The Redeemed

by Matthew S. Cox

  Silence.

  Tris stared down at her shaking hand, clutching the black mic. The Motorola logo in the middle blurred. “N-Nash?”

  A louder wheeze and the heavy thunk of slow-walking boots came over the speakers.

  The weak, gurgling whisper had a hint of Nash’s voice. “P-please let my kids…”

  Bang.

  The heavy boot steps clunked into the distance, accompanied by the rhythmic tapping of a swaying microphone against the side of a desk.

  Tris buried her face in her hands, shaking.

  Some minutes later, Harold’s gravelly voice ventured soft and hesitant into the silence. “They just pissed all over the Code.”

  “Who are these sumbitches?” roared Mac.

  She sat up, arms crossed limp over her lap. It’s falling apart out there. Her thoughts filled with a woman running for her life with a child under each arm. She had no idea how old Nash’s kids were, but her waking nightmare filled in a pair of five-year-olds.

  The clatter of the front door made her jump.

  “Yo, anyone here?” yelled a man out in the front room.

  Soft thumps of multiple sets of boots followed.

  Tris stood, checked the Beretta on her hip, and eyed the door. Relax. They’re just drivers looking for food and a charge. If she saw Redeemed symbols, could she open fire right away?

  She put on a calm face, trying to ignore that she’d just heard a man die on live broadcast begging for his children’s lives. Did they get away? What would happen to them if the bikers caught them? For once, Tris regretted watching the historical documentaries.

  Three men stood by the counter out front. As soon as she appeared in the hallway, they smiled with a hint of surprise. All wore leather riding armor and jackets in various degrees of black and scuffed to hell. The nearest man had his two friends by a touch over a foot in height, putting her eye level with his sternum. A dark brown man on the left with long dusty hair stared at her thighs with a huge grin while the other guy, a ruddy ginger, kept eye contact with an equally frightening ‘hungry’ look. Fortunately, none of them wore the symbol of the Redeemed.

  “Hey.” She walked up to the inside of the counter. “What do you need?”

  The dusty-haired man gestured at her and muttered in Spanish at the ginger before winking at her. “Nice legs, mama.”

  “Yo, bitch is white like a china doll.” Ginger licked his lip. “This gonna be a funner stop than I thought.”

  Her jaw tightened, eyes narrowed.

  “Lemme have three of the closest thing you got to beer.”

  She relaxed a little.

  “And”―he pulled a gun from a holster, but didn’t point it at her―“all the coins you got on hand. And, oh yeah… why don’t you take them clothes off. You won’t be needin’ em.”

  evin frowned at the dashboard of Bull’s SUV. Why anyone would have an otherwise beautiful machine like this… and not even have one mounted weapon on it boggled him. Without a combustion engine, the space under the hood had enough room for battery pack as well as at least two .50 cal machineguns. The roof rack would work for M-60s. The windows ought to have been armored up, and the back had a crapload of room for who knows what. Hi-torque motors could haul a lot of weight, but sucked for speed.

  “Bull, you’re a damn idiot.” He sighed.

  Of course, Bull had wanted his truck to ‘look good,’ and be as close to prewar bling as he could get it. The idiot figured a crew with rifles could do the work while he focused on driving. Kevin raised both eyebrows as he turned on to the dirt road leading to the Carver farm. A modest field of green spread out behind a massive Quonset hut made of mismatched pieces of corrugated steel and some plyboard.

  “S’pose he did have a point. Not like he died in the truck.”

  Kent Carver, a hard-bodied man in his early sixties, sauntered off a porch of dusty wooden boards, a guarded expression on his face. Pale blue farmer’s shirt and white pants made him look like he belonged back in the year he’d been born. Soon after he appeared, two of his sons, both near in age to Kevin, walked out onto the porch with bolt-action hunting rifles.

  The truck bounced and rocked over a dirt lot full of crisscrossing tire marks before Kevin brought it to a stop a few paces away from the old man. Once Carver got a look at him, he warmed up, and his sons relaxed.

  “Dammit boy.” Carver waved dismissively. “I know the damn fool what used’ta drive that thing. Do an old man a good deed and tell me that sorry son of a bitch is dead.”

  Kevin hopped out and gave the door a shove closed. “Yep. Though weren’t my doin’. Had a convoy crew with a pretty daughter… and assault rifles.”

  Kent spat to the side. “I had ta run that man off month ago. Tried ta play grabass with Laurie.”

  Kevin stared. “Laurie’s what, like twelve?”

  “Thirteen.” Kent glared at the SUV.

  A girl with curly brown hair and a precociously developed figure peered out of a large window. Her breasts looked larger than Tris’. “Did you call me, gran’pa?” She eyed the truck and lost a little color in her cheeks.

  “Naw.” Kent smiled at her. “Idjit’s dead.”

  She exhaled, smiled, and disappeared back into the Quonset.

  Kevin walked up and shook hands with Kent. “Glad ta at least bring good news.”

  “What’cha need?”

  “Take three boxes o’ tatoes, and a mix of whatever other veggies you have in another box. Hopin’ for maybe twenty or thirty pounds of meat. Beef if you got it. And I need fryer oil.”

  Kent grimaced. “Beef gettin’ light. Have ta kill and process and I’d rather not on account o’ needin’ ta breed. Got plenty of hopper. Them things breed so damn fast.”

  “That’s fine,” said Kevin. “No sense risking your herd.”

  Kent nodded at the younger men who headed into the hut with purpose in their stride. The story of Bull’s death became a detailed conversation, which Carver relished. A dark-haired woman not quite old enough to be Kevin’s mother brought him a cup of cold water. Aside from remembering she worked on the farm and had four sons, he couldn’t place her name.

  “Thanks.” Kevin held up the glass in salute.

  She smiled at him before disappearing back inside. Soon, one of the Carver sons beckoned him in. A long wooden table near the door held five wooden boxes about the size of milk crates. Three contained potatoes, one a mix of green, orange, and red vegetables, and the last a bunch of salted and cured dust hopper meat. At the end stood a large metal can that looked like it belonged on the back of a military jeep, likely the oil for frying.

  “G’won, check it out, make sure it’s to your likin’.” Kent smiled.

  Kevin examined the food, finding it reasonable. Sure enough, the giant can contained vegetable oil. “Looks good.”

  “Eighty-two coins then.” Kent nodded.

  Kevin opened the inner pocket of his armored jacket and grabbed a handful of pennies and dimes. Counting took a while.

  “Thank ya kindly,” said Kent.

  The sons, plus Kevin, carried the stuff out to the SUV and loaded it. Kent approached as Kevin closed the doors.

  “Say, if you got a driver lookin’ for a job, I got a guy up near’bouts Belfry offa 72. Sent word he’s got a bunch of seeds I’d be sorely tempted in. Ain’t all that much value, and it’s a bit of a haul, but it’s important to us.”

  Kevin nodded. “Go up to your guy in Belfry, pick up the seeds, then bring ’em back here. What’s he askin’ for the seeds?”

  “Six hundred.”

  “Hmm.” Kevin scratched at the back of his neck. “Drivin’ a person there, I’d charge ’bout 150. Usually post the run for 720 coins, twenty percent of the value. I doubt a driver’s gonna touch a run that long for a hundred coins after I take my 20.” He chuckled. “I’ll see what I can do, but I might need to post 750, and I’ll waive my bit in exchange for a decent bit of steak whenever it comes ’round. 150 might get you wheels.”

/>   Kent considered, his expression cycling among contemplative, grimacing, wincing, and annoyance before settling on resigned. “I’d appreciate it. Okay, if you gotta go to 150, do it.”

  They shook hands.

  “I’ll post it. Normally, I’d take the 750 to hold, but I’d feel bad sittin’ on that if no one picks up the run. If someone signs on, I’ll run down here again. Hell, I’m here often enough as it is.”

  Kent laughed. “Take care of yourself, Kevin.”

  “Will try.”

  He climbed back into the SUV, once more frowning at the dashboard. One power switch. One point of failure. “Idiot.”

  Kevin jammed a finger into the rocker switch, which lit up orange with a sharp click. He eased away from Carver’s farm, making an effort not to kick up too much of a dust cloud out of courtesy. At least the truck didn’t handle too bad on the dirt; in that respect, it had an advantage over the Challenger. Of course, without armor, its lack of speed made it a death trap.

  A rhythmic rumble vibrated the cabin once he hit paved road. The knobby treads turned the seat into an ass-massager. Route 789 heading north offered a breathtaking view of endless nothingness. He shifted his gaze from mirror to mirror and ahead again, waiting for a worst-case scenario: pirates or raiders coming after an unarmed truck with one driver.

  About twelve minutes later, he hit the on-ramp for 80 without seeing a single other vehicle and felt paradoxically more nervous, as if the world lured him into a trap. He avoided a crashed bus and a pair of burned Humvees, wincing at the sight. Every time he passed that wreck, he honored a moment of silence for the two destroyed machineguns on the back ends. Both had been smashed when the vehicles rolled over. He wasn’t sure what they were―other than being larger than .50 cal.

  “Whoever scavved that ammo got a rude surprise. No one can use it. Ehh, probably popped ’em open for the powder.”

  Five minutes east on I-80, the rearview mirrors remained clear and nothing lurked up ahead.

  “Maybe this really is the ass crack of nowhere. So much nothing here that no one thinks there’s anything to steal.”

  He allowed himself to calm a little. Seven minutes later, (due to the truck taking umbrage with any attempt to drive faster than sixty-five mph), his roadhouse came into view. Kevin smiled. Okay, maybe I am being paranoid.

  A nudge of the wheel made the truck nose onto the approach ramp, past a few shot-up blue signs announcing the rest stop. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know what a grinning cartoony red-haired little girl had to do with food, but the pre-war world was almost another planet. A boy he’d befriended when they’d both been about ten had some old comic books that told a story of humans inhabiting a world once controlled by advanced aliens that had died off. Civilization sounded an awful lot like those aliens now. Humans running around discovering mysterious and indecipherable things that only made sense to the aliens.

  I wonder if Keith’s still alive? He grumbled, not having seen him since his adoptive parents decided to strike off on their own.

  The sight of three e-bikes parked out front got his blood pressure up, though he calmed at not finding any sign of a Redeemed logo on them. A sad, sad attempt at an eagle decorated the saddlebags on the middle bike, but the other two had no discernable colors.

  Shit, I’m on edge. Just some travelers.

  He pulled up to the main entrance and backed around in a turn that lined the rear up with the door. Up onto the grass he went, rolling uphill until a stairway plus a row of bright yellow concrete pylons kept the back bumper a ‘safe’ distance away from the front of the building. He caught a glimpse of Tris’ white hair moving around inside via the door mirror and grinned.

  “Home at last.”

  Tris stared at the man who’d demanded she strip. He had the kind of cocky, self-assured smirk that said he had no expectation some delicate little woman would do anything other than as she was told. “I’m sorry; I didn’t quite hear that right. Did you just ask me to take my clothes off?”

  He grinned. A slight wag of the head seemed to pass down his body into a wiggle of the arms, and his handgun.

  “You a virgin, girlie?” asked the ginger. “If you’re real nice, we’ll keep it gentle.”

  “How many coins you got back there, Roadhouse girl?” asked the dusty-haired man. “Your pretty little ass gotta be loaded.”

  “Heh. If it ain’t, it will be in a couple’a minutes,” said the big man.

  Tris raised an eyebrow. “Out. Get the hell out. I’m not in the mood to clean up blood today.”

  “Oh, shit.” Ginger raised his hands. “Little lady’s not in the mood.”

  The instant a shift in Big Man’s expression turned angry, Tris kicked on her reflex booster. His gun arm rose in slow motion as she whipped the Beretta out of its holster. She fired at Ginger first, his laughing face showing no reaction to the creeping bloom of orange muzzle flare. Her left hand went forward, catching Big Man’s arm at the wrist and pushing his 1911 to the side. She aimed at Dust Hair’s forehead, firing a second round with the first bullet still a few millimeters from contact with Ginger. The spinning lead slug burrowed into the skin a half inch left of the bridge of his nose, slipping around the eyeball before disappearing.

  Dusty hair’s face began to react to the gunshot that killed Ginger as the second projectile drilled into his skull a finger’s width above the left eye. A 9mm thick geyser of blood spurted forth in what to her felt like three seconds before a matching one erupted from the back of his head. She jammed the tip of her Beretta in Big Man’s cheek, forcing his jowls around it.

  A frown spread over her lips. “Fucking idiot.”

  He fired, putting a bullet into the wall several feet to her left.

  She painted the tile floor with his brains; he fell away from her upraised arm and landed flat on his back. Time returned to normal when her reflex boost shut down. She stared over her gunsights at the door, where a tiny hole gave away the bullet’s final destination. One advantage to solid ball ammo, less splatter to clean up.

  Tris lowered her arm and sighed. She trembled from a squirt of adrenaline, though it came more from fear things would only escalate rather than any sense of guilt or thrill at killing three men.

  “Tris?” yelled Sang. He popped up in the window between restaurant and kitchen with his shotgun. “You okay? What happened? How you get your pistol to fire like machinegun?”

  “I’m fine. Just some idiots trying to rob us.”

  He gave her a paternal, chiding look. “I hear what they tell you to do. Already grabbing my gun when you turn into blur. How you do that?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  Sang relaxed out of his combat posture, and smiled. “I like stories. I make tea, we talk.”

  She couldn’t help herself but smile a little. “Ugh. I’m going to need a new mop.”

  A distant buzzing noise drew her eyes to the window. The red SUV Kevin drove off in sailed up the access ramp, tires buzzing on the pavement like the wings of a giant wasp. She could practically hear him cursing the speed governor. Bet he’s going to ask me to remove it. That thing’s lifted. If he drives it as fast as he wants to, it’ll roll.

  Holstering the Beretta, she meandered out from behind the counter and stepped over Big Man on her way to the door. The ass end of the SUV crept to a halt about twenty feet away where a short flight of stairs in the sidewalk flanked by yellow pylons proved impassable for cars.

  “He’s gonna love this.” She put a hand on the door and glanced over her shoulder. Maybe I shouldn’t tell… No. I have to.

  Kevin slid out of the driver’s seat and trotted around to the back doors. This thing might be useful after all, but next time I’ll bring her along so I have someone to work a rifle. He leaned in and grabbed the meat box, tugging it to the back bumper before getting both hands on it and hefting it with an “oof.”

  An aluminum scrape behind him announced the door opening.

  With a face full of salted, smoky dust
hopper meat, he rotated to face the building and hefted the box as if to hand it to Tris, who plodded up to him. His wide grin faded at the strange look of sad worry on her face. The weight of the box settled against his chest.

  He tilted his head like a confused dog. “Tris?”

  She headed toward him with such deliberateness of stride he knew something was wrong. No sooner had he shoved the box back into the SUV did she clamp on and bury her face in the crook of his neck. She wasn’t crying, or even making a sound, but the tension in her muscles said all.

  He held her in silence for a few minutes, considering a lame joke about her being safe now because he’d returned. Again, he glanced at the e-bikes; nervousness crept in. “What happened?”

  She took and released a heavy breath and pulled back enough to look him in the eye. “Three men tried to rob us… and…”

  He grabbed her shoulders. “Are you okay?”

  Tris pulled a strand of hair out of her eyes and hooked it behind her ear. “Yeah. I’m fine. They made it clear what they wanted to do to me. Told ’em to get out, but they went for their guns, so I shot them.” He pulled her tight against his chest. “Ugh. Air please.” He eased off a little, and she kept talking into his shirt. “Nothing happened. I know what I look like, but I’m not some helpless little waif. I’m glad they told me to get naked. All that did was get rid of my guilt.”

  He cradled the back of her head for a little while before they leaned back enough to look at each other. “Okay, so why do you look so…” Kevin waved his hand about in a circle. “Upset.”

  “What do you want first? The bad news or the awful news?”

  “You’re sure you’re okay?”

  She nodded. “Yeah, just worried. Look, better get that meat in to the cooler before it goes.” Tris snagged it, showing no visible sign of struggling with its weight.

  Kevin took the mixed vegetable box and walked at her side to the door. “Hit me with the awful…”

  “Nash is dead. I-I…” She breathed. “I was in the office checking the computer after a power crash, and he came over the radio yelling that someone was attacking his ’house. He… died on the mic.”