The Roadhouse Chronicles Box Set [Books 1-3]

by Cox, Matthew S.

  Laughter, deep and raspy, burst forth from the table nearest the counter. Fitch, perhaps one of the most regular of regulars, thumped himself in the chest to dislodge whatever bit of food his sudden mirth got stuck in his throat. A sheen of sweat beaded across his dark brown forehead. His partner, Neeley, a skinny, wiry blond about Athena’s age, leaned over the table with a yellow grin. The man looked he’d been on the wrong end of lung cancer for a few years, but maybe he merely lost the genetic lottery. Most of the joke they shared eluded Kevin, though it had something to do with the younger man being hot in a dingy tank top and fatigue pants while Fitch kept his heavy black leather coat on.

  Kevin smiled. Armor. He knows how it is.

  Kaz stood with a grunt and carried his empty plate up to the counter. “Damn sight better ’n last time. That little woman of yours finally teach ya how ta cook?”

  “Heh. I wouldn’t let her hear you say that.” Kevin winked. “Besides, she can’t cook either. Been a couple weeks for you, right? Got a new employee.”

  “No shit.” Kaz leaned an elbow on the counter. “She cute?”

  Kevin laughed. “I’m not sure my cook’s interested in sex for coins, but I can ask.” He glanced over his shoulder at the hole in the tile-covered wall connecting the kitchen to the main room. “Hey Sang?”

  A grey-haired man with pronounced wrinkles and a mild stoop leaned out of a cloud of steam. “Yeah?”

  Kaz coughed and stood upright.

  “He says your food’s good. Wants another portion of chips.” Kevin grinned at the dirty look he got from Kaz, but he wasn’t missing a chance for a ‘hard sell’ on an extra order of fries.

  “You got an old man cookin’?’” asked Kaz in a voice a notch above a whisper.

  “Sure why not. He’s good at it.” Kevin shrugged.

  “Man, you need to get a workin’ girl or two in here.” Kaz glanced around. “Used ta be this place in Glimmer―”

  “Yeah.” Kevin smirked. “I heard about that. Word I got is Petersen didn’t much care for slavery.”

  Kaz cringed. “Aw, shit. Serious? Thought they was just into kink.”

  Kevin propped himself up on the counter, arms wide. “Nah. Those women from Cloud9 didn’t wanna be there. Them chains weren’t dec’rative.”

  “Shit.” Kaz shook his head at the floor, exhaling hard. “The world can be a fucked up place. Any idea how that went down?”

  “A bit.” Kevin chuckled. “Bad things happen when stupid people run their mouths to the wrong little woman. So… Lookin’ for work?”

  “You know it.” Kaz grinned. “Pocket gettin’ thin.”

  “Well.” Kevin flipped open his notebook and leafed to a page of current parcels. “Since you’re lookin’ to scratch that itch… Glimmertown’s still got plenty of prostitutes; like fleas on a dog. I got a box of rec drugs headed out that way. Your cut’s 100 coins. Job’s prepaid, so you’ll need to come back here to cash out. Course, lose it and you’re on the hook for 1250.”

  “What kinda shit?” Kaz huddled closer, lowering his voice again. “Tell me there ain’t no salt in that box.”

  “Nope. Some Psilo, Lucy, and a whole bunch of weed.”

  “Awright.” Kaz stood straight as the old Korean reappeared in the window and set down a hubcap full of round-sliced French fries dusted in orange and black powder. “I’ll do it.”

  Kevin smiled at Sang and moved the hubcap plate to the counter in front of Kaz. “Two.”

  Kaz begrudgingly handed over a pair of dimes and picked up the plate. “Your ass is lucky them shits is good. I’ll take the run. Haven’t been to Glimmer in a while. Any rush on it?”

  “Only rush is wanting to get valuable cargo out of your car as fast as possible.” Kevin laughed.

  “Right.” Kaz raised the plate as if in toast before returning to his table. “Gimme ten minutes.”

  Fitch sidled up to the counter a little to Kevin’s right as soon as Kaz cleared. He had a bit more salt in his salt-and-pepper afro than last time, though smile wrinkles around his eyes inferred a good mood. “Kev.”

  “Fitch.” Kevin raised his hand and they clasped forearms. “How’d it go up in Spearfish?”

  Neeley propped himself against the counter at Kevin’s left. His Adam’s apple and nose got into a fight to see which one protruded more. “Ran into some Night Riders near the spur offa Route 16.”

  Kevin cringed, thinking of giant black SUVs laughing off his bullets. “Shit.”

  “Wasn’t as bad as it sounds,” said Fitch. “No up-armored trucks this time… bunch of land-boat cars. Nothing the .50 couldn’t handle. They weren’t ’spectin’ no pickup truck to move like my Banshee.”

  Neeley chuckled.

  “Six active wheels.” Kevin bit his lip. “Not sure I’d gamble on that much power consumption. Might strand yourself out there. I’m curious how you did that.”

  “Hah.” Fitch flashed a blinding white smile. Grey-black beard stubble shimmered on his cheeks. Teeth that clean on a man half way to forty seemed somehow wrong. “Ain’t nobody but me gettin’ within ten feet of the Banshee’s innards.”

  Neeley pouted.

  “Well, or Neeley.” Fitch laughed. “I will tell you the rear two ain’t ’lectric. Got a separate drive train with an ethanol-eater for when we need to haul ass.”

  Kevin worked out some rough design schematics in his head. “The dead weight worth it when you’re not using it?”

  Neeley and Fitch exchanged a glance.

  “Considerin’ we here now?” Fitch clucked his tongue. “I’d say yes. Them Riders don’t take slaves.”

  “Well, if you ditch and run, they supposedly don’t bother with you, less you shot at them.” Kevin shrugged.

  “A chance I am not wont to take.” Fitch raised a finger. “Besides. Ain’t nobody layin’ their grubby mitts on the Banshee long as I’m ’live.”

  “Got anything good?” asked Neeley.

  Kevin perused his list of pending runs. “Got one almost made for you guys. Shipment headed to a settlement in Deer Lodge, up on I-90… used ta be Idaho? Two-thousand rounds of 9mm.”

  Fitch let out a long whistle.

  “Jesus crapping Christ,” said Neeley.

  “It’s involved, but the pay’s good.” Kevin pointed at the page. “Need to head to Ween’s place and pick it up. People at Deer Lodge’ll give you four grand in coins. Three K of that goes back to Ween. Sixty to the ’house, and 940 is your cut.”

  “And if something takes a shit, we’re into you for the lot.” Fitch rubbed a hand over his face, accompanied by the hiss of beard stubble scraping callous.

  “Been sitting on this one for you guys.” Kevin smiled. “Banshee’s got the best odds of pullin’ it off. It’s an open run, but I won’t call it in to the network so no one’s aware of it. Course, that also means you gotta get to Ween’s fast before someone else does.”

  Neeley frowned.

  Kevin raised his hands as if in surrender. “Hey, I could call it in, but then word’ll get out two thousand bullets got wheels. If you want that heat, say the word.”

  “Naw.” Fitch gestured at a row of bottles behind Kevin. “Gimme a finger of somethin’ smooth and we’ll head on out. Ween still in the same place?”

  Kevin whirled about, grabbed a bottle of random brown liquor, and poured a little in a tumbler glass. “Four.”

  Fitch dropped three pennies and a quarter, and shot the drink back in one gulp. Judging from the wince and eye-twitch, it didn’t hit him as smooth as he’d hoped. Kevin held up the bottle, but Fitch waved him off. “Naw. God damn man, what is that shit?”

  Kevin shrugged. “No idea. No label.” He sniffed it. “Could be Scotch. Could be sour mash.”

  “Could be engine de-greaser.” Fitch coughed. “Awright. We’re on.”

  Athena draped herself over the counter as the two men headed for the door out. “Hey there, Kev-O.” She winked. “Got anything worth my time?”

  He leaned on his knuckles and
shifted his weight to one leg. “Could use someone ta run a bit west, head down 789 to the Carver place. Almost out of sausage… and whatever other meat they’ve got what looks decent.”

  “Food?” Athena rolled her sapphire eyes. “Seriously? You’re sending me for food? I’m not a kid.”

  He let his gaze roam up and down her body. She had an inch or two of height on Tris, and a curvier, more athletic shape, not to mention bigger breasts… but something about her face made her look ‘too young.’ Perhaps her wide-eyed eagerness. Perhaps that sense of ‘immortality’ that plagues the brain of someone not yet into their twenties. White, long-sleeved shirt, mostly open over a bra, white-grey camo fatigue pants, and sneakers… no armor. “I know a guy who can hook you up with some protection.” He gestured at her chest. “Not a lot ’tween you and bullets.”

  “Gee, thanks, Dad.” Athena sighed. “Armor’s only gonna slow me down. I like being able to move. Besides, I’m too fast for any of those old men.”

  Kevin chuckled, eyeing the little white Honda outside up on fat mudder tires and a fourteen-inch body lift. “That thing is gonna roll over like Wayne’s mother the minute you take a turn goin’ faster than fifteen. You’ll turtle it belly up and get ripped to pieces.” Most marauders wouldn’t kill her. Hmm. With Glimmertown out of the slave trade, wonder where they’d sell her?

  “Stop looking at me like I’m twelve.” Athena folded her arms. “You don’t have to protect me. I’m a fuckin’ driver, Kev-O. I can handle myself. You got somethin’ better than god damned grocery shopping?”

  “I can put you in to run 400 phials of Void Salt to Glimmertown.”

  The room went dead silent in an instant.

  “Now you’re talkin’.” Athena slapped the counter.

  “Now I’m being a smartass.” Kevin laughed, then leaned up on tiptoe to raise his voice to the room. “Ain’t no Salt anywhere within fifty miles of this place. Repeat: that was a joke.”

  A din returned over the course of a minute, though two of the ‘travelers’ shot him long, worried stares.

  Athena crossed her arms. “What’s your problem with me anyway? You think women are weak or something?”

  Kevin glanced up at a soft thump in the ceiling. “Maybe I did when I was your age, but my eyes have been opened.” He sighed at her and lowered his voice. “It ain’t you bein’ a girl. You come off like some hotheaded kid that’s gonna get herself hurt. I ain’t gonna send you into no shitstorm ’til you’re at least not goin’ to be stupid about it.” He pulled his shirt aside to show off a few bullet scars. “Took me a few years and a few close calls not to be ‘too good’ to need armor.”

  “Yeah, yeah… You’re just an old man now.” Athena’s tone came off halfway between serious and playful. “I’ll think about your food run. What’s the payout?”

  “Twenty.”

  She threw a wave at him. “That’s not even worth moving my car.”

  “Call it a test to see if you can finish something.” Damn, now I sound like Wayne too. “Promise you a little more exciting of a run if you can handle a few cucumbers.”

  She glared.

  “Oi, can I watch?” yelled Neeley.

  Kevin pinched the bridge of his nose. “You know what I mean. Vegetables. And get some damn armor.”

  Athena tapped her foot, pursed her lips, and cocked her jaw to the side. “So you’ll give me a run worth my time if I fetch your groceries?”

  “I’ll toss you a job with a little more risk, yeah. What sort of gear you got on that little wind up car?”

  She scowled. “One M2 Browning where the passenger seat should be, fixed forward. Usually, I make the pirates shoot each other by driving circles around them. Don’t need to be drowning in weapons when you know how to drive.”

  “Is that so?” He smirked before leaning up on his toes to appraise the little Honda again. “Well, I suppose you’re high enough off the ground that mounted guns’ll go under the cabin. ’Course that thing’s a rollover waiting to happen.”

  “You said that already. I’ve got a roll cage.”

  He chuckled. Damn she sounds like I did ten years ago. Kevin grabbed a handful of coins from the lockbox under the counter and dropped fifty in a cloth pouch. “Mr. Carver’s got my order ready. Pick up whatever other meat he’s got with the change.”

  Athena took the pouch with a frown. “You know this is beneath me.”

  “Perhaps. But you’re here. I need this done, and your car is fast.”

  She took two steps backward, pointing at him with the hand holding the pouch. “Okay, fine… but you’re gonna give me a real job when I get back.”

  He nodded. “Yep.” Dammit Tris. You’re rubbing off on me.

  Worry settled in the pit of Tris’ gut; whenever she lifted her head out of the electronics cabinet and looked to the west, she half-expected to see a flotilla of Enclave hovercraft leading a giant plume of dust. She sat back on her boot heels and dabbed sweat away from her eyes with her forearm. Kneeling among the solar panels on the roof, she wondered how much longer it would be before Nathan found a way to ignore the Council of Four. She glanced at a wet spot on the sleeve of her sky blue jumpsuit, and past it to her dirt-smeared hands.

  A faint sizzle of electricity emanated from the components. The occasional whiff of ozone floated by in the dry air. Dense clusters of sagebrush littered the brown to the east of the roadhouse, but to the left, flat nothingness. She gathered her hair out of her eyes and turned south, gazing at the distant hint of mountains. Perhaps desolation could shield her from the Enclave… or at least Nathan’s petulant wrath. It’s not as if she had anything of value. Anyone Nathan had told his plan to probably shared a great laugh about her having The Cure in her headware. Not the actual cure to the virus responsible for the Infected, but music he’d put in as a cruel joke―and awful pun. She growled. Shooting Neon in the head to free those enslaved women had been a spur of the moment thing she felt neither guilt nor joy over. She daydreamed about killing Nathan slow, then bit her lower lip. Even an asshole like him… she was not that person.

  Tris clapped dust from her hands and reached into the space beneath solar panel 5C: fifth unit in from the right side along the third row back from the front. Ten thousand of Kevin’s hard-earned coins had won him forty solar panels and the right to call this place a Roadhouse. Also, it prevented the military force in Amarillo from putting a bounty on his head for ‘copyright infringement.’

  A third of the array had gone down between last night and this morning. They woke up to find a swath of the status panel in the office lit up red. The panels were wired in series, so a broken connection in 5C killed everything forward and right of it, knocking out an entire corner of the grid. Kevin commented about ‘Christmas Lights,’ but whatever that meant escaped her. Corrosion crumbled away from the contact point under her fingertips. Everything inside the relay box looked forty years old and covered in enough silt to prove it. If the panels hadn’t still had their factory plastic film when they arrived, she’d have thought them salvage.

  Tris double-checked the panel’s switch was off before taking a wire brush from her toolbox and attacking the primary contacts. Her entire body shook with the effort of sawing the brush back and forth. Green-brown crud flaked off and carried away on the wind.

  The front door clattered open and banged closed a few seconds later. Two men discussed a run up to Deer Lodge. Minutes later, a heavy car door creaked; she recognized Fitch and Neeley’s voices.

  “Aww damn,” she muttered.

  She hopped up and ran to the edge of the roof, trying to wave to them before they pulled out. Neeley, behind the wheel, caught sight of her and waved. Fitch nodded as dirt sprayed forward from four of their pickup truck’s six tires. They reversed around in a turn before taking off to the west. Tris watched for a moment, thinking that the ribbon of paving they followed had been meant for eastbound traffic. She found it hard to grasp how, before the war, driving the wrong way could prove fatal.

/>   Had there ever been so many cars that they couldn’t dodge each other?

  Tris loped back to the open panel on the south-facing side of solar panel 5C, her already worry-sick gut burdened by a sense of somber loss for the entirety of civilization. This place… this ‘Wyoming’ as Kevin had called it, looked as empty as though no one lived here even before the war. Miles in all directions of brown dotted with green, the occasional rickety structure, signpost, or long-abandoned truck visible in the distance.

  She grumbled and resumed scrubbing the contact point. A few minutes later, it shined, and she reattached the wires, which fastened with spring-loaded connectors. Push in, quarter turn clockwise, and they caught on little nubs.

  “Just an overdue cleaning,” she said to no one in particular.

  Tris flipped the orange plastic cutoff switch to the upright position. A few tiny LEDs winked on inside the cabinet. Dull metallic clonks came from the panels ahead and right of her. The third one in at the second row made a loud buzzing noise and belched black smoke before a loud bang went off inside it.

  “Shit.”

  She sprinted around the row to 3B, fanning at the inky cloud, and turned the panel off. Her throat filled with the flavor of burned silicon and rubber. After opening the cabinet, she waved the smoke away some more. The inky black cloud eventually thinned enough to reveal a molten connector. Fortunately, the wire itself was intact―merely the insulation around it had caught fire. This unit also had so much dirt and corrosion, it appeared to have been in service for decades. Since the wire remained too hot to touch, she took her time collecting her toolbox and repositioned herself in front of the smoking panel array.

  Curiosity got the better of her and she pulled apart the inner workings of 2B. It, too, had a buildup of gunk on the wires and a quarter-inch deep layer of dark grey dust inside.

  Tris sighed. “Dammit. He hooked these all up and didn’t think this much dirt was strange?”

  She puffed away some of the dust and tried to dispel a cloud that tasted much worse than burning insulation. After spitting a few times, she glared at it, searching for any clues to explain why solar panels still sealed in plastic had so much crap. Letters molded in the metal cabinet read: Manf: APR 08 2018 LOT 1852.