Tris let off three shots and blurred away from the corner. Less than a full second after her image solidified against the wall, the stone at head level exploded in a spray of dust from a good portion of the charging gang all firing at her position.
Kevin resisted the temptation to switch to fully automatic and hose the street. He aimed, fired, shifted, fired, shifted, fired, as fast as he could put crosshairs over bodies. While he tried to focus on guys pointing weapons in his direction, he didn’t waste much time being choosy or going for head shots. The Enclave rifle pierced the prewar Kevlar like papier-mâché. A few held up riot shields, but his high-tech bullets laughed at those too.
Some of the Boatmen got the hint and leapt for cover behind buildings.
Tris spun around the corner in a low squat; her AK let off what sounded like a chatter of automatic fire, but seven heads exploded more or less at the same instant.
Kevin glanced at her, mouth open, frozen in momentary awe. She is goddamned scary sometimes.
The sharp pop-pop-pop of a nearby pistol startled him. He spared a half-second glance to the right. Fox had stepped away from the wall, two-handing his weapon straight up. A dead woman in piecemeal armor and a skirt made of studded leather panels fell from a second story window. A crude katana bounced out of her hand as she struck the pavement. She lay still on the ground; her bug-eyed gas mask, painted with an exaggerated grin, stared at him. Fox shot her again in the back.
Kevin looked up. His building had no gaping holes on that side, and no one watched him from the roof. As a ripple of fire chased Tris around her corner again, he popped out and shot two guys in matching white hockey masks with bright pink plumes.
A pop came from his left at the same time a dull, throbbing pain jabbed into his left side. An answering pop sounded from near Tris, and a bullet mushed into the armored jacket by his right shoulder. The boy’s attempt to help wound up hitting him instead of the man shooting at him. Kevin grunted and spun to the left, letting gravity take him down. An emaciated man in white paint and a skirt made of shredded tire rubber clicked a handgun at him, but it didn’t go off.
Enraged, the ghoulish figure threw the gun aside in disgust and drew a pair of machetes off his back. Kevin fired from the ground, nailing the guy in the right hip. Before the tiny silver confetti squares from his caseless ammunition fluttered to the ground, Tris’ AK barked and the man’s chest caved in from a lone bullet striking him in the sternum. Gurgling, the machete-wielding lunatic took two steps away as if he’d merely changed his mind about fighting and decided to go for a walk.
And fell on his face.
Fox scampered out into the street to grab a submachinegun off one of the dead guys who had initially chased him. Bullets pinged off the paving behind him as he dashed back around the building, holding it out to Tris. She took it, reached around the wall, and sprayed full auto at a spot where three Boatmen clustered behind a concrete porch.
Kevin cringed. That was an expensive waste of ammo.
Using the distraction of the gangers flinching at her barrage, Kevin popped up and picked off two. Tris tossed the micro-Uzi over her shoulder and two-handed the AK. Her lips moved, but whatever she said didn’t make it across the street.
Fox nodded and took off at a sprint for the Challenger.
Kevin flicked the mushroomed bullet off his arm and winced at the forming bruise. Both hits felt similar, so he figured the boy had a 9mm as well as white-paint-man. Being able to identify bullet type by how much it hurt striking his armor made him shake his head. I’ve gotten shot too goddamned much. He swiveled and fired at a hint of motion along the opposite wall. Another Boatman in a blue flannel shirt and green camo pants staggered into the road, clutching a geyser of blood spouting from where his neck met his shoulder. Kevin finished him off with a double-tap to the chest. His rifle emitted an electronic chirp that sounded like a warning.
At the lower right corner of the scope view, 06 flashed in yellow. Damn. Oh well. Was nice while it lasted. Not like I’m going to go shopping for ammo at the Enc― He laughed. “Maybe I will.”
At the rapid clap of tiny sneakers striking the road, Kevin looked to the right. Fox raced from the car with an AK magazine in his left hand. He zoomed up to Tris and handed it over. She reloaded while the boy ran the empty back to the car. After two minutes of silent calm, Tris stepped onto the road, rifle raised, and started a slow walk toward the gate.
Kevin moved out from behind cover, cringing at each breath. At the sight of blood on Tris’ shirt, he ran over to her. “You’re hit!”
“Graze. Already closed.” She jumped and aimed, but didn’t shoot the grey cat that raced out from behind a porch.
“I need me some nanites,” muttered Kevin.
A moan from the left caused Tris to swivel and put another bullet into a fallen Boatman. He went still. Kevin pulled the Enclave rifle over his shoulder and stooped to grab an AK from a dead man. On one knee, he did a quick check of the magazine, which had about two-thirds left of a thirty round capacity.
Better than six.
“We’re lucky these guys are on the lower end of the brains scale,” muttered Tris. “Think they all came charging?”
A young dark-skinned woman with frizzy hair, no shirt, and torn jeans, stood inside the nearest hanging cage. She reached an arm through slats of metal that reminded him of leaf springs, and screamed, “Hey! Get us outta here!”
“Probably.” Kevin waved the AK as a pointer toward the cage. “Doubt they’d scream for help if they had guns pointed at them.”
“Or she’s been told to lure us in.” Tris pointed her AK off to the side in one hand and shot another moaning body while barely glancing at him.
The slow crunch of tires on grit made Kevin look back at the Challenger coming around the corner not much faster than a walking pace. Fox barely managed to peer over the console, but did a serviceable job of navigating the turn.
“God dammit,” muttered Kevin. “He’s being helpful.”
Tris glanced over her shoulder. “Shit. Hope he doesn’t find the button for the machine guns.”
“Hang on.” Kevin jogged away from the camp toward the approaching car.
Fox dropped out of sight, and the Challenger lurched to a halt. When Kevin reached the door, the boy still had both feet planted on the brake.
“Thanks, kid.” He reached in and shut down the drive system. As soon as the boy crawled out the window, Kevin punched in the security code. The windows closed on their own, and the car chirped. “Come on.”
Tris peered into the gate. “Are there any Boatmen left hiding in there?”
“I-I don’t think so,” yelled the topless woman.
Kevin jogged up behind Tris. “Guess we go in careful.”
She nodded.
A young sounding voice scream-grunted in frustration amid the clatter of metal on metal.
“Hawk!” yelled Fox.
“Charlie?” shouted a female voice, high up. Another hanging cage creaked as a late-thirties woman with red hair forced herself upright. Blood dribbled from her nose onto a new-looking white tank top; she appeared to be bound hand and foot with rope.
“Mom!” yelled Fox, pointing. “That’s my mom!” He darted forward until Kevin caught him with an arm around the middle and hauled him off his feet. “Mom! Where’s Dad?”
“Over there,” yelled the woman, moving her head in an attempt to point. “Kwan?”
A man in one of the other cages moaned.
Kevin held on to the struggling boy until he went still. “There could be more of them hiding in there. Don’t run in.”
Fox looked furious, but nodded.
After setting the boy down behind him, Kevin raised his AK and glanced up at the creaking of rusty chains. The center of the encampment, which occupied an intersection of two four-lane streets, contained an arena-like enclosure rimmed with concertina wire. An assortment of melee weapons including knives, hammers, axes, all the way up to giant swords and one chains
aw littered the edges by the fence. Eighteen hanging cages dangled from steel I-beams welded into a maze of rickety walkways and cubbyholes among sniper nests made from steel plates.
Tris pointed her AK at one of the nests. “I see you up there. Come out or I’ll shoot you right through the wall.”
“I can’t,” yelled a boy. Hands gripped the top of the enclosure where she pointed. “I’m chained to the wall.”
“He’s the feeder,” said the young black woman. “They make him crawl around up here an’ bring us food. Come on and get us out.”
Chain rattled from a ground-level structure near the back, a building made from the rear end of a flipped garbage truck with the hydraulic crusher removed. A girl inside grunted and growled.
“They all gone,” yelled the topless teen.
“Hawk!” Fox sprinted past Kevin, heading for the truck.
He ran after the boy, colliding with him when the child skidded to a halt at the ‘door’―a flap of heavy plastic hanging from rope hinges.
An Asian girl in her middle teens struggled at a chain padlocked around her neck, tethering her to a ring in the wall by a mattress so foul shitting on it would’ve been an improvement. Her clingy pink T-shirt covered to the base of her ribs, but below that, she didn’t have anything on. A lump of denim, jeans, lay out of her reach to the left, thrown against the wall on top of brown work boots that looked factory new. Somewhat-clean smears in the floor suggested she’d spent a moment or two trying to reach them with her toes. At the crunch of Kevin’s boot, she whirled, blushed scarlet, and let go of the chain to cover her crotch while staring at him. Kevin averted his gaze to the left.
Fox ran over and hugged the―possibly Korean―girl. She squatted and wrapped her arms around him, using the boy as cover to hide her lack of pants.
“That’s your brother?” Kevin tried not to sound surprised or doubting. Post-war families often formed from people who happened to find each other. Hell, neither he nor Tris had the least bit of Hispanic in them and they called Abby their kid. Her embarrassment suggested origin within a larger settlement closer to prewar society. That, and her mostly-clean clothing. Then again, in San Francisco with so many infected, maybe they’d found a store no one had had the balls to scavenge yet. But a feral or tribal girl wouldn’t be embarrassed.
He walked to the left, the garbage truck booming with his footsteps, grabbed the discarded jeans, and held them out to her without looking.
Tris eyed an eight-inch wide wooden board leading up into the I-beam structure. The treacherous pathway spanned three distinct ‘floors,’ the topmost of which thankfully had only empty cages. Adoring her agility enhancements, she ran up the beam headed for the metal-walled spot that looked like a perfect place for a sentry to take cover. Along the way, she pointed the rifle at a few other ‘nests,’ but none had anyone in them. She turned right at the second story and hurried past the cage with the dark-skinned topless girl in it, heading for the ‘sniper nest’ where the boy claimed to be unable to get up.
“Hey, where you goin?”
“Kid,” said Tris, not slowing down.
Still not entirely trusting the situation, she led with her rifle around the corrugated steel wall, but lowered it as soon as she made eye contact with a scrawny pale-skinned boy of about twelve. A padlock held a crisscross of chain around his bare chest like a harness. Only a few inches spanned from the middle of his back to the wall, secured with another lock. A chain collar ringed his neck, but didn’t connect to anything. Two buckets sat at his left: one held a dried coating of nasty-looking stew as well as a ladle, the other contained an inch or so of urine. Aside from the chain, he wore a battered pair of dark brown shorts that ended in frayed tatters halfway down his thighs, covered in all manner of stains.
A broad purplish bruise on his left cheek paralyzed Tris for a few seconds of pure heartbreak. She reached out to take his hand.
He cowered, crossing his arms in front of his face.
“Fucking animals,” muttered Tris. This is what everyone in the Enclave thinks people are like out here. This poor kid… “It’s okay. Don’t be afraid of me. I’m gonna let you out okay? The men who did this to you are all dead.”
The boy gawked at her. “R-really? You’re not gonna kill me?”
“Are you a Boatman?”
“No. They make me take food to the gladiators.”
“Gladiators?” She blinked.
“The people.” He pointed at the cages. “They make them fight in the pit. Someone wins ten times, they get to be a Boatman. “I’m not old enough, so I gotta feed them ’cause the Boatmen are ’fraid of fallin’ off.”
Tris grasped the padlock at the middle of his chest. Oh. Only a Master lock. “Hang on. I’ll have you out in a few seconds.” She pulled two tools from her shoe sole. “Do me a favor, kid. Hold it up?”
The boy grabbed the lock and pointed the keyhole end at her. “You’re really pretty. Like a angel.”
“Thanks.” She fiddled with the pick for about twenty seconds before the lock snapped open. As she started to unwind the X, it became clear that some of the chain links adhered to his skin. “This might hurt a little.”
“Don’t care. I wanna get outta here.”
He held onto her shoulders, valiantly stifling the urge to yell in pain as four or five chain links peeled away scabs. When the last of the metal fell to the floor, he leaned forward and cried into her shoulder.
Tris picked him up, carried him to the ground, and held him for a moment longer. “I need to let the others out, okay?”
He let go. “Okay.”
She started to head up the ramp, but whirled back, remembering the chain around his neck. After picking the lock at his throat, she hurled it and the chain as hard as she could in a random direction with no people in the way. Damned animals. I wish I could kill them all over again.
“Come on, girl,” said the topless one. “You like girls? I’ll do whatever you want if you get me out next.”
Pass. Tris looked up. I don’t even want to think what these people did to her. “I’m working on it.”
Kevin walked across the garbage truck turned bedroom holding the jeans out to the girl while looking the other way.
“My sister, Hawk,” said Fox. “Mom called me Charlie at first, but when she married Dad, I changed it.”
“Who are you?” asked the girl in a wavering voice as she took the jeans.
Kevin turned his back on her and folded his arms. “This little guy came up to us looking for help. Couldn’t say no to that face.” He chuckled. “Bunch of shitheads were trying to shoot him. We put ’em down.”
“Thanks. You the ones who started shooting at these fuckers?” The girl hurried into her clothes, the leash around her neck jangling. “I was about two seconds from… yeah.” She scowled, a mixture of angry and imminent vomit in her expression. “If you hadn’t attacked right when you did…”
“Where’s Dad?” asked Fox.
At the sound of a zipper closing, Kevin looked at her. Aside from red marks on her neck, she didn’t have any visible injuries.
“They put him in one of the cages. He’s… still alive.” Hawk shivered. “Hey can you get this damn chain off me?”
“Not without a bullet involved. Hang on. My…” He smiled. “Wife can get the lock.”
Fox fetched the boots for his sister. Kevin walked to the end of the truck and peered out at the compound. A filthy, skinny blond boy stood at the bottom of the plank walkway leading up into the structure of I-beams, shivering. An X of bruise in the pattern of chain wrapped around his chest and another circled his throat. Slow trickles of blood crawled down his body from two or three red spots near his shoulders.
Up in the superstructure, Tris appeared to be attacking the padlock trapping Fox’s mother in a cylindrical cage made out of haphazardly welded slats of metal. From the width and gauge, he assumed leaf springs from a tractor-trailer. The black girl with no shirt rattled the door of her enclosure and grum
bled, clearly impatient. Two other cages held unmoving lumps, which he figured to be dead men, likely having succumbed to injuries suffered during ‘sport’ fights, or perhaps starvation.
“This is going to take all damn day.” He glanced over his shoulder at the padlock holding Hawk’s leash to the wall, and considered shooting it out, but didn’t want to risk a ricochet catching the kid or his sister. “Be right back. Going key hunting.”
Kevin spent a few minutes running from corpse to corpse out in the street, rummaging around for keys. As soon as he found the giant musclebound oaf with two shotguns taped together, he assumed him the boatman’s chief. Sure enough, the man had a wad of master lock keys in his left pocket, something on the order of thirty or so.
He stared at the bundle. “Okay, maybe this isn’t going to be faster.”
“Holy shit, are you really here?” asked a pale woman with bright red hair. She wriggled around to face Tris, making the entire cage sway back and forth. Her otherwise clean tank top had a grimy handprint over her left breast next to a red mark from blood dripping out of her nose. Her BDU pants looked intact, and also in good condition. Clean bare feet suggested these thugs had only recently taken her shoes.
Tris stared for a second, thinking of Katie. “Hey, did you have a daughter with red hair?”
“No… just Charlie, uhh, Fox. I know… I know… My last husband’s name was Rodrigo Cortez. I’m Freya. Never had a baby girl. Why?”
Tris pulled a knife off her belt and sawed the rope binding the woman’s wrists behind her back. “Here.” She passed the blade to her through the bars. “You kinda look a bit like this kid we found. Haven’t seen a lot of people with hair that red.”
“Thanks. Haven’t seen a lot of people with hair that white.” The woman cut her legs free while Tris went to work on the padlock. Stench wafting over from the next cage left no doubt the occupant had died… probably days or weeks ago.
I’m in Hell. This is where humanity goes for what it did to itself. “Your son’s fine. Scared, but fine.”
The Roadhouse Chronicles (Book 3): Dead Man's Number Page 17