The Roadhouse Chronicles Box Set [Books 1-3]

by Cox, Matthew S.

  “Hello, friend. Welcome to the garage. I am Takeshi. Are you in need of a parking space, a charge, repairs, or modifications? I have an extensive selection of customization options available. Everything from paint to onboard weaponry. I’m particularly fond of large missiles.”

  Kevin let out a hmph noise. “Not like I can drive in. Charge too.”

  “Excellent. Storage fees are ten coins per day and―”

  “Ten? Are you nuts?”

  Takeshi paused with the same placid smile on his face. “And that includes the charge. You could park out there in the quad, however, ten coins is much cheaper than buying a new car.”

  Kevin glared.

  “You misunderstand me, friend.” Takeshi held his hands up in a gesture of innocence. “I would have nothing to do with any misfortune that befalls your vehicle. This place is full of thieves you see.”

  “Yeah, I see.” Kevin leaned on the counter. “And I’m looking at one of them.”

  The man’s saccharin smile showed no signs of denting. “If my services exceed your budget, you could always have your associate remain on guard duty.” Takeshi lowered his voice. “But, in this city, they’ll steal her too.”

  “Five, and even that’s about double a fair rate.”

  Takeshi brought his hands together in front of him. “Ah, friend. This is Glimmertown. Nothing about this place is fair.”

  Kevin pinched the bridge of his nose.

  “I will accept six per day, plus a trade of you or your associate posing.” Takeshi indicated his wall of ‘art.’

  “Ten is fine.” Kevin counted ten coins out of what he’d taken from the biker. A quick feel said he had at least a hundred or so left.

  Takeshi poked a finger at his monitor. “Door four.”

  A distant motor whirred to life, amid the clattering of a chain. Kevin pushed the coins over a scuffed laminated calendar for 2018.

  Takeshi bowed at him. “How long do you expect to stay?”

  “One night, if I can help it.”

  “Glimmertown has a way of getting under your skin.” Takeshi winked.

  Kevin shook his head and walked out. “That’s what I’m worried about.”

  By the time he got to the car, the fourth garage door had opened all the way, revealing an empty bay with a hydraulic lift. He grumbled again at the price and got in.

  “What’s wrong?” Tris put the Beretta away. “Your face is red.”

  He backed up, spinning the wheel under his palm as fast as he could wind it. “Son of a bitch is charging ten coins a night to park.”

  She trotted alongside. “That’s crazy. Maybe I could show a little skin and get a discount.”

  “Nah. I don’t think it’d matter.” He parked on the jack and killed the switches.

  The door motored down as soon as he stopped. Kevin grabbed ‘the box’ and got out, heading for a walkway separated from the garage bays by a painted red line. Bay three held an orange van with too-small tires and numerous gun ports for people inside to use handheld weapons. A silver sedan with white leather interior parked in the next space, not a scratch on it. Bay one had a pair of motorbikes refit with electric wheel motors.

  “I’m surprised he didn’t make them rent two spaces,” muttered Kevin.

  “I did,” said Takeshi from behind the wall. “They are each paying.”

  Kevin pushed the flapping red door open and headed for the way out. Tris hesitated. He glanced back and found her eyeing the ‘wall o’ nudes.’ She turned away from it, gaze down, a trace of a smile on her lips.

  He headed left out of the garage, following the ghost of a sidewalk around the perimeter. At the middle of the north edge, a person-sized gate offered entry to Glimmertown proper. Despite it being well after sundown, the city was bathed in light. Most came from the tower, though hundreds of neon signs hung in windows along the main drag, buzzing, flickering, and flashing.

  Glass tubes in the form of pink and orange breasts wagged in some, glowing green silhouettes of playing cards flashed in others. Many of the rest advertised prewar beers or sports teams, hung for the sake of having more neon. Kevin headed in a straight line, ignoring small clusters of prostitutes or hawkers trying to lure them into gambling houses. He stuck his hand in his left jacket pocket and cradled the lump of coins.

  Every so often amid the smell of rust and dirt, a lick of something edible drifted by. Tris lagged behind a few paces when they passed a weapon store, checking out the guns hanging on a pegboard behind a short, older man who appeared to have steel wool attached to his face.

  “Trust nothing here,” said Kevin. “As soon as you bring anything out of the store, the bastard who sold it to you ‘never saw you before.’”

  “Is everyone here out to cheat?” She took a few quick steps to catch up.

  “More or less.”

  He headed in the direction of the artificial sun overhead, arriving in Glimmertown’s central square about fifteen minutes after passing the gate. Atop what may once have been a fountain stood a drunken idiot’s rendition of the Eiffel tower, if it had been built with scrap metal, old cars, and no understanding of straight lines. Three of the storefronts around the square belonged to what might be called restaurants, if one felt generous. One had the look of a hotel, a couple looked like general stores, and a handful were casinos. The largest of those, a silver-and-white structure with more than its fair share of chrome trim, bore the name ‘Cloud 9’ in silver spray paint over a set of powder blue double doors with round, black windows.

  Four men wearing what passed for fancy suits in Glimmertown flanked the entrance, each with submachine guns.

  “That thing is gonna fall.” Tris shielded her eyes and peered up at the tower.

  Kevin shrugged. “Been there at least six years or so.”

  “Where’s that cable go?”

  He followed her stare to a wire as thick as his wrist, draped between the tower and the hotel. It paralleled the street heading north, in a series of swinging arcs mounted to rooftops and poles.

  “Solar farm, north of here.” Kevin crossed the courtyard, marching straight for Cloud 9. “This place has more power than it knows what to do with. Why else do they waste it on light?”

  “Some species of fish hunt by making light in the dark ocean.” Tris hovered close behind him. “They’re trying to lure people in.”

  A tan, stocky meathead to the left of the door raised a hand. “Hold up. You ain’t dressed nice enough.”

  Kevin suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. “I’m not here for fun. Got a delivery for Neon.”

  “That’s a dangerous load of bullshit to sling.” The man’s eyebrows furrowed.

  “Ain’t BS,” said Kevin. “Go ahead and ask him if he’s expecting a little box.”

  All four thugs looked at Tris.

  Kevin scowled. “Not her.”

  “Alright man. You wanna roll them dice, go on in.” A thin six-footer on the right with a massive cluster of butt-length dreadlocks smiled.

  Music, some manner of guitar-heavy rock from before the war, leaked from tinny speakers somewhere overhead. Most of the interior contained red-cushioned bench seats with more chrome trim around booth tables. A bar sat on the left, beyond which a small stage held a trio of women dancing in cages, wearing black lacy bras and almost-nonexistent thongs.

  Kevin shot a quick glance around the room, noting numerous couples seated at various tables. All were dressed in some sad attempt to recreate expensive high-society clothes from scavenged prewar garments. The women had low-cut necklines and shimmery gowns; a few had high heels. Mismatched logo tee shirts, flannel scraps, denim, and colored cloth stitched together into monstrosities as if someone had tried to recreate Old West Saloon dresses.

  Three men sat at the bar, in more austere attire, riding leathers, armor panels, and heavy boots. Tris squeezed his arm and directed his attention with a pointed glance at a young blonde woman struggling to clean a table. Her wrists were locked in cuffs linked to leg iron
s by a chain, preventing her from raising her hands higher than her waist. She had to climb into the bench seat to wipe a rag at a smear of sauce on the formica. A length of dingy white cloth tied around her waist and between her legs attempted to be clothing, helped along by another strip over her breasts.

  Another ‘waitress’ across the room sported leg irons in addition to a cheerleader miniskirt and white lace bra. Her dark hair hung wild, almost hiding a bruise on her light brown cheek. Kevin closed his eyes.

  Not my problem.

  “Are they slaves?” Tris snarled. “We have to―”

  “We should keep our heads down,” whispered Kevin. “Unless you want to wind up waiting tables here yourself. Don’t start any shit.”

  She shot him a wounded look. He put an arm around her and pulled her close enough to whisper in her ear. “Look, it’s not like I don’t want to. No one deserves that… but this is Glimmertown, and shit doesn’t work that way here. I can’t take out fifty guys.”

  Tris’s eyebrows moved together. “I only see five.”

  “Out in the open…” He got quiet as heavy footsteps thudded up behind them.

  “Yo,” said a deep voice. Meathead One pointed to the nearest table. “Have a seat while we check wit’ Neon.”

  The other patrons glanced at him as he walked over to the indicated table, staring down their noses at him. He basked in their derision. They have no damn idea how much coin I got. Kevin smiled at them, which seemed to further piss them off. These idiots probably thought two thousand coins was a fortune.

  A moment after they settled in, the blonde who had been wiping the other table shuffled over. Around her neck, a thin leather choker sported a round brass disc stamped with a number twelve. It didn’t seem sturdy enough to be a restraint, but in this town, the symbolism was enough.

  She raised her hands up to her navel, making the chain clink, and waved. “Hi. Welcome to Cloud 9. I’m Barbie. What can I get you?”

  “Barbie?” asked Tris. “Really?”

  The girl looked downcast. “My name is whatever Neon says it is. I’m his.”

  This one must be on someone’s shit list. She can barely move. Kevin made it a point not to look at her―or Tris. Two hundred fifty coins. In and out. No complications. Not my circus; not my monkeys.

  “How are you supposed to carry our food like that?” asked Tris.

  “I manage.” ‘Barbie’ puffed at a strand of hair in her face, twisting at her handcuffs as she spoke. “The dust hopper soup is fresh. We’ve also got yam fries, meatloaf, and chicken.”

  “Soup,” said Kevin. “Water too.”

  “Same.” Tris tried to stare holes in Kevin’s face.

  “Okay.” Barbie shuffled across the aisle to retrieve a bin of dirty dishes from the other table, and drifted off amid the clatter of leg irons that didn’t even allow her a normal walking stride.

  Tris tapped her fingernails on the worn faux-wood Formica table. “Bet those dancers are locked inside.”

  “We are not going to piss in Neon’s Wheaties. We’re here to deliver a package, get paid, and get out.”

  “What possible reason can you have for leaving them here?” Tris leaned close as she whispered.

  “Not wanting bullets in my ass and a chain around your neck too.” Kevin grabbed her hand. “I’m no crusader. All I want is a nice quiet life selling food and booze to other idiots young enough to get shot at for a living. I did my time. I’m done with it.”

  “All that’s necessary for evil to win…” Tris folded her arms. “You’re not old.”

  Kevin chuckled. “I’m twenty seven. For a driver, that’s a damn old man. If you live to see nineteen, you’ll understand.”

  She frowned. “Too late. I’m twenty.”

  A dark skinned woman with shoulder length black hair and a delicate frame carried a tray full of drinks to another table. Her gauzy shirt, ankle-long skirt, and lack of restraints made Kevin gesture.

  “See? They’re not all slaves. That one’s even got shoes.”

  Tris frowned. “More likely she’s never tried to run away. She’s still got a price tag on her neck.”

  “Huh?”

  “You didn’t notice?” Tris tapped her throat. “They’ve all got a tag on with numbers. Probably how much it costs to fuck them. Barbie’s said twelve, and she’s not that young. It’s gotta be a price.”

  “Or maybe their auction ID.” Kevin clenched his hands into fists. “You’re trying to talk me into doing something stupid.”

  “You know it’s wrong. Transporting drugs is bad enough, but you can’t look away from what’s happening to these people.”

  “Let’s get paid first, then we’ll talk.”

  I’m an asshole… it’s what I do. Ain’t no money in it. Only thing I’ll get paid in is lead.

  She didn’t try tears, though a little red ringed her eyes. Sapphire irises darkened as she stared at him without another word until Barbie returned with a death grip on the edge of a round serving tray.

  The woman shoved it onto the table before gingerly grabbing one of the bowls of soup in both hands and climbing half in to the bench seat with Kevin in order to put it in front of him. Tris reached over and took her bowl.

  Barbie offered a weak smile.

  “It’s stupid to make you work like that.” Tris scowled. “You’d be more efficient if you could use your hands.”

  “It forces me to get close to customers so they can touch me and pay for…”

  “She got a hold of a weapon once.” Kevin didn’t look up. The barely-dressed figure in the periphery of his vision froze. A strip of thin cloth dangling at her knee level fluttered back and forth. He ate one spoonful of soup. “You did, didn’t you?”

  “Knife,” whispered Barbie. She grasped Tris’s drink and climbed onto her seat so she could reach to set it close. “Luisa tried to run away two months ago. You’re Enclave aren’t you?”

  “Not anymore,” muttered Tris. She watched the unchained woman cross the room with a tray of beer mugs. “Is that one going to be a problem?”

  Kevin kept his attention in his food.

  “Shailaja? No. She is not happy either.” Barbie chafed at her restraints. “Please get me out of here. I can’t take this anymore. They never let me out of these fucking things.”

  “Any coins in it?” asked Kevin.

  Barbie glared. Tris kicked him in the shin.

  “Hey, I had to ask.” He looked up at Barbie, catching a glint from the brass tag at the front of her thin leather collar. “Need to think on it.”

  Barbie hung her head, backed out of the seat, and started to shuffle away.

  “Hey,” said Kevin.

  “Yes?” The waitress glanced back over her shoulder.

  Kevin smiled. “Still got that rag?”

  19

  A Special Kind of Stupid

  Kevin scraped the last of the dust hopper soup out of the black bowl. It wasn’t bad, but it couldn’t hold a candle to Jean’s stew. Tris ate while continuing to stare at him. The three dancers gyrated in their cages, entertaining a group of men seated at round tables in front of the stage. Two men leaned on the wall to the right, submachine guns at their side. A knuckle-dragging mouthbreather with long, brown hair lurked in the shadows near the cages, though his weaponry appeared limited to a sledgehammer. Behind the bar, an older man, missing a left arm and wearing an eyepatch, seemed low on the threat scale. He’s probably got the biggest damn gun in the place.

  “Two on the right with MAC-10s,” said Kevin. “Paul Bunyan over by the cages has a sledgehammer. Might have a handgun concealed. Bartender’s gonna be a problem.”

  “How do you know his name?” Tris finally broke her stare to look around.

  “Books.” Kevin hung his head. “Ugh.”

  Tris raised an eyebrow. “Bartender’s old and he’s missing an arm. Don’t forget the four goons outside.”

  “Goons?” Kevin chuckled. “Normal people don’t use that word. Bartender’s dange
rous because he looks harmless. He’s probably got a roomsweeper under the bar.”

  “What the hell is that?”

  Kevin finished off his water. “Automatic shotgun.”

  The clatter of light chain dragging on the floor announced Barbie walking up behind him. She stopped at the edge of the table, resting her hands on it. “Was everything okay? Do you want anything else?”

  I’m an idiot. He managed to keep the annoyance off his face while gazing into Tris’s pleading eyes. So close to ten grand… I’m going to die within sight of my roadhouse.

  Kevin pulled the damp rag she’d been using to wipe tables out from under her fingers. He snuck the P226 off his belt and wrapped the gun in the cloth. Barbie nodded. He set it on the seat to his left, out of sight between him and the wall. “Nah, we’re good.”

  “Seven coins please,” said Barbie.

  He dropped the money into her upturned palm. The cuffs looked like standard pre-war police hardware, easy enough to pick when it wouldn’t get anyone shot to do so. “Thanks.”

  Barbie eyed the rag, and shuffled to the bar to hand over the payment.

  “Yo,” said a deep voice. Tall and Dreadlocked waved. “Neon’s ready for you.”

  The room got quiet.

  “This guy sounds like a happy ball of fun.” Kevin slid out of the seat and stood.

  Tris followed.

  The other three meatheads from the front shadowed them as they crossed the restaurant portion of Cloud 9. Dreadlock pushed past a pair of swinging double doors covered in red padded leather with little buttons in three rows. Dim light emanated from clamshell sconces made of frosted glass every few feet along both walls of the corridor beyond. They passed two smaller doors on the right, labelled ‘men’ and ‘women.’ Another set of double doors fifteen yards from the first offered the only other path.