The Redeemed

by Matthew S. Cox

  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?”

  Kevin snagged the glass from her and put it on the shelf. “You take on an Infected with a sword, but you’re whimpering about a warm glass?”

  She exaggerated a pout. “I’m delicate.” Sad face lasted all of three seconds before she laughed. Humor survived another ten or so, and she sighed. “As far as I know, a bunch of things can affect how long someone lasts before the Virus leaves them mindless. Exposure type and severity, overall health, body mass, how good their immune system is… There are some individuals naturally resistant who take much longer to get sick. I remember someone mentioning the viral structure was similar to something a large portion of the population had vaccinations for. Chicken pox? Smallpox? Polio? One of those…”

  “Well, our friend was definitely not resistant.” He put the last of the glasses up top and shook water out of the basin.

  “Resistant isn’t immune. It just takes them longer to die.” She leaned on the counter, firing a morose stare at the floor. “Only the Enclave has a true vaccine for it.”

  “So you’re saying you have no idea how long he might’ve been ‘ticking’ before he went feral?”

  She shrugged. “Was he bitten once? Twice? Six times? Maybe he shot one at close range and got a mouthful of blood. Did he receive a direct dose of Virus somehow shooting himself up with a tainted needle?” Her eyes widened. “What if the Enclave is sending live agent out into the world again?”

  He chucked the basin through the hole in the wall to the kitchen and leaned his hip against the counter. “You think they’re gonna come this far east to infect one person? Didn’t Doc Andrews say something about sabotaging it from the inside?”

  “Yeah, but it’s not like the Enclave would say ‘oh no, they ruined it… suppose we should stop.’” She folded her arms and grumbled. “They want to kill everyone they think is genetically compromised, and that’s pretty much everyone who wasn’t born inside the Enclave. That’s why I had to… Why it’s so important that…” Tears swelled from her eyes.

  He wrapped his arms around her and let her sniffle into his shoulder. “What’ll it take for you to let go of that guilt? There’s nothing you could’ve done.”

  “Then why do I keep feeling like I let everyone down.” She clung to him.

  “You didn’t. You wanted so bad for that data in your head to be real… Maybe you’re not guilty as much as pissed.”

  She fumed. “If I ever see Nathan… Oh, I got ash all over your shirt.” She swatted at his flannel.

  He caught her hands, grinning. “S’okay. Go clean up if you want, I got it here.”

  She smiled and headed off toward the bathroom. With the room empty, Kevin ducked into the office and flopped on an old canvas-topped stool by the radio unit he’
d gotten from Amarillo. He grabbed the CB-style mic and squeezed the talk button.

  “Heads up. This is number 42, Rawlins, Wyoming. Had a DOA roll in last night with a trunk full’a spent brass. Grey van. Last charge near Hastings, Nebraska. Anyone got brains on that cargo?”

  Kevin let off the button and listened to the hiss.

  “Nein,” said Gertrude a few seconds later.

  “Ain’t mine.” Beth’s voice made him shiver at the memory of the grandmother hitting on him.

  “Whazzat?” asked a croaky older man, followed by a series of laughs.

  “Might be goin’ ta Ween,” said Clive, who ran a roadhouse in northwestern Colorado. Something about the voice made Kevin remember the smell of clove pipe tobacco.

  Kevin hit the button again. “Looked like he was headin’ westbound.”

  “DOA?” asked Nash. His ’house was somewhere in eastern Nevada or western New Mexico. “Someone killed a driver at a roadhouse?”

  A series of grumbles and doubts came by one after the next. Kevin eyed the black plastic grille over the speaker, noting the unusual absence of Wayne or Bee chiming in.

  “Don’t know the run was official. Tryin’ to figure that out.” Kevin let off the button to take a breath. “Weren’t no attack far as I can tell. No one killed him here. He got himself infected. Was nothin’ in his head when he came through my door.”

  A waterfall of curses preceded a loud old man yelling, “Whazzat?”

  “Go back to sleep, ’Zat,” said Beth.

  More chuckling.

  “So no one got anything on a footlocker full of empty brass?” Kevin leaned as far as the curly wire tethering the mic to the radio would allow, enough to peer into the main room and confirm it remained empty. He pushed off the doorjamb to stand upright again. “Wayne?”

  Silence.

  “Wayne, come back?” He flicked the talk button for a few seconds. “Bee?”

  “Prob’ly shittin’,” said Harold, a gravelly, but deep voice.

  “Who’s in Hastings again?” asked Earl.

  “No one who wants to stay alive.” Gertrude grumbled for a second. “Place is full of them things.”

  “The ’house isn’t in Hastings. It’s nearby,” said Clive.

  “Shit if I know.” Harold clucked his tongue.

  Tris walked in, having traded her flannel and jeans for a blue mechanic’s jumpsuit. “What are they arguing about this time?”

  He set the mic on the desk and grasped her shoulders, smiling. “I was trying to figure out if there was an active run on that box of spent ammo before I took it as salvage.”

  “Oh. Some ‘code’ thing?”

  “Yeah.” He glanced down, chuckling. “Not quite as bad as opening an unofficial ’house or shooting at the guy runnin’ it, but interferin’ with a driver on an official run is pretty bad.” He grinned. “Wish the pirates and raiders cared about the Code.”

  “Then driving wouldn’t be as exciting.” She smirked.

  A few of the voices on the radio attempted to get a response from ‘a roadhouse near Hastings,’ but no one chimed in to claim it. Kevin stared at the silver-black box.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Tris.

  He shifted to the side, left arm sliding down her back, and pulled her close. “They’re not answering…”

  “That shouldn’t put such a look of worry on your face.”

  “Neither is Wayne.” He tapped his boot. “Wayne’s always fast on the radio to tell everyone how wrong they are about whatever.”

  She started to laugh, but stifled it at the worried glower he fired into the radio box. “Gonna check it out?”

  Kevin’s eyes flared; his legs locked stiff. “If that Infected came from a ’house near Hastings…”

  “Hire someone to go to Hastings?” She rubbed his back.

  “I can’t send someone there.” He wiped at his mouth. “Might as well shoot them myself. No idea what they’re gonna find.”

  She joined him in staring at the radio for a little while. The voices eventually fell silent, still with no one claiming to be at any roadhouse near Hastings… and still no sign of Wayne. She narrowed her eyes. “I’ll do it.”

  “What?” He turned to face her. “No…”

  “You’ve got an idea something’s happened there… you think it’s possibly full of Infected. Doing nothing isn’t much different than sending someone to the place. It’s a Roadhouse, dammit… Someone will eventually stop there.” She hurried to where he’d put a map up on the wall. “It’s on 80, right?”

  “Yeah.” He followed, put a hand on her shoulder, and pulled her away from the map. “Look, Tris… I don’t…”

  “Think I can handle it?” She frowned.

  “No… it’s not that I’m just worried―”

  “That I’m weak and helpless.”

  “No.” He sighed. “I don’t want to lose you.”

  “We can’t both go. Between this being your place and―”

  “Our place.” He brushed fingertips over her cheek.

  She smiled, eyes half closed. “Our place… and your thing about Infected, it should be me. Do you want to just stay quiet and have someone walk into a pack of Infected with no warning?”

  “We don’t even know that’s what happened.”

  “Exactly the reason we should check it out.” Her deep blue eyes glimmered with urgency. “You know me. I can handle a couple infected.”

  He approached the map at her side, pointing at Hastings. “The ’house isn’t in the city. Likely along the highway like ours.”

  “Right. I can make it there in a couple hours if the road’s clear enough to fly. I’ll be back for a late dinner.”

  He eyed the doorway to the hall. Sang could watch the place. He could go with her. Infected. If one got her, it wouldn’t be much different from a human bite. One drop of blood in the eye and he’d be as good as dead. Her idea to go there. She’d feel as guilty as if she’d shot him herself. Heck, she’d probably wind up shooting him if he turned.

  “Please be careful.”

  Tris nodded. “I will.”

  “You haven’t done any combat driving.”

  “Nope. I’ll just run. The Challenger can outrun most things on flat, straight road.” She winked. “You’re welcome by the way.”

  Infected… He gnawed on his lip. “Give me a minute. I’ll ask Sang to watch the place while we’re out.”

  Tris grabbed his arm. “Kevin… there might be Infected.”

  “Yeah. That’s what I’m expecting.”

  “I don’t want to lose you either.” She clasped his face in both hands and kissed him on the lips. They stared into each other’s eyes for a while. “I’ll be okay.”

  “At least let me drive you there.” He grinned and winked.

  ris opened the padlock securing the metal rolling door to the ground. After pulling it free, she flung the door up, exposing the nose end of the Challenger and releasing a cloud of air filled with the smell of rubber and ozone. At a scuff of boot on blacktop behind her, she twisted around to look. Kevin strode out the roadhouse’s back door, sliding into his red armored jacket. Heat shimmer along the ground blurred his boots. A half grin spread over his face as he leaned back to peer at the door over sunglasses.

  She stood on tiptoe, arms over her head, fingertips clinging to the underside of the door, and watched him walk. Her gaze lingered on where his jeans wrapped tight about his thighs. If I didn’t know him, I wouldn’t believe he’s worried. She let her arms drop and walked into the garage. Does he miss the road? She opened the panel by the right front fender and threaded the belt of 7.62 in the fixed-forward M-60 machine gun.

  Kevin stopped at the door and inhaled a deep breath through his nose. A mixture of excitement and contentment flashed in his hazel eyes. He moved to the opposite fender and loaded the gun on that side, though he didn’t bother looking at what his hands did. The whole time, he kept staring at her.

  Tris bit her lower lip. He doesn’
t want us to be apart. She grinned. As much as she wanted to run back inside and spend the rest of the day in his arms, every hour they waited could kill someone. She unplugged the charging cable and let the spring-loaded spool in the wall reel it in.

  “You got the rear guns?” asked Kevin.

  “Yeah.” She scurried around to the back as he hopped into the driver’s seat and hit the button to pop the trunk. After loading a drum mag in the M-16 on the passenger side and racking it, she stuffed a huge, curved magazine into the AK-47 opposite it and flicked switches to arm the electric firing circuits. “Weapons hot.”

  She backed out and slammed the trunk. He drove the car forward, stopping with the rear bumper a few paces from the garage. After pulling the garage door closed, Tris ran around to hop in at his side.

  “Don’t feel like I’m forcing you to do this.”

  “I don’t.” He squeezed her hand. “Wouldn’t be right for me to sit there while you run off into the Wildlands. Besides, we’ve been inside for six months.”

  “But you love having your own roadhouse.” She eased herself back in the seat as he accelerated out onto the highway. A rusting tricycle in the grass along the side of the access ramp between rest stop and interstate put a lump in her throat. Had it been forgotten there by some family on vacation long before the world ended, or…? Her mind filled with the image of a toddler riding it while a mushroom cloud rose in the distance, their frantic parents running to collect them. She covered her eyes. “Ugh.”

  “What?”

  She looked up. Road shot by fast enough to make her guts clench up. “Dark thoughts. Nothing about this. Just being maudlin about the war. Someone left a toy on our lawn.”

  “Nothing landed all that close here. Whoever it belonged to probably didn’t die as a direct result of the war. No one shot Cheyenne Mountain.”

  “Wasn’t that a major installation?”

  He shrugged. “I guess. But maybe all those damn movies made it seem indestructible, so they didn’t bother trying.”