One More Run (Roadhouse Chronicles Book 1)

by Matthew S. Cox

  “This is the driver?” asked Mr. Petersen, raising a steel-wool eyebrow. “Ahh, yes. The red jacket.”―he gestured at a facing chair covered in gold velveteen―“Please.”

  Against his better judgement, Kevin approached the desk and sat. A weak mechanical noise emanated from somewhere behind the desk. Rhythmic, it whirred, hissed and popped in an endless cycle. He managed a pleasant smile. The two shotgun meatheads entered, but remained by the wall on either side of the door.

  “You’ve caused quite a stir in my city, mister…”

  “Kevin.”

  Mr. Petersen’s eyebrows edged closer.

  “No idea what my last name is. Dad got himself dead before I was five.”

  “Well… Kevin… I would be most interested in hearing your side of what happened.”

  Something in Petersen’s unflinching glare unsettled him. He had the tone of one who spoke to a soon-to-be dead man. Kevin’s heart raced as he tried to channel the attitude that had thus far kept him alive. In the back of his head, he pictured Wayne pointing at a patch of empty dirt behind the roadhouse. Behold, the garden in which I grow my fucks. You might notice it’s barren.

  “I wound up running into this crazy bitch. Promised me all kinds of money for a ride, and… well. That didn’t work out. So since she’s handy with a gun I figured I’d keep her ass around till she covered what she owed.”

  Petersen steepled his fingers in front of his face, nodding once.

  “Get the job to bring your package here. Instructions said to bring it to Neon at Cloud 9. So, we go in there. He’s got these women…”

  “I am aware.” A hint of disdain warped Petersen’s mouth, giving Kevin a spark of hope.

  “So, Neon’s in the middle of finalizing the drop off when he offers me money for the woman. She had a small objection to being taken as a slave.”

  “So you killed Neon, six of my employees, four customers, and robbed half a dozen others?”

  Kevin let out a nervous chuckle. “Well, if you don’t mind me splitting hairs… I sort of stood there watching. She’s had some work done. The whole Neon thing was pretty much over before I even pulled a gun out.”

  Mr. Petersen tapped his fingertips together in a rotating pattern from pinky to thumb. “You must understand how this looks. My people are dead and seven of the club’s assets are missing.”

  “Six.” Kevin held up a finger. “Tris isn’t a slave. A person ain’t a slave till they get captured, and Neon wasn’t tall enough to ride that ride.”

  “I assume you decided to bring more than glib witticisms with you today?” Petersen pulled his hands apart and let them rest on the desk.

  “Correct. The original delivery stipulated I was to exchange the package and collect 2700 coins. Considering the… problems, I’d like to suggest we do the exchange for one thousand.”

  Petersen at last shifted his drilling gaze away from Kevin’s eyes. He seemed to mull the idea, and the dour, imposing presence faded to a more cordial smile. “We have an agreement. You have the package with you?”

  “Uhh.” Kevin scratched his head. “It’s in my room at the hotel. I… well… I half expected you to just kill me and figured I’d make you work for it if that was how it went down.”

  Mr. Petersen laughed. “So you aren’t as dumb as you look.”

  Kevin cringed inside, but smiled. “I keep hearing that.”

  “Don’t worry, Kevin… Neon was getting to be a bit of a problem. Outgrowing his position. I assumed the man would attempt some manner of power play soon. You did me a favor. I’ll consider your eating the 1700 coins and the bounty I was contemplating putting on Neon as a break even on the damage your out of control woman caused.”

  “Sounds good.” Kevin pointed over his shoulder with a thumb. “I’ll go grab the stuff and be right back?”

  Mr. Petersen’s stare seemed to slice into his soul. The unsettling quality returned after a few seconds, made worse by a sourceless, repetitive mechanical noise that occupied the silence. Kevin shifted in his seat.

  “That is fine.” Mr. Petersen flashed a broad smile. “See that you do return. It would be most unfortunate if you did not.”

  Kevin stood. “I won’t be long.” He started for the door, but stopped. “Can I ask something?”

  “Questions can always be asked, Kevin. The answers are often the problem.”

  He hesitated. “Is it… true you were around before the war? You, uhh, don’t look that old.”

  Mr. Petersen smiled and gestured at the door. “Why don’t you go and retrieve my package, and we can talk about history when you return. I’ll put on some tea in the meantime.”

  “Uhh, sure.”

  One of the shotgun meatheads opened the door.

  Kevin leaned back with a smile. “Tea sounds lovely. See you in a few minutes.”

  n hour after leaving Mr. Petersen’s office for the second time, Kevin’s heart continued racing. He decided against coffee and sipped metal-flavored water. Anxiety got his foot tapping. Another minute later, he set the glass down and drummed his fingers on the table. Tris appeared from an alley across the street about forty seconds before he got up to go look for her. Stacy trailed behind as they hurried across to the diner and slipped into the opposite seat.

  The girl seemed wearier than before, but also at ease. Dark rings around her eyes had appeared since the last time he’d seen her, only three hours ago. A twinge of concern needled at him, but he swallowed it. All he needed was for her to sniff out a strand of vulnerability and she’d exploit it.

  “How’d it go?” He smiled at Tris.

  She wobbled her head side to side. “Not bad. Got the job set up. Seems legit. 1800 coins to drop off some painkillers. Oh… here.”

  Kevin glanced at a pill bottle rolling across the table toward him. “What’s that?”

  “Ibuprofen.”

  Kevin blinked. “Gesundheit.”

  “Are you still sore?” She grabbed the bottle before it fell off the edge and stood it on end. “Take one. It’s a non-narcotic pain pill.”

  As soon as she mentioned pain, his bones ached. “Thanks for reminding me I got my ass kicked.”

  Tris kept quiet for a moment, fixing him with an earnest stare. “How’d it go with the… uhh…”

  “I’m here aren’t I?” He opened the bottle and poured one capsule into his palm. “Petersen’s quite a talker. Either he really is over a hundred, or he’s living in his own fantasy world.” Kevin tossed the pill in his mouth and slugged down the rest of his water. “Told me all about how he used to live around this area before the war… worked for a robotics manufacturer trying to get people to buy actuators.”

  “Sounds like fun.” Tris leaned back as the cook brought her a coffee. She handed him a penny. “Thanks. So the ‘king of Glimmertown’ is settled with us?”

  “Yeah, I got a talking to about how I can’t ‘control my woman,’ but it’s over and done with.” Tris scoffed. “I hope that kid’s job works out, or I’m gonna take a beating at Wayne’s.”

  “Control your woman?” Tris fumed. “I’ll show him controlling―”

  “Hey, easy… or I’ll have to break out the rope again.”

  She kicked him in the shin.

  “Ow. Aww.” He rubbed it. “Easy… I’m wounded.”

  Stacy shivered, seeming feverish. She looked up as if to add something to the conversation, but her head dipped down.

  “Well, the upside is, Petersen’s not a big fan of Neon and his slave trade. Too many complications. Though the drug thing is here to stay. So, about that job.”

  Tris sipped her coffee in silence for a few minutes. “1800 coins to run medical supplies to a settlement. It’s not on any roadhouse channels, so it should be a mystery run.”

  “That’s good.” He stared at her. “You haven’t once mentioned the destination, so I’m going to assume I won’t like it.”

  “Dalmmnfths.” She mumbled into her hand.

  His eyebrows flattened. “Out
with it.”

  “Dallas.”

  Kevin stared at the ceiling. “Oh for fuckety fuck’s fucking fucked sake.”

  An uninspired giggle hiccupped from Stacy, sounding half-alive. She raised a hand in a lame attempt to point at him. “He said a bad word.”

  “Do I want to know?” Tris raised an eyebrow.

  “Dallas took a direct hit. The place practically glows at night. Plus, it’s a major pop center, so there’s gonna be Infected coming out of the goddamned walls.” He glared at Stacy, not that she noticed. If she hadn’t suggested it… “I’d rather eat the 1700.”

  Tris grabbed his hand. “Hey, don’t be like that. There’s a settlement there, so obviously the stories are a little exaggerated. Jasmin did say we had to take route 75 in from the north, so maybe it’s not inside the city itself, but near enough to be called Dallas?”

  He grumbled.

  “Hey, can I tell you something?”

  The sincerity in her voice caught him off guard. “Yeah.”

  “When I heard the payment’s waiting for us in Dallas, my first thought was ‘bullshit.’ I… I get why you didn’t trust me. I understand now.”

  He let all the air out of his lungs in a slow sigh. A feeble sense of vindication withered away at the look in her eyes. He felt like the guy who told a little girl Santa Claus was made up. “Yeah….”

  Kevin stomped out the small door from the Garage office to the parking area, twenty coins light. Greedy, mercenary prick. He ignored the shiny silver car and hooked a right past the cinderblock wall separating it from the Challenger. Tris, Stacy, Tina, Shailaja, and the four other women from Cloud 9 all crowded at the passenger side door.

  “Oh, hell.” He grumbled. “I’m gonna need that rope.”

  Stacy whined, but held her hands up, wrists together.

  “Must you?” asked Tris.

  He gestured. “Not for her. I’m gonna have to tie two of them to the roof.” Kevin rubbed his chin and pointed at the smallest dancer. “Might be room in the trunk for her and the junkie.”

  “You can’t put a person in the trunk.” Tris stomped. “For one thing, it’s cruel. For another, you have a pile of random shit in there already, and last, that’s where the cargo’s going.”

  Kevin muttered, running over maps in his head. If he pushed the car, they could probably make it to Cortez in one day. Nice little town. Good place to drop off all the baggage. “Okay, but this is going to be a damn rolling orgy. Get ready to get intimate.”

  Over the next half hour, Kevin grumbled and cursed under his breath as he transferred all his “quick access” supplies from the back seat to the trunk. Jasmin arrived when he’d all but filled it, dragging a metal case. He tried not to see it as a massive pain in the ass, instead as 1800 coins. Another twenty minutes of unloading random bits of salvage he’d taken from roadside husks made room for the box. He slammed the trunk lid, shook Jasmin’s hand, and backed toward the Garage office once again, pointing at Tris.

  “No one touch the car. I’ll be right back.”

  He opened the door with his ass and whipped around to confront the clerk.

  Takeshi smiled at him. “Back so soon?”

  “I needed to make room. Interested in salvage?”

  “Ahh, I sense a deep discount since you’d be abandoning it anyway. What sort of parts do you have?”

  Motherf… “Tie rods, a pair of traction bands for a Class E wheel, four swivel mounts for light machine guns, bunch of serviceable brackets and bolts, two power filters, fourteen feet of fuel line, and a fluid pump from a”―don’t call it a flamer―“heavy incendiary unit.”

  “Sounds lovely.” Takeshi tapped his chin. “I’ll need to see.”

  Kevin gestured at the door. “It’s all unloaded.”

  The Challenger glided over the road, wheel motors emitting a worrisome whine. Not yet twenty minutes out of Glimmertown, and already he figured he couldn’t push it past about fifty miles an hour with all the weight. Stacy sat on the floor in a ball between Tris’s legs, facing him and shivering. The black bags under her eyes kept him glancing at her every few minutes, fearing she’d contracted the Virus and would bite someone any second. Bits of white stuff dribbling off her lip didn’t do much for his nerves. As much as he still didn’t trust her, he couldn’t bring himself to carry through with his threat to tie her. The state she was in, she looked helpless already.

  He’d crammed his seat as far forward as it would go. The six women from Cloud 9 filled the back, three in the laps of three others. Hair and legs seemed to be everywhere; every five or six minutes, someone’s knee poked him in the spine. Fortunately, the car didn’t use an inside mirror for rear-view, or all he’d see was tits. With each passing mile, his frown deepened.

  Tris put a hand on his arm. “What’s wrong? You look like you want to rip someone’s testicles off.”

  “Colorful.” He sighed. “The car can’t take this much estrogen.”

  Tris raised an eyebrow. “You’re smarter than I gave you credit for.”

  “So I hear.”

  The women in the back muttered. One asked what estrogen was, which set Tris off on a twenty-minute explanation that nearly put Kevin out cold at the wheel.

  Stacy made a series of huffing noises, sounding like a giant cat about to spit up a hairball.

  “Really.” Tris squeezed his forearm. “What’s bothering you? Are we going to run out of charge in the middle of nowhere?”

  The women got quiet.

  “No, but I have to keep it slower than I’d like to be going. This is the kind of weepy horseshit what got Dad killed.” He twisted his grip at the wheel. “He was like you. Soft heart. Saw slaves and had to get involved. He had a friggin’ truckload of girls, and I don’t mean that as a turn of phrase. An actual truck trailer ass-to-tit with women. I can’t even remember where the hell we were. Somewhere in Arizona. Word got out and bandits came out of freakin’ everywhere. We never had a goddamned chance.”

  Tris gasped. “Sorry.”

  “They didn’t have any use for a boy, but I guess they didn’t wanna kill a four-year-old. Only thing I remember is they dropped me off in Clifton. They took Dad’s rig, and all the women with ‘em.” He looked at the back seat. “Right now, I feel like a big fat fucking target… and what the hell is wrong with the thief? She’s gonna go zombie on us?”

  “She’s in withdrawal. She never told me what she was on, so I have no idea how bad she’ll be.”

  Stacy tried to say something, but couldn’t seem to get her jaw open, so it came out as a long, stressed “nnnnn.”

  Kevin sighed out his nose and tried to get comfortable despite the steering wheel rubbing his nuts. Tris tended to Stacy as best she could. The girl faded in and out of coherence, sweat buckets, and trembled. The women muttered amongst themselves about their odds of winding up stranded on the side of the road. Within an hour, they resumed their animated conversation about everything and nothing―mostly about how happy they were to be out of Glimmertown. They quieted to listen after asking Tris to tell them about Neon’s final minutes.

  Stacy had passed out, her head back in Tris’s lap.

  He tried not to feel good for helping them. Another couple of hours, and he’d drop the lot of them in Cortez… maybe enjoy a night in a bed. As stories of what had been done to them at Cloud 9 circulated, he tuned their voices out to indistinct feminine warbling, attention focused on the endless pulse of a yellow line down the center of the street. Each cruel fact twisted the guilt deeper at being ready to walk out and ignore them. The speedometer wavered between forty-five and forty-eight; the sports suspension made him feel as though his ass scraped the road.

  Another couple hours… He eyed the rearview screen as the remembered scent of his father’s truck cabin came to mind. What the hell is wrong with me?

  Kevin squinted at pale desert, aflame in the shimmering glow of the relentless sun. The Challenger’s wheel motors purred like their old selves, without the added weight of s
o many passengers. Rattling from behind reassured him, his box of miscellaneous handy crap once again in easy reach. Cortez settlement seemed more than happy to welcome six women and a girl. A middle-aged couple had agreed to take Stacy in. The best part about stopping there had been another helping of Jean’s gumbo. Tris had been quiet since they left, and kept her head turned to the right.

  “That didn’t take long.” Kevin tapped his fingers on the wheel.

  “What?” she muttered, not looking.

  “That kid got under your skin already. You fell for it.”

  Tris smirked at him. “She said I was the only one who’d ever done anything nice for her.”

  “What was that? Not kill her?”

  “The purple sweatshirt. Used to be Tyrant’s.” Tris sighed. “She’s had a crummy life. She’s only fifteen.”

  “And you’re only twenty and I’m only twenty… something. Seven?” He accelerated to ninety. “Fuck it. Everyone’s got a shitty life. Keep your eyes open for dust trails.”

  “What’s that you keep looking at?” Tris pointed to a dark two-inch screen below and left of the rear view, hooked into the dash by four exposed spiral wires.

  “Rad meter.”

  She kept quiet for a little while, but continued to fidget in her seat as if she couldn’t get comfortable.

  “Piss break?”

  “Not a bad idea, but… What happened to that whole people are friendly thing? Couple days ago, you were trying to tell me the documentaries are wrong, now you’re all ‘the world is shit.’”

  “I’m pissed off.”

  “So close but so far?”

  He twitched when the rad meter lit up with 0018. “Crap. Hope you brought sunblock. If that fucker hits 100, I’m turning around and there won’t be any negotiation.”

  “100? Please tell me that’s not Gray.”

  “No, it’s red. You colorblind?”