One More Run (Roadhouse Chronicles Book 1)

by Matthew S. Cox

  “Don’t take their clothes this time. One, no one with any self-respect will wear this shit. Two, we don’t have time.”

  Kevin wrapped the cube in the cloth, and hurried out.

  Tris jogged behind him.

  He slowed from storming to trudging at the second set of double doors and slipped into the restaurant area as though nothing went wrong. Hope no one notices the new guns. Barbie hovered by the table they’d been using. She looked over her shoulder at him. At the sight of him heading for the exit, she seemed ready to burst into tears.

  The waitress with the miniskirt and leg irons, Luisa according to Barbie, eyed him from across the room, as if aware of some manner of plot. After a quick look at the cages, and all three girls staring at him, he stopped, gazing at his boots. Tris bumped into him.

  Shit. Why did I have to go and make eye contact? That one in the middle cage is too young.

  “Well, I suppose if we’re going to stir some shit, we might as well bring it to a boil.”

  She grinned.

  Kevin directed a meaningful look at Barbie and flicked his gaze to the oaf in the back with the sledgehammer. Her eyes shone with eagerness. She nodded and fidgeted with her chains as if hating them more all of a sudden. “Tris, you get the two on the right. I’ll get the bartender.”

  “Go,” whispered Tris.

  “Need one for the road.” Kevin spoke loud, hurrying to the bar.

  Luisa slipped under a flap on the narrow side of the bar. At Kevin’s purposeful stride, the bartender looked at him and smiled. He does look harmless. I don’t trust it. Shailaja approached the dancing cages with a bucket and ladle. She scooted past the giant with the hammer, after which, she locked her glare on Kevin.

  Last time I trust a blonde to keep a secret.

  He smiled his best false smile as he approached the older man. Luisa let out a shriek, produced a kitchen knife from under her cheerleader’s skirt, and lunged at the bartender. Her leg irons tripped her into a dive, and the man caught her by the forearms, shouting.

  Shit! Kevin yanked the .45 from its holster, not trusting his odds at firing into a melee without hitting the girl. Other patrons screamed and ducked. One or two pulled weapons. Kevin whirled to the right and fired at a man aiming a long-barreled revolver at Luisa. The heavy round caught the guy in the upper chest, killing him in an instant. The woman seated with him screamed and slid to the floor.

  Behind Kevin, a ripple of gunfire scared him into thinking the two idiots opened up with their submachine guns. He glanced over his shoulder for a second. Tris had shot both men before they even got a hand on their weapons. Barbie, now less than fifteen feet in front of him and two tables right, threw herself on the towel and grabbed the concealed pistol. She slid off the bench seat to her knees, the chain leaving her unable to raise the weapon up high enough to sight over it while standing.

  The bartender hurled Luisa into shelves of bottles behind him. She flailed for a handhold, but fell out of sight. Kevin pivoted to aim at him, but he dove down going for something under the bar. Luisa, screaming in Spanish, jumped on his back, and stabbed him. Kevin hesitated for half a second, and fired. A gouge of wood splinters sprayed the bartender in the face when he popped up, but the bullet didn’t find meat. A man in a hideous green ‘suit’ at the bar went for a gun, his attention locked on Luisa.

  Kevin fired one round into his back. He slumped forward and fell off the stool.

  The hammer-wielding behemoth hurled a round table from the dancer’s area at Tris like a Frisbee. She yelped and ducked. Shailaja screamed and cowered to the ground, looking meek and uninvolved. Barbie raised her hands as high as the chain allowed and fired shot after shot at the charging giant. He roared and went down, howling and screaming in pain rather than anger. The dancing girls shrieked and ducked as a few bullets ricocheted off their cages. The men watching them hit the deck. Kevin sprinted at the bar, gun up. Luisa yanked the knife out from the man’s back and lunged again. The bartender flung a glass of something in her face, which made her retreat and shriek. Kevin aimed at the old one-armed man, but he dropped out of sight behind the bar again before he could squeeze off a shot.

  Gunfire came from behind, followed by a gurgle and a yelp from a table to his left. A metallic thud struck the floor.

  “I see a weapon, someone fucking dies,” yelled Tris.

  Shailaja pulled her hand out of the water bucket, with keys, and set to opening the cages. The bartender popped up with a shotgun, though it looked like a pump rather than an automatic. He seemed torn for an instant between firing on the blinded Luisa or Kevin. A shot from the .45 winged the bartender on the shoulder, forcing him down out of sight. Luisa’s shrieks went from hurt to pissed off. She wiped a hand over her eyes and spat before diving to the floor behind the bar. The shotgun discharged, blowing a head-sized chunk out of the wood paneling and pulping the left calf of a man seated at a table near the bar. Luisa’s hand rose into view, clutching the knife, and went down. Again it came up, and went down.

  A potbellied man in a black tee under a blue button-down ran in the front door while pulling a pistol from his belt. Kevin pivoted and fired, drilling him in the chest twice. The handgun, half out of the holster, went off. A ricochet caused a puff of dust from the ceiling and floor at almost the same time.

  Kevin kept his gun trained on the door, half his attention on the nervous whimpers of patrons who hadn’t been stupid enough to get involved. For a few seconds, eerie silence settled over everything. Dust hung in the air, and the loudest noise came from Barbie’s rattling chains.

  The blonde shivered, not having moved from where she knelt. She kept the pistol pointed at the last place she’d seen the big man. Tris hopped up onto tables, leaping from one to the next until she reached the spot.

  She aimed a pair of MAC-10s at the floor behind the barrier. “Neon’s dead. You wanna join him?”

  “Fuck Neon,” said a labored deep voice.

  “No thanks,” said Tris. “Get outta here… and leave the hammer.”

  The big man staggered upright, a hand clamped over his bleeding thigh. Barbie aimed at him, but held her fire. Cage doors grated open, and the three underwear-clad women jumped down to the floor.

  Ka-chuck.

  Everyone looked toward the sound.

  Luisa, leg irons clicking, padded out from behind the bar and leveled the shotgun at a table with two couples and an extra man. “Clothes. Now.”

  A mixture of head shaking and murmurs of protest came from the people.

  “Bloody clothes are better than no clothes.” Luisa aimed at the head of a woman in a red dress. “It won’t show on red.”

  The dancers gathered around Luisa, trying to cover their miniscule thongs and see-through bras with their hands. One by one, they snapped the leather ‘price collars’ off their necks and hurled them away. The smallest, who didn’t look much older than sixteen, reached up and removed Luisa’s choker. Tris tossed the keys to Barbie who seemed all too ready to drop the pistol and search the mass of metal bits for freedom.

  Tris collected the MAC-10s from Kevin and offered one to Shailaja, the other to the tallest of the dancers. Luisa kept the shotgun trained on the people at the table while they peeled off their outer clothes and handed them to the former dancers.

  The youngest wriggled into the red dress. “I can’t believe he didn’t see you take the keys.” She gawked at Shalaja. “I thought we were all gonna get beat.”

  “Wait,” asked Kevin. “How’d you wind up with keys in the bucket?”

  Shailaja blinked at him. “Barbie said you were here to help us escape. I slipped them off Pedro’s belt while he was squeezing my tits.”

  The grateful look on the smallest dancer’s face made her look more like fifteen.

  Thoughts of the women all revved up for freedom, then watching him stride right out the front door brought on a cringe. I’m gonna go out just like Dad. Kevin holstered his .45 and walked over to Barbie, who still hadn’t found a sin
gle key that worked. She fumbled, trying to get one to go into the cuff on her left ankle. He took a knee, grasped her shaking hands, and made eye contact. “Calm down, Barbie.”

  She stared at him. “Tina. My name’s really Tina. Get this shit offa me.”

  Except for three keys likely meant for the cages, the other nine were identical. He unlocked her and snapped the leather strip off her neck. Tina rubbed the angry marks on her wrists and cried.

  “Don’t thank me yet. I’m sure Neon has friends.” He waved her at the shotgun-toting woman and pressed the keys into her hand. “Here, go unlock her and get some real clothes.”

  Tris walked over and stood beside him, grinning. “Tell me that didn’t feel good.”

  “It feels like I spent two thousand coins on fucking up a delivery.” He scowled at the cube. “Why are you giving away guns?”

  She put her hands on her hips and shifted her weight onto her right leg. “Because I didn’t think you’d want to babysit six women or try and stuff them into your back seat.”

  Kevin scowled. “If we leave them in this city, they’re gonna wind up someone else’s toy. They’d have a better shot in Cortez.”

  Tris grabbed him by the shoulders and kissed him. “You’re right. Let’s get out of here.”

  “Not yet.” He patted the cube. “I’ve still gotta deal with this. Look. Tell them to hole up somewhere. This place has to have a hotel. When we leave, we’ll play clown car.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  Kevin chuckled. “Cramming six women in a Challenger’s back seat.”

  “What about that silver shark? I bet that’s Neon’s.”

  “You know his codes? Oh, that’s right… you splattered the codes all over the wall. Not to mention, killing a man is one thing… but stealing his car?” Kevin cringed.

  “He’s dead.” Tris smirked. “He’s not gonna miss it.”

  Kevin sighed and stomped for the door. A ripple of automatic fire made him spin, .45 raised.

  The middle dancer, a slender brunette now in a frilly Frankenstein version of a saloon girl dress, held a smoking MAC-10. A man who’d been sitting by the cages collapsed in a leaky heap of meat.

  Kevin glanced at Tris. “Guess he was a lousy tipper.”

  She glared.

  He holstered the .45 and went outside, heading right, wanting to get as far away from Cloud 9 as he could, as fast as he could. Thugs, punks, and prostitutes observed him from the shadowed patches between buildings, one of which consisted of an upside down metro bus. None did more than look. If they only knew what I was carrying. Enough void salt to go to Pluto… and not come back.

  He wandered with no particular direction in mind, searching and thinking of what he could possibly do with the drugs. Minutes later, scuffing footsteps approached at a light run. He whirled, hand on his sidearm, but relaxed when he saw white hair.

  Tris stopped beside him. “The girls are at Mom’s Hotel in the northwest. They looted the bar, so they should be okay for a few days.”

  “We’re not gonna be here that long. As soon as I sell this shit, we’re out.”

  “Drugs?” She glared. “Forget the job. We should destroy them.”

  Kevin grumbled in his head. When he caught sight of a red neon ‘diner’ sign, he grabbed her by the right wrist and pulled her across the street. “Not outside.”

  She followed without protest. He stiff-armed the door out of his way and walked in to a place lit by the flickering light of a handful of recessed fluorescent corkscrew bulbs. Red stools lined a short counter, behind which a middle-aged woman with ginger hair and a permanent frown gave him a distrustful squint. He went to the right and stopped at a plain maroon table. Tris slid into the booth on the same side.

  “Sorry. Don’t want the wrong people hearing the wrong thing.”

  She didn’t let go of his hand. “I understand. I’m sorry, too… I know you didn’t want to start anything in there, but… I couldn’t just―”

  “What’cha need?” asked a boy about thirteen or so with freckles and red hair, in an apron and a non-snobbish tee shirt and black jeans. His shoes appeared made from old tires. “We got the best fries in the area.”

  Kevin pulled his jacket over the cube. “Coffee is fine. Just ate.”

  “Same,” said Tris.

  The boy nodded and walked off.

  Tris kept her voice low. “How can you profit from destroying people’s lives?”

  Kevin raised his eyebrows in a blasé smirk. “By selling this box.”

  She sighed.

  “Look around you.” Kevin gestured at a few bedraggled patrons, most little more than skin-wrapped skeletons propped up against the wall in booth seats. “The world is fucked. Who gives a shit if people get high? They get a few minutes of not suffering. So what if it shaves years off their life? We’re all dead anyway.”

  She let go of his hand. “It’s wrong. I can’t help you hurt innocent people.”

  He leaned back as the boy set two cups of coffee down. When the kid made eye contact, he handed him three coins.

  The waiter flashed an excited smile. “Thanks!”

  Kevin sipped. Not bad. Can barely taste the motor oil. “You spent most of your life in that Enclave bubble. Okay, so maybe the world isn’t quite as bad as those movies said it would be, but it’s still pretty shitty. You’re a naïve idealist. Without some kind of organized society, two things motivate people: survival and pleasure.”

  “So now you’re going Freud on me?”

  Kevin blinked. “What?”

  Tris stared into her cup, a somber expression on her face. “I thought you were different. Thought that whole asshole thing was an act. You know, don’t let anyone in. I guess you really are obsessed with money.”

  “It’s not money.” He scowled, shaking his head for a few seconds to let his anger ebb. “I’m sick and tired of getting shot at. Every goddamned time I leave Wayne’s with someone else’s bullshit in my back seat, I’m risking my ass. Half of these spackheads get off on the thrill of the run… I used to be one of them.” He took a sip. “I didn’t wear armor till I was twenty-four. Thought I was too good. Too fast.”

  “What happened?” She slurped.

  “You saw the scars.” He glanced sideways at her. “Not everyone puts themselves back together as fast as you. I don’t want money. I want my dream. I was one run away, and now it seems everything I touch turns to shit.”

  “I’m sorry. Doctor Andrews really did have money. He would’ve paid you what I promised if he wasn’t dead.”

  He looked at her. Something in her eyes got under his skin. Anger at borking the deal with Neon faded to sympathy. “Look, we don’t know for sure he’s dead. Maybe he ran from the Infected or something. Your boy Nathan certainly didn’t expect them to be gone.”

  “He’s not my boy.” Tris pounded her fist into the seat with a cushioned thump. “I’m still not gonna help you sell poison.”

  “Then I’ll sell it without ya. You can wait with the women.” He picked at the cube. “I didn’t sell you to Neon ‘cause I figured you’d have shot me too when you pulled the ol’ blurry arm thing. Real tempting. That would’a been that. Retired. Roadhouse. Set for life.”

  Tris leaned toward him. “Kevin, you’re a shitty liar.”

  He stared at the cube. “Yeah… I suppose I am.”

  evin resisted the urge to stuff his hands in the pockets of his armored jacket. He shifted his gaze from left to right, watching every dark spot between walls. His hand hovered by the .45, fully loaded after a brief stop at the garage to visit his trunk. The weight of eyes settled on him, both seen and unseen. It took a certain kind of individual to live full-time in Glimmertown, though to be fair, not everyone was cut out for constant roaming.

  If anyone ever made a top ten list of stupid shit to do in the Wildlands, walking around this place at night would be four or five. He twitched at the scrape of a shoe to his left, and stared into impenetrable shadow. Doing it alone is
probably number three… right under drinking glowing water.

  Something about the way it looked when people shifted in the alleys came too close to reminding him of the mindless shambling of Infected. He jumped every time motion caught his eye. Tris hadn’t been kidding when she refused to help him sell the void salt. Two thousand coins or nothing. Even offering her half hadn’t budged her. Stupid righteous woman… Bad enough I may have just started a friggin’ Wildland war with Glimmertown because she has a giant bleeding heart for slaves. Kevin stopped and leaned on a lamppost made from a steel I-beam stuck end-first into the ground. Four clip lights dangled from the top, their extension cords braided in a lazy arc to a nearby trailer.

  Tina’s grateful face when he unlocked her cuffs haunted his thoughts. Yeah, okay fine. He looked up at the blackness overhead. Anywhere else in the world, he’d have been able to see stars. Too much artificial light rained down from the central tower to see a damn thing. I keep doing sympathetic shit like this, I’ll be seein’ you soon, Dad.

  A boot scuffed on the dirt behind him, close and to the left.

  Kevin whirled around the I-beam and yanked the .45 off his belt. The tip of the barrel came to a halt under the nose of an emaciated man with shaggy black hair and a heavy five o’clock shadow. A hasty disarming smile bared yellow teeth between quivering lips.

  “‘Sup. Just out for a walk.”

  Kevin smirked. “Uh huh. Sure. Out for a walk right up behind me. With a knife.”

  The man twitched as he laughed, seeming taken by an involuntary spasm. He looked down at the spring blade concealed in the long sleeve of a green army coat, and folded it closed. “Hey, you got any shit man?”

  “I oughta aerate―”

  The man whimpered, cringed, and shut his eyes.

  Kevin squinted. “Maybe we can help each other.”

  “W-what?” The junkie risked a peek out of his left eye.

  “Say I’m looking to get rid of some junk quick like, and I don’t wanna deal with Cloud 9.” Kevin relaxed his gun arm, aiming at the man’s chest instead of his face. “You know anyone might be in a buying mood?”