The Roadhouse Chronicles Box Set [Books 1-3]

by Cox, Matthew S.

  “Little while longer, Boss. Water’s still cooking.” He gestured at two metal buckets on electric burners.

  “’Kay.”

  She backed out and headed for the smaller outbuilding behind the main roadhouse Kevin had set up as a garage. The Challenger lived there most of the time, though sometimes when a ‘gambler’ had an issue, he’d move it to work on someone else’s ride. Tris smiled at the indignation in his voice when he called a driver who couldn’t fix their own car a gambler. As if the very concept of a driver not bothering to learn how to fix their ride had insulted him, or he considered it the pinnacle of idiocy.

  After snagging a small canister of ethanol, a glow plug tester, and a glow plug, she headed back out to the body. A gentle night breeze passed over her bare skin; the ethanol sloshed in time with her steps. Cold dirt and the occasional sharp rock underfoot kept her hustling. Once she made it to the highway, Tris poured fuel around the corpse, eyeing the road in both directions. Please don’t let anyone drive by and catch me out here naked. Satisfied the body had a liberal soaking of fuel, she poured a short trail off to a safe distance. After socketing the glow plug in the tester, she held it to the liquid and pushed the button. The trail erupted in blue flame, which raced back along the length of the trickle. In seconds, a bonfire raged on the highway.

  Tris held the katana in the flames for a little while, perhaps longer than necessary to ensure any latent virus particles died. Despite the horribleness of a burning corpse, she stood close to the fire to ward off the chill of the night out in the vast open nothingness. Glancing at a sliver of reflection in the blade, she swallowed the dread that immunity might be another Enclave lie. She tilted the sword, moving the reflection down off her face to her blood-smeared chest. Something in the back of her mind welled up out of nowhere, bringing the assurance she had nothing to fear.

  She leaned the point of the sword in the dirt and eyed the stars. Where’d that come from? Ugh why am I just standing here? Anyone looking at me would think I’m doing some kind of tribal ritual. Leaving the man to burn, she jogged back to the safety of the roadhouse. Kevin had passed out at a table with his head down. The want to cling to him battled with the worry the sticky residue all over her could kill him. She grumbled and sighed at the huge puddle of blood. Killing Infected was a pain in the ass when you had to clean up after it.

  “Damn.” She sighed at herself, certain her cheeks had as much color as they could possibly get. Maybe everyone mistook her for an android because of her unusual skin tone? At least, unusual for out here. Most people in the Enclave had skin as white as copier paper. “Fuck it. I’d have to burn anything I wear.”

  The storeroom upstairs contained a bundle of old curtains, likely removed during renovations not long before war broke out. The material flaked when she moved it, but offered the best (and most disposable) option to sop up the mess with.

  An hour or so later, she dropped an armload of bloody cloth on top of the man’s ashes, added more ethanol, and lit another fire. Sang carried the buckets out and poured one after the other over her while she stood on the road, wiping herself down with her empty hands. Despite the heat in the water, within a minute, her teeth chattered from the nighttime wind. He’d been thoughtful enough to bring a blanket, which she eagerly wrapped herself in.

  Back inside, she dribbled ethanol around the tile floor where the blood stained it, and lit it with the glow plug. A few of the tiles cracked from the heat, but at least she felt confident the virus was gone. With that done, she jostled Kevin to his feet, and carried him back to bed.

  4

  Spoils

  Kevin shot upright, fast enough to fling Tris aside. He stared at the pile of old cubicle wall panels stacked a few feet beyond the end of the bed. The vision of Infected Tris from his nightmare faded away. He drew his legs up and rested his forehead on his knees. A soft, warm hand slid across his back.

  She leaned against his side. “Hey… you okay?”

  He nodded, despite breathing hard. “Yeah. Freaky dream.” The scent of eggs and sausage got him to look up. “Last night… that really happened?”

  “It did. I cleaned it up. Burned it out. It’s gone.”

  “How…” He slid his legs off the mattress, feet on the floor, and rested his elbows on his knees. “What the fuck is an Infected doing here? We’re out in the middle of nowhere. They’re not supposed to be this far away from population centers.”

  Tris shivered and drew the blanket tighter around herself. “Remind me not to go out into the desert at night while naked and wet again. I’m still freezing.”

  “Mmm.” He raked his fingers up through his hair.

  “There’s a van off in the scrub a little ways north of the road. Door was still open. He either had a ride or was still driving when the Virus destroyed his mental faculties.”

  “I had a gun in his mouth.” Kevin’s head snapped up. Fuck. Where’s my Dad’s .45? “Where―”

  She pointed at the desk by the door. “I got it. It’s okay.” She embraced him from behind and kissed his cheek.

  Relief came over him. He guided her by a finger on the jaw into another, longer kiss. “One minute, he seemed to know what a gun was, the next he didn’t.”

  “He couldn’t have been sick too long then.” She got out of bed, stretched, and reached for her jeans. “That’s actually a good thing. Most of the viral mass would’ve been in the CNS instead of the bloodstream. The first eight hours after the loss of higher brain function sees the lowest contagiousness in the blood…”

  “So he wasn’t dangerous?” He palmed her ass, giving it a squeeze before she covered it.

  “Oh, he was… just not as dangerous. Probably would’ve required getting five or six drops on your tongue instead of one.”

  He froze with terror.

  “Shit, I’m sorry.” She buttoned her jeans and stooped over to hug him. “I shouldn’t have said that. You’re phobic.”

  “Anyone with any common sense is phobic.” He forced himself to stand and get dressed. “Whatever Sang’s doing down there smells amazing.”

  “Yeah.” She wriggled in to a blue flannel shirt.

  “Thanks.” He pulled her in to another squeeze. “For saving my ass yet again.”

  She grinned. “Your shot woke me up.”

  “Shit. Window.” He stepped into his boots, and grumbled all the way down to the main room. Nobody made windows anymore. He’d have to scavenge one from some other rest stop, leave a gaping hole, or do something. Tarp it is…

  Athena perched at a table by an empty plate, a permanent scowl of impatience directed at the counter. As soon as their eyes met, she smiled. He gave her a ‘need a few minutes’ wave, and leaned his head through the hole to the kitchen.

  “Morning.”

  Sang waved without looking back. “You hungry, Boss?”

  “Yep. That wonderful smell dragged my lazy ass out of bed.”

  “Food order got here. Everything look good,” said Sang.

  Athena approached the counter and leaned on her folded arms. “Okay, so I got your groceries. Can I have a real job now, Dad?”

  Kevin chuckled. “Okay, but I’m going to ask you to run back to Carver’s on the way. I forgot to order flour.”

  She sighed.

  He waved her off. “Real job on the way.” Sixteen pages deep in the marble notebook, he poked his finger into a half-filled out line. “You know where Ween lives?”

  “Oh for…” She grumbled. “That crazy old bastard on Heron Lake? That’s fuckin’ New Mexico.”

  “You said you wanted a real job, right? One out of three real jobs is going to send you to Ween. Better get used to him.”

  Athena tapped her fingers on the counter.

  “Well, I understand if you can’t handle the run. That little car of yours doesn’t have much room to sleep in. Drivin’ between ’houses will add a day to the trip.”

  “I can handle it,” yelled Athena. “Fine. What is it?”

  �
�Standard Ween run. You’ll need to go to Spring Creek Nevada, which isn’t too far offa Route 80 west of here. You’ll be meeting a guy name ‘o Geers… Daniel, I think. Anyway, he’ll give you ’leven hundred coins. Go to Ween, pick up his order of bullets. Give Ween 900 coins. Drive the ammo back to Spring Creek, then come here. Twenty coins come back to me, hundred n’ eighty are yours.”

  Athena’s ice blue eyes shifted left and right. Annoyance, disappointment, anger flitted by in sequence. “That’s a lot of damn running around. Don’t you have any bounties or stuff sitting in the back for delivery?”

  “I thought you wanted a ‘real’ job?” Kevin grinned. “What exactly did you think you were getting into anyway? All this life is, is driving O.P.S. around. Marauders can almost smell a load of ammo, or a sack of a thousand coins. Bet you’ll get your wish on that one.” He gestured at the hallway to the right of the counter. “I got a Kevlar-panel jacket in your size.”

  “Gimme a job moving Opie S then.” She folded her arms.

  “Heh.” He grinned. “I’m trying to. It means Other People’s Stuff. So, deal?”

  “I don’t need armor. It’ll just slow me down.” She put her hands on her hips. “Okay fine. I’ll take the run. What did you want from Carver’s?”

  “Flour. Twenty pounds if he’s got it. Whatever he’s got otherwise.”

  “Okay. Whatever. What’s it pay?”

  Kevin gave her a long stare. “That jacket. If you’ll wear it.”

  Athena’s mouth hung open. “God dammit! I already have a father. I don’t need another one.”

  Fitch and Neeley, seated at a table near the room they’d slept in, both laughed. Neeley leaned back a little farther to stare at her ass.

  “Well…” Kevin smiled. “Okay, so I might feel a little guilty if you got yourself killed doing a job I gave you.” He pointed at her. “Before you scream at me that you’re not a child… that ‘untouchable’ thing of yours says you are.”

  Tris glided in from the back with two plates. She set them on the counter and sat on the metal folding chair next to Kevin.

  “Yeah, yeah. I know. You took six slugs before you ‘wised up.’” She rolled her eyes. “How much would you sell that jacket for?”

  “Forty…”

  She fidgeted. “So you’re willing to pay me forty coins to pick up some damn flour?”

  “Only if you keep and wear it.” He winked. “It won’t make people think you’re a coward. Might even trick them into believing you’re competent.”

  Athena gave him the finger while shaking her head along with an eye roll. “Fine. Whatever. You gonna pack me a lunch too, Dad?”

  “Two coins.” He winked.

  Tris turned away; she shuddered as if laughing in silence.

  “Asshole,” muttered Athena.

  Kevin grinned.

  Far enough away that the roadhouse shrank to the size of a matchbox, Kevin found a dusty grey van wedged into the ruins of an old post fence. Judging by the lack of damage to the bumper, he figured the thing had been barely rolling forward when it hit. The tires, fortunately e-motors, had dug themselves in a few inches. He guessed the Infected hadn’t quite lost all of his mind at that point, and got confused at why the van stopped going forward. After accelerating didn’t work, he’d abandoned it and gone wandering… likely attracted to the lights across the road.

  Above the passenger side front corner, a boxy .50 caliber machinegun sat on an armored ring with a gearbox on either side, hinting at a powered swivel mount with some manner of targeting optics.

  Careful not to touch anything, he peered in the open driver door. The seat had no sign of blood or body fluids, and Tris had spent some forty odd minutes after Athena left reassuring him that the Virus was not transmissible via air. Not even sweat could do it.

  “Saliva or blood,” he muttered.

  Upon noting the van’s console lit up, he climbed in. An eight-inch screen in the center of the dash painted the interior light blue. Over the passenger seat dangled a military flight helmet. Bolts in the roof gave away the position of the gun, and a drum full of ammo hung from above a little behind the passenger’s headrest. Half the windshield and the entire passenger-side door window had armored plates instead of glass. A single joystick sprouted from the armrest with a trigger-style button. The interior of the helmet glowed soft green. Unable to contain his curiosity, Kevin slipped into the seat and pulled the helmet on.

  Rather than a visor, it had prewar 3D gaming goggles rigged to the optics on the turret. After flicking an ‘arm’ switch above the glovebox, the turret moved wherever he turned his head.

  “Whoa.” He hesitated at trying the trigger, not wanting to waste .50 ammo if the thing wound up working. “Bad idea not to test a weapon… Oh, fuck it. Not like I’m about to ride off to war. Who was this guy that he had this kind of hardware…?” Okay, for a van I can sell for like six grand, I’ll deal with an Infected waking me up in the middle of the night. He pointed at the clouds. “That’s not a request for round two.”

  As soon as he flicked the arming switch to the off position, the turret centered itself and drooped. He let the helmet bob back up on its wires and shifted to the driver’s chair. On the center display panel, white lines traced out a GPS navigation map―of Kentucky―along with a notification of ‘failed to acquire satellite.’

  “Yeah, no shit.”

  Six white buttons lined the black frame on either side of the screen, and it took him only ten seconds to get into the vehicle diagnostics and control system. The charge meter showed a mere eighteen percent, likely from it having been on all night. After resetting the security code to 2957, he pulled the door closed, backed away from the fence, and drove due south toward home.

  The noise coming from the back end as the van bounced over the desert gave him daydreams of a trunk full of coins. After parking in the leftmost space, he leapt out of the seat and headed for the back to investigate the wonderful jingling he’d heard. A single olive-drab footlocker sat against the left wall, tied to padded rails with a few turns of clothesline cord.

  Though the box bore a hasp for a padlock, it hadn’t been secured. His greedy anticipation collapsed to icy disappointment when he lifted the lid and found spent brass instead of coins. He drummed his fingers on the thin wood.

  “Hmm. Ween might want this… gotta be a couple thousand in here.” A few sweeps of his fingers revealed a mix of 9mm, .45, .44, and some 5.56 brass. He frowned and let the lid slap down. “Shit. This might be an active run.” As deflating as it was to lose salvage rights to a roadhouse ‘job-in-progress,’ the Code didn’t compromise.

  He returned to the driver’s seat. After a search of cup holders, center console storage compartment, sun visor flaps, and glove box failed to turn up any notes or maps about a job, he shifted his attention to the display screen. A few button presses paged through the computer to the system logs. The last time the van had been hooked up to a charging station bore a timestamp with latitude/longitude coordinates that lined up with Interstate 80 close to Hastings Nebraska, likely a roadhouse.

  Kevin tapped the screen. “Hmm. So this guy probably picked up the brass there… but was he sick when he left?”

  According to the computer, the van had been there three days ago. Kevin rummaged more, finding some old soda bottles, useless paper trash, a couple DVDs, but nothing of any real value beyond the footlocker full of brass. Likely Tris had already gathered anything salable. No paper maps lurked anywhere he could find.

  “The guy’s either got a damn good memory or he’s an idiot.” He grumbled, got out, and walked around the van three times before he found the charging plug behind a folding front license plate. “You’re lucky she burned your ass. I’d shoot you again for hiding the damn thing.”

  He unwound the cable and plugged in. Infected or not, he now had two extra vehicles. Bull’s Tahoe had no mounted weapons, but it was red. Some idiot would pay extra for that. The van, more to the point the ‘neato factor’ of the
turret, was definitely worth keeping. Of course, keeping it would require driving it. The nine-year-old in him wanted to light something up with the optically aimed turret, but his adult brain reminded him that targets tended to fire back.

  Nah. I’m done gettin’ shot at.

  Kevin shoved the door closed, keyed in the security code using rubber buttons under the handle, and strolled inside with a big grin on his face. Tris stood at the counter, fanning a metal tray full of recently-boiled mason jar glasses. Her face, half her chest, and her shoulders had been blackened as though a smoke bomb went off three inches in front of her nose. He paused, eyebrow raised.

  She glanced up at him; a smile broke the black across her cheeks. “Hey.”

  “What…” He crossed the room to the counter and slipped through the gap on the left. “Happened?”

  “Well pump was faltering.”

  “And…”

  She brushed some char from her shirt. “And, we need a new one.”

  “Blew up?”

  “No, I decided to go crazy with black eye shadow… all over my face.”

  “What the hell is eye shadow?” He grabbed two glasses out of the basin, indifferent to their heat, and set them on an overhead shelf. “Oh, did you notice if that guy last night got bit?”

  “Cosmetics… and sorry. I didn’t really bother strip-searching him. Was kinda in a hurry.”

  Kevin set another pair of glasses overhead. “Yeah. Van got a full charge about three days ago, east of here. Got a feeling that guy lost his shit at our doorstep. Hit a fence post and kept trying to drive.”

  Tris picked up a glass, but hot-potatoed it between her hands. “Damn how can you touch these?”