The Roadhouse Chronicles (Book 3): Dead Man's Number

by Cox, Matthew S.

  “Oh.” He turned away, gagging. “Maybe… we should climb over bodies.”

  Eyes watering from the fumes, he forced himself to stand again, retching when he dared look at a purplish balloon of flesh striated with veins… a man’s gut.

  Glorp.

  Tris held a hand at him in a gesture of ‘shh.’

  He spent a few seconds holding his breath, unable to decide between breathing through his mouth so he didn’t have to smell anything or turning back.

  “Something moved in the water,” whispered Tris. “Poor bastards fell in and couldn’t get out.”

  Kevin glanced at the nearest pool ladder and let off a somber chuckle. Fortunately, the floor ahead had only a little contamination from splashing. “We should be able to get around if we can bear the smell.”

  Glorp.

  “Okay.” He pointed the AK at the room. “I heard that.”

  “It doesn’t matter if one of them isn’t completely dead… they can’t get out of the pool or they wouldn’t still be in there.”

  “Think they drowned or starved?”

  Tris shrugged. “Probably drowned. They had each other to eat.”

  He retched. “Not funny.”

  “Wasn’t meant to be.” She took a step toward the door.

  Multiple black serpentine creatures raced up and over the rim of the pool, quivering toward them like two-foot long snakes on sped up video.

  Kevin screamed with the voice of a five-year-old boy. He managed to get off three shots, detonating one of the things into a bloody splat mark before jamming his arm across his face as another two sprang into the air.

  A ripple of gunfire hammered his ears. One of the creatures slapped into his arm as if someone had walloped him with a baseball bat made out of flesh. Warm sliminess bounced off his forehead. Tris let out a grunt as though she’d thrown something, and another gunshot rang out.

  Seconds passed in silence. Kevin shivered, too frightened to move.

  “Keep your eyes closed,” said Tris.

  “Mmm.”

  A wet cloth swiped at his eyes in a series of delicate dabs.

  “Bend over and turn your head up.”

  He bent forward at the waist and twisted his head toward the wall.

  She poured water over his eyes and forehead, then dabbed at him again with a dry cloth. “Okay.”

  He stood and opened his eyes. A short distance ahead, a symbiote serpent stuck to the wall, haloed by a splat of black ichor. It still squirmed, but couldn’t peel itself free. Silvery liquid oozed out of its hide in several places where the force of its impact had caused it to rupture. Wherever it touched, pieces of wall dissolved into the flow and reconfigured into chunks of biological matter. Fortunately, the ‘repaired’ flesh fell to the floor in separate bits amid a mirror puddle that resembled mercury.

  Tris raised the Beretta and blasted it in the closest thing it had to a head. With a brief squeak, the creature ceased squirming.

  Seven more splat marks decorated the floor between them and the pool. He recognized the one he’d clipped with the AK; it had more or less detonated. The others looked torn up but not to the same degree, suggesting Tris had used the Beretta instead of a rifle. Probably faster.

  “How bad?”

  Tris clung to him for a few seconds, at the verge of tears. “Close, but no idea how old that blood is. Chlorine might’ve killed the Virus… I didn’t want to risk it.”

  “No… no… that’s fine. I’m good with extra careful.” He smiled. “Doesn’t feel like anything got in my eyes.”

  She nodded and put the mostly-empty water bottle back in her satchel.

  He took a deep breath, held it, and ran forward, skirting the pool area by as much distance as the wall and old workout machines allowed. Another attempt to take the most direct route to the front door proved a wrong turn. A giant room full of folding chairs and tables held a few hundred sets of skeletal remains, stacked in a purposeful manner, as if laid out inside a mausoleum.

  “Uhh… Sorry.” He closed the door. Ten minutes later, he stared through an office at a window. “I’m giving serious consideration to shooting out the glass so we can leave this damn building.”

  “That way.” Tris pointed.

  “You’re sure?” He followed.

  “Mostly… but no sense making more noise than we have to. No telling how many Infected are still here.”

  “Maybe they left over the bridge? Followed a Hoplite out or something.”

  Tris chuckled. “Enclave forces probably wouldn’t even use the bridge… hovercraft can go over water. Faster for them to drive straight out onto the bay, especially if they’re heading east.”

  “Really?” he blinked. “Those bigass things can float?”

  The hallway ended a few paces after a rightward corner at a set of white double-doors. Tris kicked them open, knocking aside a few chairs that had been propped up against it from the inside. About thirty yards of grey carpet and display cases full of awards separated them from the lobby.

  “Technically, they’re not floating. They’re hovering over the water.”

  “Wow.”

  “But they would float if the fans cut off. They’re kinda like boats.” She jogged out to the lobby, which hadn’t changed in the hour or so they’d been roaming around.

  Kevin ran after, and past her, gulping huge breaths of air once he got outside. The stench from the pool still saturated his senses, making the air taste sweet. As long as he lived, he would never forget that horrible odor. He allowed a moment to gather his nerves and headed to the Challenger. Before getting in, he took a swig from the canteen behind his seat, swished it around, spat, and did it again.

  Four times.

  He drank a little and fell into the driver’s seat. “Well that’s going into the list of the top three most awful things I’ve ever seen.”

  “Yeah. So three blocks that way”―she pointed―“and turn right.”

  “As you wish.” He smiled.

  The short drive offered no alarming sights or dangerous complications, but as soon as he turned where indicated, he stomped on the brakes. A building with a green and white awning stood on a street corner behind a large crowd of Infected. Only one or two of them moved, most standing statue still staring off into space.

  “Wow, that’s like some kind of badly-programmed video game…” Tris swallowed. “The monsters are standing there idle until something triggers them.”

  “What?” Kevin looked at her.

  She shook her head. “It would take too long to explain. Ask me about it later when we have about an hour to waste. How do you wanna handle this?”

  “Well.” Kevin flicked the master arm switch for the car’s machine guns. “If they’re going to be all nice and obliging and stand in a crowd like that…”

  “The bullets are going to go right through them and spray the place with dangerous blood. We need to go in there.”

  “Aww, fuck.” He grumbled. “Heh. Never mind. Got a better idea.”

  He stepped on the accelerator, pinning himself to the seatback. The Infected looked up at the squelch of tires. A few shifted as if to chase. Kevin reached up to the cord along the roof and gripped the plastic-wrapped steel cable. As the first Infected went past the front end, he jerked down on the cord, igniting the incendiary projector behind his seat. A twelve-foot plume of burning gel sprayed out from a nozzle on the side of the car, catching the bewildered Infected at chest level.

  The Challenger shot past the Starbucks, leaving a group of burning figures staggering into the road in its wake. Kevin hit the emergency stop switch for the right side wheel motors and yanked the parking brake, whipping the car around in a squealing 180. Tris bounced off her door and flew into his shoulder, grunting. The group of burning Infected moved away from the building, staggering into the road to give chase. As soon as the car’s front end pointed at the crowd, he opened fire from the hood-mounted m60s.

  Four seconds later, he let off the trigger. A
few of the bodies continued attempting to crawl closer. He sat there, fingertips teasing at the trigger button, as the flames reduced the throng to a spread of blackened remains.

  Tris scrunched up her face. “That’s going to smell.”

  “Can’t be as bad as the pool.” He raised an eyebrow at her. “I don’t think my nose is going to work for weeks.”

  He drove back to the coffee place, skirting the carnage in the road, and pulled into a parking space over a blue field with a white stick figure in a chair on it.

  “You can’t park here, it’s a handicapped spot,” said Tris, her tone flat.

  “Right.” Kevin pushed the door open and shut down the car. He paused, one foot on the pavement, one in the car, and stared at the Starbucks wall.

  The beige stucco had darkened a uniform ashen black, except for the lighter-colored silhouettes of perhaps twenty people. An image of men and women of varying height standing in a cluster had been burned into the stone. All of the figures had their arms up, raising rectangular objects of varying size in their hands to the sky. A few scraps of clothing and bone peeked out of a thick layer of soot at the base of the wall, fused into a cement by rain and weather.

  Kevin studied the macabre ‘mural’ for a moment, squinting in confusion. “What the hell were they doing?”

  Tris shut the passenger door with a heavy thud and walked around the nose. “What?”

  He pointed at the wall.

  “Those people were caught in a nuclear flash… probably vaporized. The wall didn’t darken wherever bodies blocked it.” She shuddered. “Kinda looks like they were all holding their phones up at the moment of their death. Wonder why.”

  “Poor bastards.” He headed for the door. “Guess they didn’t feel much.”

  Tris followed him inside. A steady electric hum emanated from the ceiling, though none of the light bulbs remained intact. Years of dirt and detritus collected on the floor around the tables, having blown in through windows that existed only as distant memories. Cutesey pink writing on a black panel over the register area suggested a chipper teenaged girl, though it had smudged away too much to make out much more than ‘iced caramel’ and ‘only $8.99.’ A few molding paperboard signs advertised a $2 off special on cold drinks for ‘Summer 2021.’

  “Everything is so… has anyone even been here since the day it all burned?” Tris’ shoes crunched over a layer of filth as she crept in, head in a constant state of turning.

  “Okay.” He surveyed tables, chairs, a long counter, and shelves full of broken cups and small boxes. “Now what?”

  She poked around behind the counter, opening cabinets, peering in, and closing them one after the next. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  “Think your father’s going to meet us here or something?” He scratched at the back of his head.

  “Maybe.” She stopped rummaging, leaned on the open space by an old computer terminal, and stared at him. “What am I going to say to a man I’ve thought dead since I was nine?”

  “I guess that depends on what his excuse is. If they locked him up, can’t really put the blame on him.”

  She frowned before turning to pluck a pouch from a shelf behind her labeled ‘French Roast.’ “He’s obviously out now… why didn’t he make contact?”

  “Could be that he just got out… and you’ve been away from the Enclave.”

  Tris sniffed at the top of the package and put it on the shelf where she found it. “That’s been sitting outside… maybe there’s some in the back.”

  Kevin shrugged and walked along behind her as she headed to a door behind the counter. A small employee break area sat next to a storage room with shelves and a couple of industrial freezers. Handprint smears on the door made him picture infected groping around, but thankfully no trace of blood or other bodily fluids marked anything.

  Tris opened the first freezer and recoiled in an instant, kicking it closed. She backed up, waving a hand past her face and coughing. “Those sandwiches are… expired.”

  Kevin stood in the doorway between the break room and the main area, eyeing the windows for anything moving. Aside from a tiny bathroom, the only way out of the back appeared to be a steel door with a push bar. Feeling confident nothing could ambush her, he returned to the front and took a seat at one of the tables.

  Well, pops. We’re here. If you’ve got a hand, play it. Ain’t gonna sit here all damn day. We’re out before sundown.

  Tris emerged in a little while with another plastic pouch, this one opened. She ran back and forth to the car, returning with a canteen, and carried it behind the counter.

  “What are you doing?”

  She paused long enough to smile at him. “This place’s panels still work. I’m making coffee.”

  “Seriously? That stuff is fifty years old.”

  Tris held up the bag. “It’s been sealed… probably going to be a bit weak, but I’m dying here. I used to have like four cups a day in high school. They didn’t let me have it in Detention, and well… out here.”

  “Mostly instant, yeah.”

  She shivered.

  He rested the AK across the table and tapped his fingers on it for a while. Eventually, the scent of coffee wafted by, and he looked up. Tris hovered over her pet project, grinning like a schoolgirl.

  “Smells okay.”

  She braced her hands on her hips. “I’m kind of remembering it stronger than this, but… it’s not exactly fresh.”

  A machine near Tris emitted a sputtering gurgle. She reached forward and clicked something before pouring coffee into a pair of mugs. After clipping the canteen to her belt, she carried the mugs to the table and sat.

  “Looks decent.” He picked up the mug and sniffed, shrugged, and took a sip. “Well, I’ve definitely had worse than this. Spose it’s gotta mean something if it’s drinkable after so long.”

  “Mmm.” She cradled the mug in both hands, savoring it. “Yeah.”

  “Yanno, if we didn’t pack the car full of kid clothing, this would be worth a damn fortune.” He sipped again. “If I still cared about coins.”

  She grinned. “Oh, there’s room for a couple bags of beans.”

  They sat and sipped coffee in the middle of a blown-out Starbucks in the middle of a blown-out city. Kevin tried to picture people in the seats around them, reading, or doing whatever it was people did in a place like this while drinking coffee.

  Sure expected there to be more Infected here. He considered Kwan’s statement about them thinning out. Maybe all the symbiotes wound up stuck in the pool and the poor fucks died off like they should have?

  Tris picked at her empty mug. “You think he’s coming?”

  “Figure we give your old man maybe an hour to show up? I really don’t want to be inside the city when it gets dark.”

  She cringed as if engaging in some internal tug-of-war. “I understand. I’m not sure what’s got me on edge more. The possibility of seeing my father again, or worrying about Abby.”

  Kevin squinted out at the sky. “Nathan really is that kind of asshole, isn’t he? You really think we’re going to accomplish something? Stop them from dropping that crap on our heads?”

  “Yes.” She shifted in the chair. “I… can’t tell if it’s that overlay making me feel that way, but my dad is a damn genius. If he thinks I can do something, maybe I can.”

  He reached across the table to hold her hand. “All right. We give it a day? See if we can hole up on the roof for the night.”

  17

  High Alert

  Huddled against the wall with a ratty teddy bear clutched to her chest, Abby shivered. She scuffed her feet back and forth on the carpet in Zoe’s closet, trying to get her toes under some of the clothes lining the floor. She didn’t want anyone to see her crying, much less clinging to a stuffed animal as if it might actually do something to protect her. It did help a little, even if she felt foolish acting like a child half her age.

  Why did they have to leave? She sniffled and closed
her eyes. Her Dad often asked Jesús for things when he got scared. It didn’t make much sense asking a tiny card tacked to the wall for help. The image of a longhaired man with his heart outside his chest, holding up two fingers lingered in her memory, as did the peeling drywall to which her father had pinned it. Yet, whenever things turned rough for him, he’d always talk to the card… or if they weren’t home, to the sky.

  Dad always said Jesús is watching… but if he’s real, why didn’t he protect him from Warren?

  The Enclave had killed her father. They’d killed everyone back home, and now Tris and Kevin had gone to them. Sick with worry, Abby curled tighter and sobbed into the bear’s head. It smelled like fruit, a child’s perfume or candy or some such thing. Zoe had evidently not ‘needed’ the bear anymore, hence her finding it in the closet.

  Maybe she had it in the suitcase and it makes her sad. Thinking about Pete handing Abby over to strangers on the bus, not knowing if he’d ever see her again made her Dad’s death hurt ten times more. She worried that she’d never see Tris again. A powerful shiver rocked her body, though from cold, sadness, or fear, she couldn’t tell. Kevin wasn’t such a bad guy. He’d said he’d had a nightmare about her being one of the Infected, but couldn’t shoot her. In fact, the idea of it had bothered him so much he woke straight up. Abby smiled to herself. Hearing him say that had changed him in her mind from ‘the guy who lives with Tris’ to someone who cared for her too. She’d had her doubts at first, only because most men she’d seen come through Amarillo―the drivers―had no patience for kids, and one had even tried to convince her to go into his room at the Hotel.

  Don, the manager, had overheard him. He came running over and pulled her away from the driver. A little later, Dad showed up and—as far as she knew—shot the guy once some of the soldiers had whisked her out of the building. He’d warned her to stay away from drivers because she was ‘getting near that age now’ and shouldn’t trust men, especially strange drivers. But Kevin didn’t scare her like that. She’d come to trust him, and, like Dad, he would probably also shoot a guy who tried to make her go alone with him into a room. Maybe someday he’d even explain to her why her father had gotten so angry. As furious as Dad had been, he couldn’t bring himself to talk about it. Kevin couldn’t replace Dad, but she found herself wanting him there. Not many grown men would admit to being afraid, or having nightmares. In that, they shared something―complete terror about Infected.