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  © 2017 Matthew S. Cox

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  Cover Art by Eugene Teplitsky

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  ISBN 978-1-94809-940-0 (ebook)

  ISBN 978-1-97598-304-8(paperback)

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  ontent with his third pass over the ledger, Kevin closed the black and white marbled cover, securing it with a rubber band. He leaned both hands on the dusty counter covered in beat-up linoleum and shot a glance to the right, down a short concourse lined with long-dead shops. Outside, four islands’ worth of ancient gas pumps stood covered with weeds and windblown detritus. Whoever had owned the rest stop prior to the war had bothered to convert only four filling stations to electric. That left twenty gasoline pumps rotting in place, with who-knows-what kind of mess lurking in subterranean tanks. Pre-war fuel might’ve been viable for six to eight months… Every time he felt a spark of motivation to clean it up, the idea of what fifty-year-old gasoline sludge would be like changed his mind. Not that many functioning cars remained on the roads these days. Having the ability to charge every operational vehicle left in the world all at once―throwing even more money at Amarillo―could wait. The six-port board in front of the building would do for now.

  Of course, if he did revamp the old gas pumps to charging stations, he’d have the highest-capacity roadhouse within two hundred miles, though he’d have to buy more plugs, cables, patch panels, and probably more batteries as well. Far too much money to spend on maybe having more than six people needing to charge their rides up at once. He sighed and shifted his gaze to the room before him.

  On the left, a space formerly used as a seating area for fast food counters held freestanding tables as well as the original booths along the window. Around the seating area, spaces which once housed a tiny donut station, McDonalds, KFC, map shop, bookstore, and a store that sold random crap like keychains and tee shirts, had been modified into large ‘premium rooms’ for guests to spend the night.

  Right of the counter, a handful of tables continued into the walkway that used to run past a huge coffee shop. With the help of Tris and Paul, he’d converted the café that took up half the building and separated it into individual chambers. Where once motorists lined up for overpriced java, an opening led to a C-shaped passage with twelve tiny rooms for the economy-minded traveler.

  The narrow hallway left of his counter led to restrooms; the men’s, they’d converted to the store where he sold weapons, clothes, and other supplies people offloaded here, as well as anything the Code let him take from the corpses of any poor bastard killed on the premises. Fortunately, that had only happened once in the six months since he’d opened the doors.

  A grin formed as he traced his fingers down the notebook cover. The Code didn’t bother to set any guidelines for how much he could take out of drivers’ pay, but he’d been doing it long enough to know that anyone who went over ten percent wound up with an empty room and a ledger full of untaken work. Wayne rode the limit―ten on the nose―though Hagerman sat isolated enough from other roadhouses that no one did much more than gripe about it. People in that area with cargo to move didn’t enjoy a lot of choice. If they had the ability to reach another ’house, they could transport the shit themselves. This section of Interstate 80, about twenty minutes west of the ruins of Rawlins, Wyoming, didn’t have quite the same cushion of nothingness around it, so Kevin opted for six percent.

  Granted, he got about five times the traffic as Wayne’s place, so it worked out.

  Kevin stretched, folded his arms, and surveyed the dining area, quiet in a lull of moist chewing and the scratching of forks on metal plates. Four regulars and seven passersby joined in the mutual headspace where nothing else existed but for the food in front of them.

  Kaz, a hulking tanned guy in road-worn leathers, reminded him of the irritable scimitar-wielding giant from an old movie he’d watched as a kid. Fortunately, the man’s temperament was far more amenable to civilization than some insane warlord’s henchman. He kept to himself at the corner table, near the door to one of the premium rooms.

  Past a family of five―man, woman, and three kids six-ish or younger, Athena occupied a table next to another newcomer. The girl liked white. Liked white in the way some men liked steak and blowjobs. White pants, white shirt, white car. Heck, she’d even tried to paint her sidearm. The young blonde might’ve been eighteen if she were lucky, and reminded Kevin of himself at that age. At least she’s keeping her eye on the room.

  Despite her focus on eating, the scrape of her voice picked at the inside of Kevin’s skull. From the look on the face of the dark-skinned behemoth at the table with her, someone he hadn’t seen before, that man had about reached the point of being done with her too. Of course, few men would object to a pretty blonde helping herself to share a table with them, but after fifteen minutes of that one’s nonstop mouth…

  A scattering of dust-covered men lined the booths along the front windows. Brief conversation while dropping off their food suggested they traveled west, looking for a larger settlement to join. Only two were armed.

  Laughter, deep and raspy, burst forth from the table nearest the counter. Fitch, perhaps one of the most regular of regulars, thumped himself in the chest to dislodge whatever bit of food his sudden mirth got stuck in his throat. A sheen of sweat beaded across his dark brown forehead. His partner, Neeley, a skinny, wiry blond about Athena’s age, leaned over the table with a yellow grin. The man looked he’d been on the wrong end of lung cancer for a few years, but maybe he merely lost the genetic lottery. Most of the joke they shared eluded Kevin, though it had something to do with the younger man being hot in a dingy tank top and fatigue pants while Fitch kept his heavy black leather coat on.

  Kevin smiled. Armor. He knows how it is.

  Kaz stood with a grunt and carried his empty plate up to the counter. “Damn sight better ’n last time. That little woman of yours finally teach ya how ta cook?”

  “Heh. I wouldn’t let her hear you say that.” Kevin winked. “Besides, she can’t cook either. Been a couple weeks for you, right? Got a new employee.”

  “No shit.” Kaz leaned an elbow on the counter. “She cute?”

  Kevin laughed. “I’m not sure my cook’s interested in sex for coins, but I can ask.” He glanced over his shoulder at the hole in the tile-covered wall connecting the kitchen to the main room. “Hey Sang?”

  A grey-haired man with pronounced wrinkles and a mild stoop leaned out of a cloud of steam. “Yeah?”

  Kaz coughed and stood upright.

  “He says your food’s good. Wants another portion of chips.” Kevin grinned at the dirty look he got from Kaz, but he wasn’t missing a chance for a ‘hard sell’ on an extra order of fries.

  “You got an old man cookin’?’” asked Kaz in a voice a notch above a whisper.

  “Sure why not. He’s good at it.” Kevin shrugged.

  “Man, you need to get a workin’ girl or two in here.” Kaz glanced around. “Used ta be this place in Glimmer―”

  “Yeah.” Kevin smirked. “I heard about that. Word I got is Petersen didn’t much care for slavery.”

  Kaz
cringed. “Aw, shit. Serious? Thought they was just into kink.”

  Kevin propped himself up on the counter, arms wide. “Nah. Those women from Cloud9 didn’t wanna be there. Them chains weren’t dec’rative.”

  “Shit.” Kaz shook his head at the floor, exhaling hard. “The world can be a fucked up place. Any idea how that went down?”

  “A bit.” Kevin chuckled. “Bad things happen when stupid people run their mouths to the wrong little woman. So… Lookin’ for work?”

  “You know it.” Kaz grinned. “Pocket gettin’ thin.”

  “Well.” Kevin flipped open his notebook and leafed to a page of current parcels. “Since you’re lookin’ to scratch that itch… Glimmertown’s still got plenty of prostitutes; like fleas on a dog. I got a box of rec drugs headed out that way. Your cut’s 100 coins. Job’s prepaid, so you’ll need to come back here to cash out. Course, lose it and you’re on the hook for 1250.”

  “What kinda shit?” Kaz huddled closer, lowering his voice again. “Tell me there ain’t no salt in that box.”

  “Nope. Some Psilo, Lucy, and a whole bunch of weed.”

  “Awright.” Kaz stood straight as the old Korean reappeared in the window and set down a hubcap full of round-sliced French fries dusted in orange and black powder. “I’ll do it.”

  Kevin smiled at Sang and moved the hubcap plate to the counter in front of Kaz. “Two.”

  Kaz begrudgingly handed over a pair of dimes and picked up the plate. “Your ass is lucky them shits is good. I’ll take the run. Haven’t been to Glimmer in a while. Any rush on it?”

  “Only rush is wanting to get valuable cargo out of your car as fast as possible.” Kevin laughed.

  “Right.” Kaz raised the plate as if in toast before returning to his table. “Gimme ten minutes.”

  Fitch sidled up to the counter a little to Kevin’s right as soon as Kaz cleared. He had a bit more salt in his salt-and-pepper afro than last time, though smile wrinkles around his eyes inferred a good mood. “Kev.”

  “Fitch.” Kevin raised his hand and they clasped forearms. “How’d it go up in Spearfish?”

  Neeley propped himself against the counter at Kevin’s left. His Adam’s apple and nose got into a fight to see which one protruded more. “Ran into some Night Riders near the spur offa Route 16.”

  Kevin cringed, thinking of giant black SUVs laughing off his bullets. “Shit.”

  “Wasn’t as bad as it sounds,” said Fitch. “No up-armored trucks this time… bunch of land-boat cars. Nothing the .50 couldn’t handle. They weren’t ’spectin’ no pickup truck to move like my Banshee.”

  Neeley chuckled.

  “Six active wheels.” Kevin bit his lip. “Not sure I’d gamble on that much power consumption. Might strand yourself out there. I’m curious how you did that.”

  “Hah.” Fitch flashed a blinding white smile. Grey-black beard stubble shimmered on his cheeks. Teeth that clean on a man half way to forty seemed somehow wrong. “Ain’t nobody but me gettin’ within ten feet of the Banshee’s innards.”

  Neeley pouted.

  “Well, or Neeley.” Fitch laughed. “I will tell you the rear two ain’t ’lectric. Got a separate drive train with an ethanol-eater for when we need to haul ass.”

  Kevin worked out some rough design schematics in his head. “The dead weight worth it when you’re not using it?”

  Neeley and Fitch exchanged a glance.

  “Considerin’ we here now?” Fitch clucked his tongue. “I’d say yes. Them Riders don’t take slaves.”

  “Well, if you ditch and run, they supposedly don’t bother with you, less you shot at them.” Kevin shrugged.

  “A chance I am not wont to take.” Fitch raised a finger. “Besides. Ain’t nobody layin’ their grubby mitts on the Banshee long as I’m ’live.”

  “Got anything good?” asked Neeley.

  Kevin perused his list of pending runs. “Got one almost made for you guys. Shipment headed to a settlement in Deer Lodge, up on I-90… used ta be Idaho? Two-thousand rounds of 9mm.”

  Fitch let out a long whistle.

  “Jesus crapping Christ,” said Neeley.

  “It’s involved, but the pay’s good.” Kevin pointed at the page. “Need to head to Ween’s place and pick it up. People at Deer Lodge’ll give you four grand in coins. Three K of that goes back to Ween. Sixty to the ’house, and 940 is your cut.”

  “And if something takes a shit, we’re into you for the lot.” Fitch rubbed a hand over his face, accompanied by the hiss of beard stubble scraping callous.

  “Been sitting on this one for you guys.” Kevin smiled. “Banshee’s got the best odds of pullin’ it off. It’s an open run, but I won’t call it in to the network so no one’s aware of it. Course, that also means you gotta get to Ween’s fast before someone else does.”

  Neeley frowned.

  Kevin raised his hands as if in surrender. “Hey, I could call it in, but then word’ll get out two thousand bullets got wheels. If you want that heat, say the word.”

  “Naw.” Fitch gestured at a row of bottles behind Kevin. “Gimme a finger of somethin’ smooth and we’ll head on out. Ween still in the same place?”

  Kevin whirled about, grabbed a bottle of random brown liquor, and poured a little in a tumbler glass. “Four.”

  Fitch dropped three pennies and a quarter, and shot the drink back in one gulp. Judging from the wince and eye-twitch, it didn’t hit him as smooth as he’d hoped. Kevin held up the bottle, but Fitch waved him off. “Naw. God damn man, what is that shit?”

  Kevin shrugged. “No idea. No label.” He sniffed it. “Could be Scotch. Could be sour mash.”

  “Could be engine de-greaser.” Fitch coughed. “Awright. We’re on.”

  Athena draped herself over the counter as the two men headed for the door out. “Hey there, Kev-O.” She winked. “Got anything worth my time?”

  He leaned on his knuckles and shifted his weight to one leg. “Could use someone ta run a bit west, head down 789 to the Carver place. Almost out of sausage… and whatever other meat they’ve got what looks decent.”

  “Food?” Athena rolled her sapphire eyes. “Seriously? You’re sending me for food? I’m not a kid.”

  He let his gaze roam up and down her body. She had an inch or two of height on Tris, and a curvier, more athletic shape, not to mention bigger breasts… but something about her face made her look ‘too young.’ Perhaps her wide-eyed eagerness. Perhaps that sense of ‘immortality’ that plagues the brain of someone not yet into their twenties. White, long-sleeved shirt, mostly open over a bra, white-grey camo fatigue pants, and sneakers… no armor. “I know a guy who can hook you up with some protection.” He gestured at her chest. “Not a lot ’tween you and bullets.”

  “Gee, thanks, Dad.” Athena sighed. “Armor’s only gonna slow me down. I like being able to move. Besides, I’m too fast for any of those old men.”

  Kevin chuckled, eyeing the little white Honda outside up on fat mudder tires and a fourteen-inch body lift. “That thing is gonna roll over like Wayne’s mother the minute you take a turn goin’ faster than fifteen. You’ll turtle it belly up and get ripped to pieces.” Most marauders wouldn’t kill her. Hmm. With Glimmertown out of the slave trade, wonder where they’d sell her?

  “Stop looking at me like I’m twelve.” Athena folded her arms. “You don’t have to protect me. I’m a fuckin’ driver, Kev-O. I can handle myself. You got somethin’ better than god damned grocery shopping?”

  “I can put you in to run 400 phials of Void Salt to Glimmertown.”

  The room went dead silent in an instant.

  “Now you’re talkin’.” Athena slapped the counter.

  “Now I’m being a smartass.” Kevin laughed, then leaned up on tiptoe to raise his voice to the room. “Ain’t no Salt anywhere within fifty miles of this place. Repeat: that was a joke.”

  A din returned over the course of a minute, though two of the ‘travelers’ shot him long, worried stares.


  Athena crossed her arms. “What’s your problem with me anyway? You think women are weak or something?”

  Kevin glanced up at a soft thump in the ceiling. “Maybe I did when I was your age, but my eyes have been opened.” He sighed at her and lowered his voice. “It ain’t you bein’ a girl. You come off like some hotheaded kid that’s gonna get herself hurt. I ain’t gonna send you into no shitstorm ’til you’re at least not goin’ to be stupid about it.” He pulled his shirt aside to show off a few bullet scars. “Took me a few years and a few close calls not to be ‘too good’ to need armor.”

  “Yeah, yeah… You’re just an old man now.” Athena’s tone came off halfway between serious and playful. “I’ll think about your food run. What’s the payout?”

  “Twenty.”

  She threw a wave at him. “That’s not even worth moving my car.”

  “Call it a test to see if you can finish something.” Damn, now I sound like Wayne too. “Promise you a little more exciting of a run if you can handle a few cucumbers.”

  She glared.

  “Oi, can I watch?” yelled Neeley.

  Kevin pinched the bridge of his nose. “You know what I mean. Vegetables. And get some damn armor.”

  Athena tapped her foot, pursed her lips, and cocked her jaw to the side. “So you’ll give me a run worth my time if I fetch your groceries?”

  “I’ll toss you a job with a little more risk, yeah. What sort of gear you got on that little wind up car?”

  She scowled. “One M2 Browning where the passenger seat should be, fixed forward. Usually, I make the pirates shoot each other by driving circles around them. Don’t need to be drowning in weapons when you know how to drive.”

  “Is that so?” He smirked before leaning up on his toes to appraise the little Honda again. “Well, I suppose you’re high enough off the ground that mounted guns’ll go under the cabin. ’Course that thing’s a rollover waiting to happen.”

  “You said that already. I’ve got a roll cage.”

  He chuckled. Damn she sounds like I did ten years ago. Kevin grabbed a handful of coins from the lockbox under the counter and dropped fifty in a cloth pouch. “Mr. Carver’s got my order ready. Pick up whatever other meat he’s got with the change.”