One More Run (Roadhouse Chronicles Book 1)

by Matthew S. Cox

  She found a pull out loading ramp on the underside of a box truck near the fence and propped it in place against the razor wire to use as an easy way up and over. The Uzi and katana rattled against each other when she leapt to the street, seeming loud and painfully obvious in the stillness of the railway path. Fortunately, no one but a few cats came to check out the noise.

  Sixty meters or so later, she passed the cluster of barrels where Fix still huddled. The teen’s teeth ceased chattering as she peered up, wearing an expression of surprise. Much of the drowsiness of the drug had faded from her expression. She looked awake, but forlorn.

  “Don’t be so shocked. I’m hard to kill.” Tris threw the hoodie at her. “Might wanna peel that thing off your face.”

  Fix blinked, staring mute.

  “You should get out of here. That used to be Tyrant’s.”

  The girl squirmed into the massive sweatshirt, using the oversized sleeves as mittens.

  Tris trudged off in the direction of the hotel, tracing her thumb back and forth over the cube.

  This has got bad idea written all over it.

  unlight seared a shimmering glare across the horizon, making Kevin squint and raise a peach-fuzz covered arm to shield his face. The hand hovering before his eyes belonged to a four-year-old. The rumble of a semi diesel vibrated his ass from a poorly padded seat. He smiled up at the indistinct silhouette of a bearded man behind the wheel. A plastic hula girl swayed on the dash, next to a taller, thinner cartoon cowboy holding a guitar. Kevin looked down at his gaunt little shirtless body. His jeans were pink, but he didn’t care. Dad had found them, and they fit.

  He looked back up at the man, a question at the tip of his child brain that could not find a way off his tongue.

  “Kevin?” asked a whispery, distant woman.

  He peered around the seatback into the sleeper cabin, toward where the voice seemed to have come. Sinuous blackness whorled within, scaring a gasp out of him.

  “Kevin?” The voice sounded closer, inches from his ear.

  His eyes snapped open. Bland grey ceiling blurred overhead for two seconds before gaining focus. The placidity of sleep gave way to a dull ache throbbing in his arms and legs. Sweat melted out of every pore, a sweltering blanket up to his chest.

  “Good morning,” said a familiar woman.

  Tris. He shifted his head to the left. She lay at his side, naked save for the Beretta dangling from a hand attached to an arm draped over her hip. Porcelain skin glistened with a light coating of perspiration. He stared at a spot halfway between her navel and sex, three inches toward her left hip. Not even a scar remained where the bomb had been.

  “Do you feel any better?” She traced a finger over his pectoral. “You’re one big bruise.”

  Kevin closed his eyes again, distracted from lustful thoughts by feeling his pulse in his face and chest. He flung off the blanket in a search for cool. “I’ll live.”

  Something cold landed on his chest, taking a bit of the pain away from a tender spot. He leaned his head up, opened his eyes, and stared at the cube. A second later, he sat up clutching it in both hands and poked the button to open it. At the sight of all the ampules still in their trays, he sagged with relief.

  “How the hell did you…”

  Tris rolled off the bed, leaving the Beretta. “I can be sneaky. By the way, there’s no hot water, but there is a shower.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  She kept going. “Better not. Keep a gun on the door in case we have visitors.”

  He reached for the pistol, freezing when he spotted the Uzi hung over the back of the desk chair. “You went shopping?”

  A metallic squeak preceded the pattering of water. “Shit! This is cold. Not exactly. Pinch of opportunity.”

  The floor creaked as if someone approached the door outside.

  “You didn’t see my .45 did you?” He forced himself out of bed and took the Uzi. It seemed in dire need of cleaning, but mechanically intact. “Did you fire this or see it fire?”

  “N-n-no.” Her teeth chattered.

  He dropped it back on the seat, sat on the edge of the bed, and put a hand on the Beretta, watching the door. Whoever it was outside either kept going or had fallen asleep on their feet. A few minutes later, Tris emerged, covered from armpit to mid-thigh with a towel. Kevin handed her the pistol and trotted into the bathroom. A little toilet sat so close to the shower one could barely take a dump without getting their feet wet. He flung off his briefs and stood under a stream of chilly water. The stagnant heat of the motel room baking in the sun of a desert morning made the frigid downpour feel amazing.

  Kevin tried not to think about closed-circuit plumbing systems, poor filters, and how many other people’s piss he might have in his hair at that moment. Once the shower went from ‘ahh’ to ‘damn, this is cold,’ he hopped out and stumbled into the room. Much to his disappointment, Tris had her clothes on―though he had to admit to himself his body wasn’t quite up for that yet. Being on his feet and walking was already asking a bit much.

  After struggling into his jeans, shirt, and boots, he forced himself to put the jacket on, but left it open. During a hunt for something to conceal the cube with, he found another surprise in the bathroom: TP. Kevin pondered stealing it. He knew places he could sell a three-quarter-full roll for six coins, but decided against any more jinxes. Takin’ someone’s shitter paper was about as low as it got… well, next to stealin’ his car.

  “Ready?”

  Tris glanced at the Uzi. “Not interested?”

  “Untested.”

  “I took it off a guy who was about to shoot me with it. He trusted it.”

  Kevin smirked, but accepted the Uzi when she handed it to him. “What the hell did you do?”

  “I’ll tell you about it over food.” She rubbed her stomach with both hands. “I’m about to eat myself.”

  Over the course of a meal including unidentifiable meat patties and home fries, Tris explained the gory details. Kevin kept eying the diner windows, not too comfortable being out in the open with the cube while the ‘King of Glimmertown’ had his people looking for them. At any second, the quiet murmurs of a handful of what passed for ‘citizens’ here having a late breakfast could become screaming and shooting.

  “What’s bothering you?” Tris sipped her coffee.

  He looked down at his untouched burger and toast and sighed. “I’ve had that 1911 since I was nine. Really, I guess I ought to be glad I managed not to lose it this long… but―” He flicked a fingernail on the edge of the table.

  “Your dad’s?”

  Kevin moved only his eyes to stare at her, still sitting slouched. “What makes you say that?”

  She gave him a sympathetic look. “Well, men only get like that about firearms if they’re damaged in the head or if their dad gave it to them.” She picked up her coffee, but hesitated before drinking. “And you were muttering in your sleep, apologizing to him for losing it.”

  “Oh.” He shifted in the seat, unable to look at her. “Well, he didn’t exactly give it to me. He died when I was like four. One of his friends found me later and passed it on.”

  Tris smiled. “Nothing to be ashamed of. I miss my dad too.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “I don’t know.” She gazed into her mug. “He vanished one day and I got reassigned to new parents. Mom2 and Dad2 treated me like I’d always been theirs. Kinda creepy. They thought I was having ‘mental problems’ when I asked about my real father. The entire city seemed to think he’d never even existed. No one talked about him, and whenever I asked, they were all condescending and stuff like I was having imaginary friends.”

  “That’s twisted.” He felt a little awkward at being sentimental over a gun by comparison. “Bet he was involved with the resistance.”

  “What?” Tris looked up. “Where did that come from?”

  “Well, think about it.” He scooted back in the bench seat and leaned forward. “A small
society like the Enclave that’s heavy on propaganda and mind control needs to wipe out any trace of dissent, right? Everyone’s supposed to eat the same bullshit for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. If someone steps out of line… questions that council of four or whatever they are… it makes sense for them to stop existing. Preserves the illusion for the rest of the sheep.”

  Red appeared around Tris’s eyes.

  “Hey, sorry… just a theory. I’m guessing.”

  “I can go back for it.” She sniffled. “Tyrant’s girls might pose a bit of a problem, but maybe he’ll sell your gun back to us.”

  He wrapped a half-patty in a piece of toast and jammed it into his mouth, chewing the salty mush slow enough to dare tasting it. A tinny clatter of improvised bells announced the door opening. He left the ‘sandwich’ dangling from his teeth and grabbed the Uzi. Tris spun to face behind her at the door as a short figure in a dark violet hoodie walked in with her hands stuffed in the front pockets. Black hair hung to the belt down the front. Fix pulled her hood back, and looked off at the left end of the diner, evidently searching. When she swung her gaze to the right, she locked stares with Tris and trudged over. Her expression held the begrudging politeness of a teen forced to go apologize against their will.

  “I don’t believe this kid.” Tris turned her head as the girl approached, sliding back into a normal seated position by the time Fix stood at the end of their table, eyes downcast.

  “Hey,” said the girl.

  A small red mark on her cheek remained where the ‘sleepy time’ derm had been.

  “Get outta here, ya little rat,” yelled a bearded guy behind the counter. “I already told you, I catch you stealin’ in here again I’m―”

  Kevin raised a placating hand at him.

  “You got some balls, kid.” Tris squinted. “What the hell are you doing?”

  She sniffled.

  “You can skip the pathetic act.” Kevin folded his arms. “I’ve been around long enough not to fall for the old crying beggar kid with a hidden knife.”

  “Not acting.” Fix bit her lip. “Sorry for tryin’ to steal your stuff.”

  “Yeah, well. Be happy you’re a kid.” Kevin made a shooing gesture. “G’won afore the cook has a stroke.”

  Fix glanced at Tris’s chest, avoiding eye contact. “Thanks for the jacket.”

  “Lucky it happened to be there when I was leaving.” Tris shot Kevin an unreadable stare, somewhere between apologizing for being nice to the girl and guilt.

  “Yeah. Still, you didn’t have to give it to me.”

  “Apology accepted.” Kevin glanced at the windows again, relieved that no one hustled up in ambush while the kid distracted them.

  Fix didn’t budge.

  “Oh for fuck’s sake.” Tris scooted toward the window. “Sit down.” She waved at the cook. “‘Nother burger please.”

  “You’re payin for it. Ain’t my charity,” yelled the man behind the counter.

  “Such friendly neighbors in this place.” Kevin winked.

  Fix eased herself into the bench seat, perching on the edge and sitting rigid.

  “Knock it off with the pathetic bit.” Kevin sighed. “We’re not going to hurt you.” He swabbed meat juice up with his toast. “Unless you try something shifty.”

  “You got a car, right?” She kept her gaze on her lap.

  Kevin squeezed the Uzi. She looked like an older version of the ‘hand grenade orphans’ from closer to the Mexican border. Round face, wide, innocent eyes, and a backpack full of badness to throw at you when you stopped watching them. They weren’t orphans though. If the grenade didn’t finish you off, Mom or Dad would… or one of their siblings too old to be ‘cute’ anymore. Fortunately, the Marauder had thick armor.

  Damn, I miss that truck.

  “The only way you’re going near my car is hogtied and in the trunk.” Kevin pointed over the table. “I’m not losing another one.”

  Tris chuckled. “Don’t feel bad, I had to be tied up to ride the first time too.”

  Fix looked up, fear plain on her face. “R-really?”

  Kevin frowned. “I found her like that.”

  “And he didn’t trust me enough to cut me loose. Thought I was gonna steal his car.”

  “The last woman I let near my car stole it.” He scowled.

  “Oh, so everyone with tits is a car thief?” Tris rolled her eyes.

  “No…” He tapped a finger on the table. “Everyone who’s alone and not as harmless as they look is a car thief.”

  Tris stuck her tongue out. “I never wanted to steal your car.”

  “I don’t.” Fix looked down. “I just wanna get out of this place.”

  The cook arrived with a plate. She cringed away, raising a hand to shield her face. The portly man set the meal in front of her and gave Kevin a look of mutual annoyance at her ‘overacted’ pitifulness. Kevin nodded. Tris handed him two coins.

  Fix stared at the food without taking her hands out of the sweatshirt pocket. “I gotta get outta Glimmertown. I don’t care if you tie me up. I’ll ride in the trunk if you want. Just get me outta here.”

  “What’s the rush?” Tris glanced at the window. “Who’d you piss off that’ll shoot us for helping you?”

  “Wow. I thought I was the cynic.” Kevin chuckled.

  Tris winked. “Must be rubbing off.”

  “Not yet. Too much pain.” Kevin managed not to grimace while stretching.

  A little pink appeared in Tris’s cheeks.

  “No one.” Fix risked making eye contact with Tris. “I’m fifteen. Won’t be long before those assholes at Cloud 9 come after me. I don’t wanna be a whore… you know, like you didn’t wanna be. They’da grabbed me already, but I’m good at lookin’ like a little kid.”

  Tris glared at the girl with such a look of rage Kevin started to reach over the table to grasp her hand.

  “I mean… you killed Neon right ‘cause he wanted to buy you.” Fix leaned away, shivering. “That’s all I meant.”

  “Oh. Yeah… and four of his guys.” She sighed. “It’s his car, but I don’t see the harm in giving you a ride to the first roadhouse we hit.”

  “I’ll have to buy some rope.” Kevin drummed his fingers on the table.

  “Okay.” After a moment, Fix summoned her most pitiful expression and looked up at him. “What if I did you a favor?”

  “I’m not sure I want to know where you’re going to take that.” Kevin pursed his lips. “You seem to be part of the scene here… Think you can set up a buy with Petersen for some stuff?”

  “The Salt?” Fix shivered. “Uhh, no. If I go in there, I ain’t comin’ out. You stole all their women. They wouldn’t even care how old I am.”

  “Dunno, man.” The cook walked over and topped off their coffees. “Rumor goin’ round Petersen and Neon weren’t rightly eye to eye.”

  “How’s that?” Kevin looked up at a sweaty face covered by a wild brown beard streaked with grey.

  “Petersen’s about power and business. Neon had his… vices. Slaving gets some people all sorts of sentimental. Tempers flare. No one comes blazing into town ready to die to rescue their drugs.” The cook gave Fix a pointed stare before walking off.

  “I mean another kind of favor.” Fix let a little hope creep into her green eyes. “I’m sneaky too.”

  “We know,” said Kevin and Tris at the same time.

  Fix pulled her hands out of the pocket, revealing a 1911 pistol. She cradled it flat across her palms, careful not to seem as if she intended to use it, and set it on the Formica table. Kevin gawked at the American Eagle grips and familiar scratches on the left side. “My real name’s Stacy.”

  Kevin grabbed it. Tris tried to hide a smile behind her hand.

  “Is gettin’ that back for you enough for a ride outta here?”

  “This is it.” He ran his fingers over the weapon before putting it back in its holster. “I think I can about forgive you for trying to steal my jacket.”

&n
bsp; Tris smirked at him. Her expression said ‘really?’

  Stacy seemed to relax. “I know someone lookin’ for a driver to move some stuff. Last I heard, they’re payin’ 1800 coins.”

  Kevin pointed at Tris. “This one offered me a thousand for a ride and I still haven’t seen a tenth of it.”

  The amused tone in his voice kept her from appearing too upset, but Tris still looked down.

  “Isn’t me payin’.” Stacy at last attacked her food, devouring it as if she hadn’t eaten in days. “I’ll set up a meeting, ‘an you can decide from there. It ain’t Cloud 9.”

  Tris drained her coffee. “If that other job pans out, you could offload that crap to Petersen for say one thousand… tell him you’ll take the loss as a ‘make-it-right’ gesture or something.”

  Stacy almost smiled at him. “Yeah, he might forgive you for killing Neon.”

  Kevin’s eyebrows formed a flat ridge. “I didn’t kill Neon.”

  y some strange paradox, Glimmertown seemed far quieter at ten in the morning than at two hours after midnight. Sun-beaten streets, some paved, most dirt, saw only a few scattered pieces of trash moving about. Old tin cans and battered plastic cartons scraped along in a fitful breeze. The distant shadow of the reinforced barrier around the settlement made it feel more like a prison than an oasis.

  Tris followed Stacy for five or so minutes, staring at the girl’s hands for any sign of deceit. Is this how Kevin felt when he first met me? She wanted to trust the innocent-looking face, but the attempted ambush with a drug patch validated Kevin’s worry. The girl paused to look back before taking a left turn, stepping over a collapsed stack of aluminum shipping boxes. She’d gone into a narrow alley that ran in a rightward curve between the backs of two rows of ramshackle dwellings, thick with shadows despite the daylight. Somewhere, an electric fan motor whirred and rattled. Tris slid her katana out of its sheath.

  A quick two-step rush caught up to the teen. Tris grabbed her by the shoulder and flung her into the wall, leveling the sword point at her throat. “Okay, kid. What’s your game?”