The Roadhouse Chronicles Box Set [Books 1-3]

by Cox, Matthew S.

  Tris hurried over. Kevin followed. Each took one of Bee’s raised hands and lifted her upright. While Kevin held on to keep the android balanced, Tris opened up a panel of false skin on her back, releasing a thicker cloud of smoke.

  “The insulation burned off of the wire and the copper melted. I can fix it. Fortunately, it’s only a wire I need to replace.” Tris shut the panel and picked Bee up. “Might as well go in and make sure Sang is still okay.”

  “Yeah.” Kevin turned back to lock up the garage.

  With that done, he jogged to the main building. Three drivers sat around the tables working on food or drinks: a squat, fat man in road leathers, a waifish preteen boy with short red hair, and a longhaired man with dark skin and a blue Adidas shirt. Kevin took two steps to the counter where Fitch stood like a bartender, stopped, and looked at the boy, specifically at her miniscule, but evident breasts.

  Boys don’t have tits. That’s a tiny woman. He rubbed his eyes. Yep. Still a girl. Well, that certainly bothered him less than a twelve-year-old being out on his own. Still, she didn’t look much past sixteen. He chuckled to himself. Of the three cars out front, an armored teal compact, a lo-rider sedan with spikes everywhere one could conceivably put spikes, and an enormous white pickup truck with a plow covered in welded rotary-saw blades, he bet the huge truck belonged to the girl.

  The longhaired guy muttered to himself in what sounded like Hindi and used a match to light an incense stick. The pudgy driver made a show of coughing as soon as it started emitting smoke, though no one paid him any mind.

  “Hey.” Fitch nodded. “How’d it go?”

  Kevin crossed the room; the thunk-thunk-thunk of his boots attracted three pairs of eyes, though none gave him anything other than mild curiosity. He leaned against the wall behind the counter and bowed his head. “Wayne’s dead.”

  “Aww, fuck.” Fitch looked down. “Sorry man. That’s some bad, bad alchemy right there. Figured things got twisted when I saw yer lady bring Bee in. He wouldn’t ’ave sold her no how.”

  Kevin gripped the shelf on either side of his ass and nodded. “Yeah. Old weathered bastard liked that thing more than he let on.”

  Fitch’s expression edged toward horrified. “You ain’t sayin’ he…”

  “Hah!” Kevin found an honest laugh under the gloom. “No way. Bee ain’t even equipped for that.”

  “You back back, or you just stoppin’ for supplies before goin’ off on a hunting expedition?”

  Kevin smirked. “Why does everyone assume I’m going to run out the door, guns blazing?”

  “Because we know you.” Fitch winked. “Oh, that pretty little thing came back with your veggies. I settled up with her. Said she’s goin’ ta Ween’s now.” He pointed at the marble notebook. “Pretty sure I got the hang of loggin’ stuff the way you do.”

  “Cool. Hey, you ever hear of a biker outfit, The Redeemed?”

  “Only by way of stories. Heard they hit a convoy south of Los Gatos couple months back. Whole settlement’s worth of slaves bein’ brought down ta Nogales.”

  “You ain’t got the whole story, pops,” said the girl. Standing, she looked even more like a boy on the younger side of teenaged. The thigh pockets of her green camo fatigue pants jostled with the tinny clatter of assault rifle magazines as she approached the counter. “I was on that ride. Wasn’t no slave run.”

  “Oh?” Fitch raised a steel-wool eyebrow.

  She nodded at the shelves behind the counter. “Trade ya the info for a shot.”

  “How old are you, kid?” asked Fitch.

  Kevin raised a hand and winked at her. “S’okay. How old ya think he is.”

  Fitch studied the driver for a few seconds, scratching at his stubble. “Fourteen, bein’ generous.”

  Kevin smiled. “I think she’s probably seventeen.”

  Fitch blinked.

  The girl leaned back and attempted to thrust her breasts through her tank top. “Twenty-three actually.”

  “Them’s some nasty bee stings.” Fitch chuckled, but filled a shot glass with someone’s attempt at distilling scotch. “You got a name, kid?”

  “I… uhh…” Neeley grinned like an idiot and scratched the back of his head. “Be happy to rub some itch cream on those bug bites.”

  “Saoirse.” She downed the liquor without a trace of flinch, and frowned at the glass. “Please tell me that wasn’t in your septic tank an hour ago.” A second later, she thumped a hand on her chest and coughed.

  Fitch laughed.

  “Okay.” Saoirse set the shot glass down with a clunk. “So we’re runnin’ this semi full of idiots who tried to set up a settlement in the outskirts o’ Juarez, southeast side. Guess they got tired o’ getting stuck ’tween Mex-Ar and ’Fected and wanted out. Was a merc contract outta Roswell. I head down there with a bunch of other drivers, heavy on guns and short on cargo space. Escortin’ this big rig. Fine for a couple days, then these bikes come outta nowhere. Them Redeemed bastards got told we was transporting slaves, but ’twas the damn settlers themselves what hired us.”

  Kevin tilted his head.

  “Yeah. That’s about how I felt.” Saoirse nudged the shot glass at Fitch with a hopeful glint in her green eyes. “Someone set them after us. Course, at first we thought they were raiders, they thought we were slavers… got messy. When the dust settled, it took the settlers tellin’ ’em to believe.”

  Fitch refilled the shot. “Mex-Ar?”

  “Mexican army.” Saoirse slammed the cheap liquor and winced.

  “Olds,” muttered Neeley.

  “Shook it this time.” Fitch grinned. “Ain’t a real shot ’less ya have ta chew it.”

  “So…” Saoirse exhaled, waving at the fumes. “Komodo figures out the guy who acted like he’d had his wife and kid taken is really a Mex-Ar officer. Loses his royal effing shit.” She slapped herself in the forehead and twirled her hand into the air. “So everything’s a total shit show. Next thing we know, there’s Redeemed and Mex-Ar going after each other all around us. Got settlers crawlin’ under the truck not to get shot. Them ’Deemed chased those tan-coated bastards all the way back ta Durango for all I know.”

  “Who’s Komodo?” asked Kevin.

  She shrugged. “Seemed like he’d been the one runnin’ the pack. Big boy, has this whole Apache war chief thing going.”

  “Hmm.” Kevin hooked his thumbs in his jean pockets and gnawed on his lip. “So how do they go from bein’ inclined to free slaves to shooting up a roadhouse for jollies?”

  Saoirse regarded the empty shot glass with a smirk. “Probably on account o’ gettin’ served this shite.” She flashed a mischievous grin and set the glass down.

  “Hell if I know.” Fitch collected the glass and dropped it in the ‘dirty’ bin under the counter. “All you know, guys who shot up Wayne’s place mighta been some pack of scavs what found Redeemed dead on the side of the road and took their threads.”

  Kevin blinked. “Shit. Never thought of that.”

  “Or they had a change of leadership.” Saoirse fished out five coins and set them on the counter. “Clubs like that can sometimes change ’pendin’ on who’s wearin’ the leader patch. Need a room, charge on number three and a refill on the beer.”

  “One short,” said Fitch.

  Kevin burst into laughter.

  Both of them looked at him until he could breathe again.

  “What?” Saoirse narrowed her eyes. “What you laughin’ at?”

  “The F-350.”

  “Yeah, so?” She bristled.

  “Nothin’.” Kevin forced himself composed, but couldn’t stop smirking.

  Fitch stifled a laugh. “Smallest driver, biggest ride.”

  She fished out a penny and added it. Her eyes wanted to laugh, but she kept a stoic face.

  Kevin leaned back to turn on the charging station while Fitch refilled a mason jar. As Saoirse headed back to her table, Fitch gave him a look.

  “Didn’t you have some kinda thing with red
heads and pickup trucks?”

  Kevin scowled at the floor. “The Marauder wasn’t quite that big, and the bitch had real long hair, and a giant pair of…” He grumbled. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

  “Take your time.” Fitch grinned.

  Kevin clapped him on the shoulder. “Thanks, man. Gotta deal with some crap. Mind watchin’ the front for a few minutes more?”

  Fitch leaned one elbow on the counter top, grinning. “No problem. Shit, I don’t know how you tolerate not gettin’ shot at every twenty minutes. Just standin’ around watchin’ people drink, brokerin’ jobs…”

  Kevin faked a wince. “Yeah. Life just ain’t the same without wondering if I’m going to live through the next twenty minutes.”

  “Shame.” Fitch chuckled. “Ah well, s’pose a man’s gotta do…”

  “Yep.”

  Kevin ducked into the rear hall and poked his head into the kitchen doorway. Sang sat on his cot reading; the scent of something meaty hung in the air. “We’re back.”

  The old man looked up with smiling eyes. “Kevin. Good to see you. How was trip?”

  “Trip’s okay. News ain’t so good.”

  Sang lowered the book to his lap. “Want to talk about it?”

  Kevin pondered for a second or four. “Maybe. Not right now. Got stuff to do. Wayne’s dead.”

  “I am sorry.” Sang brought his hands together and bowed his head.

  “Thanks.”

  Kevin sighed and remained a few seconds longer before heading across the hall to the office. Bee lay prostrate on the secondary desk against the rear wall, shirt off, back wide open to expose her metal internals and wires. A thick plume of whitish smoke trailed upward from an open panel on a black box mounted to the spine about where a person’s intestines ought to be. The android rested her chin on her crossed arms and made idle conversation with Tris about the pros and cons of skirts versus pants.

  Tris, standing at a workbench full of junk, twisted around to look at Kevin as he entered. She looked calm, though her face bore the frustrated glower of someone engaged in a tedious task. Merely seeing her lifted his mood enough for a smile to happen. She returned it, and resumed rummaging around through assorted crap they’d torn out of the former rest stop restaurant. Mostly coin-operated mini-jukeboxes that had been installed at each table, though a couple of computers and two floor-polishing machines joined the tech graveyard.

  “How goes it?”

  “Fine,” said Tris. “Trying to find some eighth-inch wire before I have to make one, but all the wiring in this crap is sixteenth.”

  He gestured at a rotary polisher head. “What about that thing?”

  “Probably does… but I don’t have the right size socket driver to get it open.”

  “I can assist you in braiding wire,” said Bee. “My sense of balance does not exist, but my arms work.”

  Kevin chuckled and headed over to the security console/radio desk. He let his weight fall into the green cloth chair, launching a cloud of dust. Landing there felt as though the weight of the past two days’ anxiety had been packed into an enormous water balloon balanced on his head, which burst.

  He leaned forward, face in his hands, and exhaled. Home. Safe. As angry as he’d been about Wayne, what good would it do to get himself killed? Even if he did manage to find the particular individuals responsible for killing him―without dying in the process―it wouldn’t resurrect the old bastard. The world wouldn’t notice or care one way or the other that Wayne had been avenged, and it wouldn’t give a mustard-covered fuck if Kevin took a bullet in the head for his troubles either.

  After a long five minutes of staring at the floor while listening to Tris grumble under her breath, he reached out and took the radio mic. Two breaths later, he pushed the button. Tris went quiet at the pop of static from the speakers.

  “This is Kevin outta I-80, Rawlins. Anyone awake?” He let off the button.

  “Ya. I’m here,” said Gertrude.

  “Hey, cutie.” Beth purred.

  Kevin shivered, remembering the woman old enough to be his mother.

  “Kevin,” said the gravelly voice of Harold, somewhere in western Ohio.

  Seven or eight new voices answered, from roadhouses scattered from the northwest down to this guy Enrico in Florida.

  “Whazzat?” asked a creaky old voice.

  The radio channel erupted with laughter.

  When it settled, Kevin squeezed the talk button and brought the mic to his lips. “It’s important. What I’m gonna say needs to make it to every ’house.”

  “¿Que esta?” asked a baritone voice.

  “Sounds nicht so gut,” said Gertrude.

  Tris set down a tool with a soft thunk, braced her hands on the worktable, and twisted around to watch him.

  Kevin waved her back to her task. “I’m okay. Keep fixing Bee.” He winked and pushed the button. “I’m just back in the door from takin’ a ride to Hagerman. Wayne’s been killed. He―”

  The radio erupted with too many voices at once to make sense of any of them.

  Kevin waited until the channel fell quiet. “He had an android waitress who they didn’t bother destroying.”

  “I behaved as though I was a simple cleaning unit without personality,” said Bee.

  “Yeah… what she said.”

  “Oh.” Bee covered her mouth with a hand. “Kevin. Thank you.”

  He let off the talk button. “What?”

  “You called me ‘she.’” Bee smiled.

  He rubbed the bridge of his nose, eyes closed. Screw it. “Anyway, she told me a pack of bikers came in, refused to pay, wound up shooting him. They all had the same symbol. White hand inside a circle, grabbin’ on a sword by the blade.”

  “Ain’t never heard o’ that,” said Earl.

  “Yeah, but you’s near Topeka. Ain’t nothin’ there.” Harold laughed.

  “Wayne’s dead?” Tears saturated Beth’s voice.

  An awkward silence settled over the channel for the better part of a minute.

  “Redeemed,” said an unknown girl who sounded on the young side. “Seen ’em in here a couple times, but they ain’t caused no problems.”

  “Who is this?” asked Gertrude. “I do not recognize your voice, Schätzchen.”

  “Uhh, I’m Maribel. This is my dad’s roadhouse. He’s busy with the front, so he told me to get the radio.”

  “Language check,” said Harold.

  “Kid alert,” added Enrico.

  “Whazzat?” asked Whazzat.

  “I’m not a little kid; I’m eleven.” Maribel huffed before her transmit cut out.

  “Right…” Kevin smiled for an instant, but his stomach roiled. If those fuckers start shooting up roadhouses… “Look, there’s something else.”

  “Oh, this is great.” Harold grumbled. “Worse than killing Wayne?”

  “Yeah.” Kevin rubbed his forehead. “The camera system in Hagerman was toasted. Hasn’t worked in years.”

  “What’s wrong with it?” asked Gertrude.

  “Whole thing’s fffffudged,” said Kevin.

  Enrico and Harold’s laugher collided on the channel.

  “Easy on that technical talk, boy.” Mac clucked his tongue. “You know I can’t understand it.”

  More chuckling.

  “I’m not a little kid,” yelled Maribel.

  Tris swooped over and took the mic from Kevin’s hand. “Hey. It’s me. I’ll try to use small words.” She let off the talk button long enough for another round of chuckling to simmer down. “The cameras record digital video to a solid state hard drive in the main component cabinet. That’s the dark grey box with the word Dell on it or maybe the initials HP. Problem is, those types of drives don’t last forever. They wear out and stop working. Maybe millions of rewrites, but these cameras have been recording constantly for years. All of this hardware predates the war. It’s old, and it’s going to fail soon if it hasn’t already.”

  “So what you’re saying…” Har
old coughed and stopped transmitting.

  “Shit,” rasped Mac. “Uhh, crap. Sorry Maribel.”

  “I’m okay,” said Maribel in a tiny, frightened voice. “The bad words are only a little scary.” After a second, she laughed.

  Kevin did as well, though he didn’t send it over the radio. He grasped the mic and Tris’ hand, pushing her thumb into the button while drawing it closer to his mouth. “She’s saying that all of our security systems are probably dead or about to be dead. Is anyone from Amarillo on?”

  Dead silence.

  “Amarillo, come back?” Kevin waited thirty seconds. “Amarillo?”

  Her stare said ‘oh shit.’

  “Roger, Kevin.” An oldish man cleared his throat twice. “Copy. This is Amarillo. Proceed.”

  “Whazzat?” asked Whazzat.

  He imagined a collective sigh of relief throughout what had once been the United States… well except for the northeast. No one went there anymore. So many Infected, not even the Infected lasted long. Kevin rambled over a detailed retelling of the events of Wayne’s demise, and spent a good six minutes complaining about the dead hardware.

  “Understood,” said Amarillo. “Couple of those HP units had an issue with crappin’ out. Part-a the routine checklist no one bothers ta follow. I shouldn’t need to remind all of you to not advertise to the run of the mill if you’re havin’ technical difficulties wit yer security monitors. If yer unit’s down, disconnect the cables from the back and send it on back to us”―distant gunfire echoed, as if on the other side of a thick wall―“under the code of ‘scavenged tech.’ We’ll fix ’em up and get ’em back to you.” The start of a coughing fit cut off after half a second.

  “I have no idea vot ze hell I am looking at back zhere,” said Gertrude. “Is all blinking lights and vires.”

  “Copy that, Brownstown. Confirm, you’re on I-70, right?”

  “Ja,” said Gertrude. “I am trying to get die maschine to play ze recordings, but es ist nur screen filled vith grey sparkles.”

  “Snow,” said Tris. “Same thing I saw at Wayne’s. Your SSDs are dead.”

  “Hell Trude, that’s what you get for not usin’ protection. SSDs.” Mac roared with laughter.