square burgundy colored throw rug, at the center of a large office. Kevin stared at the fluorescent blue hair on the man seated behind it, glowing from the effect of ceiling-mounted blacklights that made his blazer appear luminous indigo. Eerie green luminescence emanated from in-wall fish tanks along the left, though it was likely many years since anything lived in them.

  “Ah, that was fast.” The man who had to be Neon smiled. “I wasn’t expecting the shipment for at least another few days.”

  The four thugs formed a wall of meat behind Kevin and Tris, blocking them off from the door. Kevin approached the desk with the usual ‘I’m not up to anything’ slowness he’d become accustomed to in such situations. He held the cloth bundle high and unwrapped the black cube with cobalt blue light strips down the sides.

  “Cargo like this, it pays not to waste time.” He set the cube on the desk and took a step back.

  “Quite true.” Neon’s iridescent blue eyes twinkled. He leaned forward and pressed his thumb on a small spot of gloss amid the otherwise flat black surface.

  The top split down the middle, opening like the hatch of an old missile silo. Four trays rose one after the next, pivoting to the sides like an aluminum flower. A fifth tray clicked into place in the center. Each pad held a twelve-by-twelve grid of one-inch glass ampules, containing about six drops worth of violet liquid apiece―720 doses of a drug called void salt.

  Neon plucked one out, upending it to appraise the quarter-inch needle protruding from a plastic cap. He held it under his nose, sniffed once, and replaced it in the pod before a light touch on the glossy square caused the cube to motor closed.

  “It’s all there,” said Kevin. “I’m supposed to collect 2700 coins. No offense, but this is an official contract from the roadhouse network. Everything by the book.”

  “Oh, ye of little faith.” Neon clucked his tongue. “I have no intention of reneging on the arrangement. Bad deals create supply problems in the future. I do, however, want to make you an additional offer.”

  Dammit. You’re done. 250 coins and it’s roadhouse time. Get out. “I’m not sure I’m for hire right now.”

  “Oh, I don’t wish to hire you.” Neon smiled, touching all his fingertips together in front of his face. “You’ve got quite an exotic little beauty with you. I’d like to take her off your hands. Say, 1800 coins?”

  Fuck. Kevin bit his lip. There it was. All set. Done. Finished. No more runs. Roadhouse. Beer, food, and guns to idiots. He glanced at her and puckered his lips so hard they had to resemble an asshole. A wounded look formed on her face. Yeah, I’m an asshole… “She ain’t up for sale. Ain’t mine to sell.”

  Neon’s smile fell flat. “Let me rephrase then. I’ll pay you a thousand coins then to do nothing. Glimmertown belongs to me, and I always get the things I want.” He stood. “And I want this fuck toy.”

  Kevin cringed inside as two of the meatheads seized Tris by the arms from behind, right below her armpits.

  “She’ll bring in a lot of coins,” said Neon. “What’s she eighteen maybe? Exotic hair…”

  Meathead Three grabbed her Beretta.

  “I can’t wait to break this tiny little ass in,” said Dreadlock.

  Tris’s hands moved in a blur, appearing solid for an instant as she swiped pistols from the belts of the men holding her. Before Kevin could open his mouth to shout, she crossed her arms and fired both guns, nailing each man in the side of the head. A patch of scalp with a long trailing wad of dreadlocks stuck to the wall. She stepped forward, raising her arms and firing backward over her shoulders, squeezing off three shots from each pistol at a speed fast enough to pass for automatic fire. Meaty slaps preceded the thud of two bodies hitting the ground behind them.

  Kevin got his .45 out and aimed at Neon. “Methinks the lady doth protest.”

  “This ‘tiny little ass’ isn’t on the market.” Tris scowled.

  “Hold on.” Neon raised a hand. “You don’t understand this situation very well. I own this town. You’d have to be some special kind of stupid to piss me off.” He smiled, though a trickle of sweat ran down the side of his head, glinting in the wavering emerald light from the fish tank. “I’ve never seen someone with moves like that. Perhaps we could come to an arrangement?”

  “What kind of arrangement?” asked Kevin.

  Tris adjusted her grip on her guns, a Glock and a Sig. “I don’t trust him. He’d only come after me for revenge, plus he’s a slaver pig.”

  “There’s a certain problem of mine that needs eliminating.” Neon smiled.

  “Assassination isn’t my scene,” said Kevin.

  “I wasn’t trying to hire you.” Neon tilted his head. “This girl is a lot more than she appears to be. Besides…” He gestured at the dead men. “You’d better make it your scene. I can’t let something like this go without some kind of response. Bad for business, you see.”

  “You’re not in the best negotiating position right now.” Kevin focused on the .45 in his hand, rendering Neon in blur.

  “Neither are you.” Neon eased his weight back into his chair. “Official roadhouse business and all. Isn’t killing the client against your ‘code?’ You could say no, but one way or another, this girl is going to work for me. Either on her feet or on her ba―”

  Bang.

  Neon’s iridescent blue eyes became gaping voids; the back of his head exploded in a spray of gore. He rocked back in the seat, still with a cocky grin on his face, and slumped down.

  Tra
ils of smoke wisped from both of Tris’s guns.

  “Fuck.” Kevin let his arm fall limp at his side. “You’re not much for planning stuff out are you?”

  “Nah.” She lowered her weapons. “Guess I’m that special kind of stupid.”

  evin kicked the front of the desk. “Goddammit!”

  Neon slid farther down in his chair, mouth gaping. Blood ran from empty eye sockets, down his cheeks like tears. The music from the main room was at least loud enough to mask the gunfire. That, plus no one expected two on five would have had any chance. If anyone had heard gunshots, Kevin and Tris were the ones they’d assume got the bad end of it.

  Kevin headed for a curtain a few feet behind the fish tank where a hint of a safe poked out.

  Locked.

  He ransacked the desk drawers. Tris threw Neon to the floor and went through his pockets. The drawers held little of any use: old ledgers, a few music CDs, spent brass, post-it note pads, pens that probably hadn’t worked in decades, and a couple of bottle caps. Kevin pocketed some jewelry, hoping it wasn’t costume crap.

  “Found the keys.” Tris, near a folding table on the right side of the room, held up a jingling bundle.

  “Great. No money.” He grabbed the cube. “You do realize that it’s on me to get the payment for the shipment right? How the fuck am I gonna retire if I get a rep for killing the damn clients.”

  “You didn’t kill him.” She smirked. “You didn’t even get a single shot off.”

  Kevin looked at the two men by the door. One took all three slugs, two to the chest and one right in the nose. The other man only got hit once, but it caught him in the forehead. “You’re starting to scare me, Tris.”

  “Starting?” She winked. “Glock 17 and another 226.” She tossed the Sig to him.

  He caught it and stuffed it in his belt on his way to search the two by the door. Both had MAC-10s. After slinging the weapons over his shoulder on their straps, he plucked three spare magazines and a knife.