Tris stared at him. “Remember the other day when I said you’re smarter than you look? Yeah, forget it. Gray is a measurement. 100 Gray would melt someone. You wouldn’t have time to turn around.”
“It’s rads.”
She blinked. “Who uses rads anymore?”
“Sorry, I don’t have Enclave tech.”
She shoved him on the shoulder. “It’s not Enclave. It’s been around a long time.”
Parts of the paving had broken apart in jagged junks. Here and there, the bumps forced him off onto the dirt for a smoother ride. Blasted out shells of steel trailers dotted the road, the metal blued near jagged tears along the south-facing parts. Large hunks of debris, pieces of former buildings, cars, and a set of train wheels, sat at the ends of angled furrows going in the same direction, a frightening indication of proximity toto Dallas’ Ground Zero. Kevin grumbled. Taking a ride to Harrisburg on Tris’s flimsy promise for a thousand coins was one thing… but driving this close to an impact crater stressed the limits of reason.
He slowed to a halt. Twisted iron and steel claws rose from the scorch mark that had once been Dallas, Texas, a dark stain across the horizon. The rad meter displayed 042, causing a bead of sweat to slide down the left side of his head. Striations in color over the open nothingness before him radiated outward from the distant city, crossed by the occasional tumbleweed or dust-hopper oblivious to the radiation.
“So, another couple months of small runs will make up for it.” He sighed.
Tris glanced at him. “We’re already here.”
Kevin tapped the corner of the rad meter. It hopped up to forty-four. “Can barely see the city from here and the dose is almost halfway to ‘screw this.’”
She leaned forward and shielded her eyes with her hand. “There’s gotta be something here.”
“You almost sound upset.” He chuckled, flicking his fingers at the gearshift in contemplation of backing off.
“We’re here because I believed Jasmin about the run.” Tris leaned from left to right, surveying the distance.
He dropped the Challenger into reverse. “Ain’t no point o’ me retirin’ to run a roadhouse if I grow a third testicle.”
“Wait.” Tris lunged through the gap between the front seats and grabbed a pair of dusty green binoculars from the box. After flinging herself upright again, she pointed them off to the right and held them to her eyes. “Yes… Tire marks over there. Seems like they’re converging on one place.”
“How far?” Kevin squinted, but couldn’t make anything out of the blinding glare.
“Four hundred yards maybe?” She pointed almost right at the spar between windshield and door window. “That way.”
He pursed his lips, eyeing the rad meter. “No sense wasting time debating. Couple hundred more yards won’t change much.”
The gearshift moved forward with a clunk, and he steered where she indicated. A few minutes later, distinct vehicle trails emerged from the smooth beige landscape. Someone (in fact many someones) had driven onto a strip of paving more or less covered by dirt, all heading toward the southwest. The sight of it made him cringe. In all likelihood, the resettled sand had been fallout, and probably still ‘glowed.’ A quick glance at the rad readout tightened his grip on the wheel: 52.
Kevin held out another few seconds until the Challenger reached the old road, and he went in the direction of the tracks. “You know, this could be a damn bandit nest. If it is, this is going to get real damn ugly.”
“What happened to ‘people want to help each other?’”
“There’ll always be a bad element. Human nature. What I meant was most people are helpful. The two you gotta watch out for are the ones who don’t give a shit about shit, and the ones who’ve given the fuck up.”
“You’re wasting yourself behind the wheel.” Tris leaned her elbow on the door and smiled over the fingers supporting her chin. “You should’ve been a poet.”
“Hey…” He accelerated. “Looks like there’s some kind of old tunnel up ahead.”
A pair of figures in long, brown coats wearing full bug-eyed gas masks stood from behind white concrete lane dividers repurposed as barricades on either side of the sunken roadway. Both had AK47s. A hundred or so yards closer to where the road diverted down into a culvert, two more figures crouched behind similar barriers with huge rifles.
“Oh, shit. They have Barrets.” Kevin stopped the car and held his hands up in a non-threatening manner.
“That’s bad?” She mimicked his hands-up pose.
“Yep. Barret will shoot through the battery, me, the trunk, Cortez, and lodge in Wayne’s ass all the way back in Hagerman.”
“Right, so don’t get shot by it.” She rolled her eyes.
The figure on the left approached in a cautious stride, AK47 held not-quite-aimed at the car while the other moved up on Tris’s side. Dark lenses in the gas masks concealed any clue about their disposition.
“Hey,” said Kevin. “Not lookin’ for any trouble. You know where we can find a Sergeant Ralston?”
“Why?” asked a female voice.
Sunlight flashed on distant scopes. Kevin’s sphincter clenched at the thought of a .50 Cal Browning round pointed at him. The figure on the passenger side seemed more on edge than the woman and kept the AK trained on Tris.
“Got a box from…” He glanced at Tris.
“Jasmin.” Tris offered a smile at the figure pointing a rifle at her.
“Let’s see it.” The woman backed up a step and let the rifle down a few inches. “Damn, did a perfume factory explode in there?”
“It’s a long damn story.” He pushed the door open and got out, heading for the trunk. The other sentry kept the AK pointed at Tris. He glanced at his escort and flicked his gaze to the other one.
“My sister doesn’t trust her,” said the woman.
Kevin chuckled. “She has that effect. Neither did I at first.” He opened the trunk lid. “She grows on ya though.”
Hissing breath from the woman’s gas mask paused as she leaned forward to examine the box from Glimmertown’s general store. She reached in and moved a few car parts to the side to clear away the front face, and pointed at a tiny black doodle that resembled a poor attempt at a biohazard symbol, or an even sadder flower. Kevin tensed when she patted him on the shoulder.
“Sorry for the rough greeting. Welcome to New Dallas. I’m Samantha. My sister’s Marcie.” The woman backed up three steps and made a series of exaggerated hand motions at the two distant snipers before yelling, “It’s good” to her sister.
Tris waved at Marcie after she lowered the rifle.
Kevin shut the trunk. “Now what?”
Samantha pointed down the road. “Drive on down to the gate.”
“New Dallas is underground?” He felt as nervous as a hamster in a microwave and hurried back to the door.
“Yeah.” Samantha followed. “We don’t get a lot of drivers out this way. Sorry again for almost shooting you.”
He hopped in and closed the door. Tris turned her head to continue staring at Marcie as the car pulled forward. The woman’s posture conveyed disappointment at not getting to kill someone, but the opaque lenses over her eyes hid any sense of emotion. Concrete lane dividers rippled by on both sides, flashing in the sun. Finally, he reached the point where the road angled downward. The snipers had set up behind the first set of dividers after the downgrade, where the terrain gave them protection from the sides and rear. Both men wore full gas masks, military armor vests, and camo-covered helmets. Despite the intimidating hardware draped over their barricade, they both offered enthusiastic waves.
Tris smiled at the man on her side. “Okay, these two seem friendly.”
“Friendly enough for two guys who would’ve shot us a minute ago without losing sleep.” Kevin grumbled as he guided the Challenger down a sunken roadway lined on both sides with stacks and stacks of sandbags. Thirty meters after the road leveled out at the bottom, they entered a rounded tunnel.
Three weak incandescent bulbs overhead gave off enough light to see a huge darkened metal door covered in lines of rivets streaked with green smears of corrosion. He pulled up to within three feet.
“You’re the one that told me people are friendly.” She sounded sad. “Except for the Enclave, I was almost ready to believe you.”
He sighed. “Recent events haven’t done much for my optimism.”
A resounding clank filled the tunnel a second before a seam appeared down the middle of the door. Two halves peeled away to the sides, revealing the barrier to be eight inches thick. Behind it, two more doors of similar dimension opened at a somewhat slower pace. Each great slab slid into the wall, riding rollers in recessed tracks. Though the tunnel was wide enough for three cars to drive abreast, the doors halted with only inches to spare on either side of the Challenger. Beyond, the tunnel continued, lit every fifteen yards or so with a somewhat less feeble light than the ones nearer the entrance. Another man, also in a camouflage uniform, waited inside with a black M4 held to his chest. He waved in a manner indicating Kevin should follow.
“Wow.” Tris leaned up. “That door would stop a damn nuke.”
He drove in, following the jogging figure along a subterranean road. The rad meter ticked down to 008 about a minute later when the tunnel opened into a large chamber supported by thick columns. The space had the appearance of an old subway platform converted into a garage. The rails had been ripped up and replaced with a crude asphalt surface. Carts of tools and clustered around most of the columns. Five military-style Humvees occupied parking spots defined by yellow spray paint, as well as an M35 truck with a canvas-covered back.
A handful of men and women in loose camo pants and tank tops peered up from various places around the vehicles, pausing in their work. Tris looked from them to Kevin with wide eyes. Their escort stopped, turned on his heel, and waved him at an open parking space near a long wall of pale white tiles. Old US flags hung wherever the lack of stuff piled against the wall allowed it, some covering glass cases with prewar advertising posters. Kevin pulled into the spot and killed the switches. The soldier who led them in, a little winded from the jog, met him with a warm handshake as he got out.
“Can’t say how good it is to see ya. I’m Corporal Kendall.” The man looked to be in his younger twenties and had a sharp jaw. “Been waitin’ on these meds for months.”
Tris’s door closed with a clunk. Her shoes skiffed over the black paving as she came up behind him. Another man and a woman with short brown hair emerged from the far side of the deuce-and-a-half. Unlike the others, their clothes looked civilian: flannel shirts and jeans.
“Yeah… I’ve been runnin’ shit for the ‘house for years and I ain’t never seen a job posted for Dallas. Can’t say I know anyone crazy enough to get this close.”
“Well…” Kendall chuckled. “Hope you’re not too crazy. This here’s Doc, and her trainee, Josh.”
The woman nodded. “Candace. Not really a MD, but I do what I can.”
Josh also shook hands.
Kevin opened the trunk and stepped back as Candace and Josh unloaded it and struggled to two-person carry it back the way they came.
“We’re supposed to give that to Sergeant Ralston,” said Tris.
“That’s a name drop.” Kendall smiled. “Code so we know you’re on the level.”
“So there’s no Ralston?”
Kendall waved. “C’mon.” He headed off down the line of vehicles. “Yeah, there is… but there’s no need to bug him. Sarge is already pulling out what little hair he’s got left with motor pool logistics.”
Kevin paused to wonder at the urgent look on Tris’s face before he followed Kendall past three Humvees and up a small stairwell to what had once been the platform where people waited for trains. A middle-aged man in a camo jacket hunched over a desk shifting papers around and grumbling about someone not keeping track of parts properly. He glanced up as they passed. Kevin got a friendly nod, though he squinted at Tris.
She grabbed Kevin’s hand.
Kendall gestured at a passage through a pair of smashed turnstiles, which opened out at the rear left corner of the raised area. “New Dallas isn’t the biggest of places, but we get by. You’re welcome to spend a day or two if you need. Any longer, you’ll go from visitor to resident and be expected to help out in some way.”
Past the opening, they entered a rectangular concourse marked with the scars of absent bolted-down seats. A chain-link fence/cage surrounded rows of metal shelves filled with weapons from pistols to rifles to larger machine guns. Men and women in a mixture of camo uniforms, Wildlands leathers, and patched-up civilian clothes occupied stations here and there. Several, carrying rifles, appeared to be internal security. Almost everyone afforded them at least a passing smile.
Jury-rigged wiring dangled in shallow arcs, stranded from hooks and brackets driven into the ceiling. Fluorescent lights bathed the area in brightness, proving New Dallas had a decent solar farm somewhere.
The far wall had the look of a mall of sorts, containing a series of open alcoves packed with the trappings of ancient commerce. One had empty garment racks, another, row upon row of bookshelves. Candace and Josh stood in the third storefront going through the contents of the box. White flags with red crosses hung on poles on either side of a space that looked like it had once been a deli.
Kendall walked straight across and went down another connecting passage labeled ‘Platform 3.’ The air carried the mixed fragrance of garlicy vegetables and body odor, tinged with a wisp of industrial grease. Traces of light glinted off ink-black walls from up ahead. The dimness compared to the open mall left Kevin blind for the thirty or so feet before he emerged in a rounded train tunnel. Cabinets and storage shelves occupied a dead end by where they entered. On the right, a passage wide enough for two subway trains stretched into a gentle leftward turn. Double-deck bunk beds packed the inward face of the curve, each pair occupying cubbies walled off by tall steel cabinets.
They kept going to the right, Kendall waving at people as he passed. Men, women, and children sat among the beds or on the floor in front of them. The smaller children wore handmade ponchos or other well-worn garments while the adults seemed evenly split between camouflage and tattered prewar garments. Many stared at Tris with curiosity or worry. A few seconds after they passed a small blonde girl, a tiny voice demanded white hair too.
Tris grinned.
Kevin raised an eyebrow at the sixth cubby they passed. Sandwiched between a pair of bulkheads, a slightly larger than usual area had flags over every visible square inch of wall, including the metal cabinets positioned at the end of the bulkheads. Most were the Stars and Stripes, though a huge black POW-MIA banner occupied the center of this ‘shrine,’ and a number of smaller flags bore logos from an old military unit. A grey-bearded man with a blue bandanna over his head crouched over a small workbench, engrossed in the task of hand-loading 5.56 ammunition.
“Here.” Kendall gestured at an empty cubby two spaces past the old man. Two sets of bunk beds sat between olive-drab cabinets, both of which hung open to reveal nothing inside. “I’ll have someone send over some blankets. Feel free to spend the night or two if ya need.” He pointed further down the tunnel. “‘Bout a hundred yards further down’s the mess. Tell Paula you’re a guest and she’ll set you up with some chow.”
“Thanks,” said Kevin. “I’m supposed to pick up a payment for the supplies.”
Kendall glanced back the way they’d come with an uncertain expression. “Uhh, that’d be something you take up with Sarge. More than likely, once Doc approves what ya brought, it’ll get cleared through Sarge. Might take a couple hours or so.”
Kevin sat on the left bunk, draped his arms over his knees, and nodded. “Thanks.”
“Welcome.” Kendall started to walk off, but stopped. “Anyone ya see inside carryin’ an M4 is part of the security patrol. If y’all need anything, just let ‘em know.”
Tris sat next to Kevin
as their escort wandered off. Echoes of conversations and snippets of voices bounced off the dingy white tiles on the facing wall. The weak breeze imparted by distant fans teased at a scorched US flag hung on thin copper wire. Giggling children occasionally broke the monotony. Within a few minutes of them sitting idle, several tiny faces peered around the wardrobe cabinet.
Kevin reclined and laced his fingers behind his head, leaving his boots on the ground. Some of the kids approached, asking Tris about her hair. She entertained them with stories for a little while as he drifted in and out of consciousness, grumbling at the jostling of small bodies climbing over the bed. At the feeling of weight settling into the mattress to the left of his head, he opened his eyes. A scrawny boy, perhaps five, with light brown skin and black hair, knelt half a foot away with a wide-eyed expression. A plain white tee shirt fit him like a shift dress. Six handwritten names descended in a column over the left breast. Five had cross-outs, leaving ‘Tommy’ at the end.
“What?” asked Kevin.
Tommy waved. “Hi.”
“Hi.” Kevin returned the wave and closed his eyes again.
Tris rambled on through a story about a bunch of kids who went into a hole in the wall of a train station to study magic so they could survive a trip to bring a cursed ring to a plasma forge in the middle of a giant space station and defeat the evil Lord Vader. Kevin faded in and out, the story jumping from some haunted forest to the kids flying in a space dogfight.
Tommy waved. “Hi.”
Kevin furrowed his eyebrows. His audience of one hadn’t moved. “What?”
“Can I see your car?” Tommy smiled.
“Maybe tomorrow.” Kevin glanced at the boy. He thought about relocating the kid so he could lie fully on the mattress, but resigned himself to not moving.
“Okay,” said Tommy.
Tris, well into the story of a climactic battle in which the bad guy’s laser sword kept swatting the heroes’ magic spells aside, had the rest of the kids’ attention in her hands. Tommy seemed more fascinated by staring at Kevin. He tried to ignore the boy and shut his eyes again. The next thing he knew, Tris nudged him awake. The other children had gone, though Tommy remained.
One More Run (Roadhouse Chronicles Book 1) Page 23
