She followed the rightward curve for a few minutes until a wall of refrigerators and filing cabinets blocked her path, beyond which lay a small clearing. Two rectangular sections of chain link fence with metal wheels along the bottom had been propped up against the junk and secured with a padlocked chain. A large boxcar formed the right-side wall of a secure yard. Tyrant hadn’t bothered to paint the back blue, but based on how far she’d walked, she felt confident this was it. She examined the barricade for a few seconds, debating between squeezing through a narrow gap where the ‘doors’ met, or attempting to climb it.
Haste, and not wanting to crawl in dirt, won out. Up I go. When her fingers came within inches of the chain link, a faint tug at her shin preceded a cacophony of falling tin cans. Her heart skipped a beat and she froze. Before her brain could calm itself from thinking the tripwire could as easily have been an explosive as a crude alarm, the tromp of running boots came up behind her.
“Hey, what the hell?” yelled a man.
Tris turned, holding her hands up in a non-threatening way. The two men from the sofa in front of Tyrant’s dwelling emerged from a gap between cars some distance back. A muscular thug with dark brown skin pointed at her. Behind him, a somewhat shorter man clung to a submachine gun. She tried to make herself seem wide-eyed and harmless. Works for the kid…
“Bitch is goin’ for the vault,” whispered the second.
She bit her lip. “Sorry. I’m not sure how to get out of here. I don’t know anything about a vault. I’m lost.”
“Yeah, right.” The darker man stomped up to her and folded his arms. “Little scav tryin’ for a freebie.”
His associate looked her up and down. “Dunno, man. Not sure this one’s a scav. She don’ look wrecked.”
“Nothin’ to her though. Maybe you’re lookin’ for somethin’ you can sell fer food?”
Tris edged backward a step. “I thought someone was following me and I got scared. I ducked in here to hide, but now I can’t get out. This place is like a maze.”
“Hey.” The other man raised his submachine gun. “Skinny white-haired bitch. Ain’t Petersen throwin’ coin at that?”
“Think yer right.” The dark-skinned man reached for her. “Hello, payday. Be a good little girl and we won’t hurt ya.”
“No, please!” She whimpered like a frightened teen, darting forward and left.
The man with the submachine gun mistook her rush for a miscalculated attempt to run away, straight into his arms. He dropped his weapon on a strap, letting it fall against his side as he reached up to catch her. Time seemed to slow as she triggered her reflex boosters. Tris leaned to her right, spinning out of the wires that held the katana to her back. She ducked the grasping hands and rounded the still-sheathed sword into the side of his head.
Speed beyond human ability mixed with boosted strength knocked the oaf into a semiconscious forward stagger. Lunging became falling. He took two steps and landed on his face. She sprang at the dark-skinned man. He weathered the blunted sword stroke across the crown of his head, and grabbed her forearms, growling.
Tris grunted and struggled, shoving him toward the train car wall. The man’s eyes shot open wide as she forced him back. The last thing he seemed to expect was to lose a battle of strength with a woman her size. But after a second, the initial shock faded from his glare, and he capitalized on his advantage―height. With a slight lean back, he lifted her feet from the ground and made her helpless. He spun around and slammed her against a stainless steel fridge, holding her in place.
“You be one funky little surprise.” He shook his head, seeming to feel the effects of her first strike a moment after the fact.
Hanging like a caught fish, she couldn’t overpower the hold he had on her arms. The second his gaze darted to the Beretta on her belt, she slammed her knee into his gut. He barked an “oof,” and wheezed. She drove her knee into his side, in three rapid strikes the man likely saw only as a blur. Something cracked. He lost his hold and stumbled back, cradling his gut. Expecting the thug to hesitate from pain, she raised the sword to deliver a knockout strike.
He surged upward and punched her in the face. The hit bounced her skull off the metal fridge. The man gurgled, clutched his ribs, and fell over to the side. The truck yard spun, and the ground came up to kiss her. Cool dirt caressed her cheek. A high-pitched squeal vibrated in her head. Tiny crunching noises came from her jaw, which shifted ever so slightly as nanites repaired a break. A sense of pins and needles swam over her brain as the microscopic robots fought off the effects of a concussion. An explosion of dancing white lights and spots cascaded before her eyes. Her jaw popped back into place, mended before shock let her feel anything.
Tris grabbed her mouth and mumbled into her hand. The man coughed up blood and dragged himself across the dirt toward his unconscious associate, and an Uzi. She forced herself upright and ran three steps before kicking a field goal into the side of his head. He flipped onto his back and went still. She limped to the Uzi, favoring the now-throbbing foot she’d driven into a man’s skull. She helped herself to a spare magazine tucked into his inner jacket pocket and slung the little gun over her other shoulder on its strap.
Coldness spread over her instep as the nanites tended to a bruise that would never form. By the time she reached the top of the ‘vault’ gate, her foot no longer hurt, but her stomach growled. Great. The little bastards will start digesting me if I don’t eat something soon. She leapt to the ground inside and hurried over to a cluster of still-intact filing cabinets. Predictably, they were locked. Though her cybernetics amplified her strength far beyond what a woman her size should possess, the amount of force she could generate was no greater than the upper six percent of human potential.
The voice of Doctor Andrews, former Enclave scientist, replayed in her head from a grainy educational video she’d had to watch as a child. Something about cybernetic enhancements and future humans. “Someday, we hope to provide full augmentation and enhance the capabilities of the human body in more than simple speed. The density of human bone limits the effectiveness of certain components as the body cannot withstand the stresses involved.”
“Yeah… so much for augmentation.” She squinted up at the moon, racing for cover behind gloomy clouds. “People would kill each other for reliable food and electricity now.”
Tris let the padlock fall out of her hand and squinted at the back of Tyrant’s boxcar. Sure, she could shoot it out, but that would get every one of his thugs swarming back here with guns out. I bet Tyrant has the key.
At least being inside ‘the vault’ gave her clear access to the rear wall of his home. She jogged over the dirt lot, eyes scanning the ground for any more trip lines, finding none. A modest push failed to move the large sliding door, so she set her feet in the dirt and heaved. It still didn’t move.
Barred. She scowled.
A ladder on the right end brought her to the roof. She kept low to avoid notice from any of the people inside the courtyard. They’re lazier than I thought… no one even reacted to jackass screaming. On the far corner, an open hatch offered a way inside. Someone had rigged a small green plastic tarp over it to block rain, but not air. She slipped under, lowered her legs in, and slid down to hang on her fingertips.
A small table and chairs made of milk crates waited below her, near a crude shelf (also made of milk crates) on which sat a few cardboard boxes, their labels long ago faded. The center of the car held a pair of plush recliners facing a metal box used as a fireplace. Beyond that, at the opposite end of the boxcar, Tyrant lay upon a bed covered in a furry jaguar-patterned comforter with a woman on each side. On a nightstand (also made of milk crates), the cube of void salt sat within arm’s reach of him, apparently untouched.
Tris breathed in slow and dropped into the stifling fragrance of sweating bodies, wet dog, and marijuana. All three had their eyes closed. In and out. They’ll never even know I was here.
“Woof.” A shaggy, filthy dog not much larger
than a cat emitted a half-hearted bark from one of the recliners. It yawned, putting in the minimum possible effort a guard-dog possibly could. “Mrrff.”
She’d mistaken it for a cushion.
“The hell?” Tyrant sat up, propping his weight on his elbows and staring at her.
The woman on his right leapt out of bed, her midnight dark skin covered only by a tiny pair of white lace panties. His other companion, a much smaller woman with traces of Asian and Hispanic in her features, hid behind him. The first woman’s sudden exodus from the bed left Tyrant rather distractingly exposed.
Tris cringed, unable to pull her gaze away. The man’s not human.
He took note of her expression and grinned.
“What the yell you doin’ bitch?” The standing woman ran at her.
“I”―Tris leaned to the side to avoid a grab, and punched the woman in the side of the cheek, knocking her senseless with one hit―“need to talk to Tyrant.”
The dark-skinned woman tottered backward and fell, draped against the foot of the bed. A second later, she slumped to the side. Tyrant’s smaller girlfriend whimpered and eyed something beneath the pillows.
“Don’t.” Tris pulled the Beretta and aimed it at her. “You’re cute, but that shit only works on men.”
“You got some serious balls, bitch,” said Tyrant.
Tris smiled. “Back at’cha.”
Tyrant chuckled.
“What do you want?” The girl narrowed her eyes, seeming jealous.
“Oh, relax. That thing’s all yours.” Tris suppressed a shiver. “The box. You stole it from a friend of mine.”
“Don’t know a thing about that.” Tyrant sat up, but made no effort to cover himself. “Some skinny bastard named Mike sold it to me.”
“I respect that you didn’t kill my friend. It’s why I didn’t come in the front door shooting everything that moved.”
“I can recognize that.” Tyrant pursed his lips and glanced at the open door leading to the courtyard. At the sight of the empty couch, he frowned. “You don’t think you’re gonna steal from me and walk on outta here do ya? You got ‘nuff heat on your fine ass already from Petersen.”
Tris kept the Beretta trained on the conscious woman, not trusting she wouldn’t go for whatever sat under the pillow given the chance. “Someone told me you had a kind of honor code. Your boys beat my friend senseless. I returned the favor.” She tilted her head toward the couch. “Let’s call it a failed negotiation and go back to the start.”
Tyrant sucked something out of his teeth. “What’s your proposition?”
“I don’t really want what’s in the box. It’s about money. That box was transported by a roadhouse courier. I heard they don’t react well to bandits.”
Tyrant held his hands up. “Your asses killed the client. Roadhouse be every bit as twisted up at you.”
Tris smiled. “Neon wasn’t the client. Petersen was. Neon’s just an employee.”
“Hmm.” Tyrant’s jaw shifted left and right.
The girl slid her hand along the mattress.
“Stupid bitch.” Tris raised the Beretta. “Tyrant, you might wanna put those fuzzy cuffs to good use before your minus one pet vagina.”
“Mata a esta puta,” said the woman.
“If you insist.” Tris pulled the hammer back.
“Hold on.” Tyrant pushed the small woman away from the pillow with one arm and held the other up to Tris.
“Two thousand coins or the cube.” Tris narrowed her eyes.
He grinned. “Ain’t got that much coin, an’ you ain’t got no way outta here.”
“How ‘bout a duel then?” Tris smiled. “You and me, hand to hand. First one out cold loses.”
Tyrant chuckled and mimed grappling motions. “Why don’t you get those clothes off and we can do it all Greco-Roman style.”
“That’s not happening.” Tris shook her head.
“Neither is us fightin’. I saw you take Libby out with one hit, an’ that bitch be hard. Yo’ bony li’l ass got some shit.”
“Guess we’re at a stalemate. Look, I really don’t want to have to kill anyone. I don’t have a lot of time, so this is what’s gonna happen.” She wagged the Beretta. “You. Out of bed, grab that cube and bring it over here.”
The woman blushed and stared.
“You still think you’re walkin’ outta here?” Tyrant raised an eyebrow.
“I took out Neon and four of his thugs in six seconds. What do you think I could do to your shitheads if I felt like it?”
“Aww, bullshit.” Tyrant shook his head.
Libby moaned.
“S’pose you need a little encouragement.” Tris glanced down at the semi-conscious Amazonian woman. “Had enough?”
Libby shook off the daze and snarled. She jumped to her feet, ignoring the rather obvious handgun pointed at the smaller woman. Time dragged to a near-standstill; Tris cracked Libby across the crown with the handle of the pistol, drove a hammer fist into the woman’s gut, and smashed her over the back of the head with the gun as she doubled over. Time resumed.
The woman collapsed on her chest, unconscious.
“That enough motivation?” Tris had her weapon pointed at the smaller woman again before she could yank the object out from under the pillow. “Go ahead, pull it out. Unload it.”
Tyrant stared daggers at Tris while his still-conscious playmate tugged a big chrome handgun out from under the pillow. She removed the magazine and dropped it, but held on to the pistol.
“Clear the slide too, sweetie. I’m snowy, not blonde.”
The woman narrowed her eyes, but did so, ejecting a round.
Tris shot a nanosecond-long gaze at the drugs. “Move your ass. Bring me that cube.”
Again, the woman turned red. At a nod from Tyrant, she slipped out of bed. Tris raised an eyebrow, not due to the woman’s nudity or plethora of knife scars, but at the puffy foxtail hanging down to her knees. The short woman turned to grasp the cube, revealing the faux appendage dangled from between her ass cheeks.
Tris squirmed. I don’t even want to know why.
Tyrant appeared to find humor in her discomfort and reached down between the mattress and the wall. He held up another butt plug tail, this one black like a panther’s and twice as long as the fox. “Got extras if you’re curious what it feels like.”
When Tris glanced at it, the woman threw the void salt at her, grabbed a knife from the nightstand, and charged. Tris ignored the cube, which sailed over her head and hit the far wall with a loud thud. The dog emitted another unmotivated bark. The shrieking woman lunged. Tris dodged to the right, cringing at the sight of the ‘tail’ flaring out as she spun to pursue. She leapt back to avoid a slice at gut level. Tyrant’s excitement at watching a naked, knife-wielding woman chase her around the boxcar grew… visibly.
Tris ducked and weaved, keeping one eye on Tyrant in case he remembered the Desert Eagle on the mattress behind him. Blind with rage, the woman didn’t seem to notice their proximity to the courtyard-facing door until Tris caught her forearm out of a wild overhead stab and jiu jitsu-tossed her outside. Tail fluttering, the short woman flew onto the empty sofa, bounced up into a flip, and landed on her ass on the dirt in front of it.
Tris cringed, paralyzed for a split second by imagining how it felt to have all her weight come down on such an object stuffed in such a place. She slammed the door and flipped the locking bar while the stunned woman struggled to get up.
Tyrant shook his head, looking disappointed. She kept the Beretta leveled at him while backing up to where the cube sat on the floor near the ‘fireplace,’ and squatted over it. A poke of the button caused it to open and extend its four trays.
“Aww, don’t you trust me?” Tyrant’s baritone laugh vibrated the walls. “We only had the damn thing a couple hours. None ‘o my people are crazy enough to dose that shit.” A sense of genuine regret tinted his features. “‘Sa one-way trip.”
“Sounds like it’s heat you don�
��t need then.” She closed it. “So here’s what’s next. You forget me, I forget you, and we both go on like tonight never happened.”
“Not a whole lot of upside for me in that arrangement.”
“You know what this stuff is, don’t’ you?” She sighed.
“A lot of cash.” He chuckled, deep baritone vibrating the walls.
She shook her head. “This is the Enclave trying to kill whoever survived the Virus.”
He held his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “I don’ make anyone buy that shit, but it’s good money.”
Pounding fists struck the door accompanied by rapid Spanish yelling in a pleading tone.
“Oh, she sounds upset.” Tris glanced at the wall.
Tyrant chuckled. “Natasha’s a bit shy.”
Tris walked to the rear-facing door, opened the lock, and pulled the slab of wood and steel far enough to slip out. “No one’s got a bullet in them. I’m only taking back what you stole. Don’t press the issue, or you’ll be leading a gang of one.”
He glanced down, shaking his head.
A dark purple sweatshirt caught her eye, draped over the back of the chair by the dog. She snatched it and jumped out. Metal clattering announced Tyrant jamming the mag into his handgun and racking it. Thuds moved across the boxcar as he stomped. Tris jogged backward, aiming at the door. Scraping preceded the flickering glow of firelight invading the interior. He’s letting Natasha back in. She sprinted for the gate, climbing it in three leaping strides. At the top, Tris glanced back over her shoulder. Tyrant leaned out of the doorway, Desert Eagle in hand. He aimed for a second, but let his arm drop. After another disappointed head shake, he shoved the door closed.
Tris jumped down and ran past the two moaning thugs. She headed to the right, going around behind the gang’s courtyard and emerging with a few rows of dead trucks between her and Tyrant. At that distance, stealth became a triviality. The more organized section of wrecks left her navigating a tighter channel between decaying trailers, and several times forced her to climb collapsed piles of debris.
One More Run (Roadhouse Chronicles Book 1) Page 19
