Detour to Apocalypse: A Rot Rods Serial, Part One

by Michael Panush

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  © 2015 Michael Panush

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  Cover Art by Eugene Teplitsky

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  he engine of the custom Nash-Healey two-seater didn’t roar―it purred. Roscoe shoved the pedal down, feeling the rumble of the engine as the auto raced across the open desert. He’d built the Nash-Healey himself, transforming it from a busted hulk into the sleek machine he now drove. Its curved sides and black paint job made it look like a smooth shadow rolling across the desert plains. In the distance, the curling red rock and twisted walls of Cowl Canyons, burnished by the high sun, reached into the cloudless sky. Beyond it lay the small Southern California town of La Cruz, and farther the distance, big, blazing Los Angeles gleamed like a string of glowing jewelry. Roscoe turned his attention back to the road. Another car sat parked on the barren desert sands up ahead, with three figures next to it. He hit the brakes and spun the wheel. A cloak of dust rose behind the turning auto, hanging in the air before fading. Roscoe liked to make an entrance.

  He killed the engine and stepped out. With his pure, black hair shaped in a careful spit curl and dressed in a white t-shirt, black leather jacket and jeans, Roscoe had the look of a greaser. A crowbar swung from his belt. There was something else unique about Roscoe―he was dead. From his lean face to his thick knuckles, every inch of his skin bore the green tinge of a corpse. His eyes hung open, pale and unblinking. He walked okay and managed to avoid shambling as he approached the silver Rolls Royce and his three friends, who waited for him in the desert heat.

  His employer, the Captain, stood looking out at the desert through a pair of binoculars. He wore a simple silver trench coat, a fedora shading his wrinkled face, and carefully combed beard and goatee. The sun caught the lenses, making the Captain’s steely eyes glow. He lowered the binoculars and nodded to Roscoe. “Any sign of the target?” His voice had a clipped, military politeness.

  The Captain once had a whole career in the army, serving in both World Wars before his retirement. Now, he ran Donovan Motors and led the drivers to protect La Cruz from outside evil. He was used to strange things like Roscoe.

  “Not a one,” Roscoe said. “Could be he split, Captain.”

  “I don’t think so, Roscoe.” Betty Bright leaned against the Rolls. She was the youngest of the drivers, a college girl who split her time between battling the occult and defending La Cruz. Her short-cut blonde hair and sunglasses made her look like a typical Southern California girl on her way to a Sock Hop. She wore a light sweater, blouse, and trousers. She gave him a smile. “He’s supposed to have friends nearby, and this is the fastest route. According to our benefactor at the FBI, he wants to move quickly.” She looked to the dust in front of the Rolls―and to the fourteen-year-old boy crouching there. “Felix, honey, why don’t you come back over here. Stay close when Dr. Bolton comes by.”

  Felix Tannenbaum, the Captain’s adopted son, leapt to his feet. A pale, slight kid with dark, straight hair and freckles, he looked like a scrawny, miniature scientist in his white coat, vest, dark tie, and square, black-rimmed spectacles. “I am sorry, Miss Bright.” He stepped back, hands in his pockets. “But there appears to be some rising dust coming toward Cowl Canyons. Perhaps it is Dr. Bolton and the stolen vehicle? He is moving extraordinarily fast.” He offered a nervous smile to Roscoe. “I am not certain you will be able to catch him, Mr. Roscoe.”

  Felix was a child genius―captured and orphaned by the Nazis. After the war, the American government had swept up Felix and put him to work in their own labs, their greatest scientists tutoring him in the hopes of training him as an expert on the intersection of technology and the occult. Thankfully, the Captain had rescued the boy and pulled some strings with his government contacts to officially adopt him. Felix’s pet, a Yeti pup named Snowball, scampered out of the Rolls Royce’s open door and crawled along next to the kid’s polished shoes like a mobile pile of white fur. He gave Roscoe a slight yawn.

  Roscoe knelt down. He patted Snowball, and the little simian rolled over to reveal his belly. Then he stood and patted Felix’s head. “Don’t sweat it, kiddo. Ain’t nothing can outrun me.” He turned to the desert. A single line of dust cut across the horizon, like a great invisible knife scoring the Earth, stirring up a wound. “So.” Roscoe glanced at the boy. “You knew Dr. Bolton when you worked in the American labs?”

  “Oh yes. He is a decent fellow―not exactly friendly, but he did not treat me like some caged creature on display, as many of the scientists did.” He put his hands in the pockets of his coat. “Try not to hurt him, Mr. Roscoe.”

  “He’s stolen a top secret, experimental vehicle from the government, Felix. He’s a criminal. We’ll deal with him the best we can.” The Captain folded his hands. “Don’t take chances. Don’t let him get away.”

  “I can handle him and his experimental jalopy.” Roscoe started back to his Nash-Healey. “Betty―keep an eye on the Captain and the kid.” He winked at the Captain. Nobody needed to keep an eye on the old man.

  “You got it, Roscoe,” Betty said.

  Roscoe started for the Nash-Healey, but glanced over his shoulder at the sound of a timid voice behind him. “Mr. Roscoe?” Felix had lost his earlier confidence. Most of the time, the kid tried his best to sound like an adult. Now he was a child―a frightened kid. “Please be careful.”

  “I will.” Roscoe slipped behind the wheel of the Nash-Healey.

  He gunned the engine, letting it purr for a moment before he set off into the open desert. The Nash-Healey zoomed along, dust rising from the wheels as he roared across the ground. The earth, flat and dry, seemed perfect beneath the new tires he’d installed for this job. The wind tore at his face while the sun blazed overhead. Roscoe fumbled around the glove compartment, reaching past the sawed-off shotgun to grab his sunglasses. With a confident grin, he snapped them open and set them on his nose before scanning the road. Another dust cloud billowed ahead of him, Dr. Bolton and the experimental vehicle at the head of it. Roscoe turned from the wind. He pulled up next to the stream of dust, an arrow heading toward its target, and glanced at his speedometer. The needle ticked higher with each passing second.The motor roared. Roscoe glanced back to his quarry.

  Dr. Bolton shot across the desert. Once Roscoe spotted the vehicle, all he could do was stare. It resembled a flying saucer―a UFO right out of a cheesy sci-fi flick. It was about twice the size of a large van, an oversized chrome pie plate topped with a dome of dark glass. The sides gleamed in the sunlight, making it look as if the saucer had caught fire. A golden cloud of light shone down from the bottom, oozing across the ground and illuminating the dust. The strange vehicle hung close to the earth, hovering about a foot or two off the desert. It didn’t drive―it flew. It sped toward Cowl Canyons, humming along with effortless ease. Maybe Felix had been right and Roscoe couldn’t handle this. He gritted his teeth at the thought. He could handle anything.

  He popped the glove compartment and pulled out his sawed-off shotgun.
Roscoe leaned over the side and aimed the sawed-off with one hand, gripping the wheel with the other. Roscoe closed the gap between his car and the flying saucer. His lips fluttered in the wind pelting his dead skin with dust. He didn’t care. “Bolton! Dr. Bolton! You pull that thing over right now! Stop and we’ll talk about it!” He shouted over the roar of the engines and waved the gun, doing everything he could to make himself understood.

  The flying saucer didn’t stop. Roscoe felt a sense of déjà vu. He was going to have to do this the hard way after all.

  He fired the sawed-off, giving the hovering disc one barrel and then the other. The shells blasted into the smooth, curved sides of the experimental vehicle. Sparks flew. But the flying saucer didn’t slow or weave to the side. It just kept zooming along. Roscoe gawked at the completely undented metal. He’d seen what the gun did to cars―and bodies―before. Roscoe shook his head. That was fine. He’d planned ahead with the Captain. Roscoe let the sawed-off fall into the passenger seat.

  He reached over past the seat, and grabbed a harpoon with a thin projectile ending in a serrated spike―magnetized by Felix so it would stick to any surface it stabbed. Roscoe rested it on the dashboard. He kept the gas pedal down, roaring alongside the flying saucer. Roscoe stared into his reflection, blurred and distorted, on the side of the silver disc. It was like a funhouse mirror, making his forehead and chin oversized. He pulled the trigger.

  The harpoon slammed into the side of the flying saucer. Metal rang on metal, sounding almost musical against the roar of engines and the hum of machines. The pronged point of the harpoon stabbed the casing, cracked it, and held. Felix had designed the harpoon, and its magnetized tip worked perfectly. The line snapped out, unwrapping with a rapid crack, and then going taut. Roscoe removed his seatbelt and killed the engine. He clamped onto the harpoon with both hand and the rope ripped him out of his seat and hurled him into the air.

  He flew toward the hover disc, wind and dust ripping at his coat and body. Roscoe slammed into the ground and bounced against the dirt. His bones pressed ragged against his skin. Roscoe gritted his teeth at the impact, wincing at the raw pain. The flying saucer sped on, dragging him across the desert. His sternum cracked, and a rib went with it . He managed to hold onto the harpoon launcher while he pressed another button. The harpoon retracted its cord, dragging Roscoe up to the side of the flying saucer. Roscoe reached out, groping blindly as the gritty road shredded his shirt and tore at his guts. Finally, he gripped the edge of the experimental craft.

  Another pull of the rope and he was on. He clutched at the sides. It was smooth, but he found seams to cling to. Roscoe climbed up, letting the harpoon fall once he had a grip. Roscoe dragged his belly closer to the dark glass dome. The chrome surface felt strangely cool, despite the sun beating down. He felt like he was scaling an oversized Frigidaire box as it zoomed along the desert. The wind ripped at him, tugging at his sunglasses. Roscoe shook his head and knocked them aside, then kept crawling. The glass dome drew closer. He grabbed the waiting crowbar in his belt.

  “Dr. Bolton!” Roscoe cried. “You’ve gone far enough!”

  One hand held onto the side of the flying saucer and steadied him. He raised the crowbar and then brought it down, smashing the pronged side on the glass. It cracked and broke. Roscoe swung again. Cracks spread out from the impact, racing along the dome. Roscoe grinned. He loved this―loved the chase and the hunt, cornering some chump and proving he was better on the road and off it. He could outrun anybody, win any fight, and it would give him the usual rush of excitement and joy. Roscoe brought down the crowbar again.

  Glass shattered and broke away―then it split, a line appearing in the center as the dome opened like a big clam. Apparently, the UFO was a convertible. The dome rolled down, slipping into the rim of the UFO’s cockpit. Inside Dr. Bolton sat on a shapeless stool before a round bank of controls, his hands resting on various levers and buttons. A pair of leather straps wedged him into his seat. He looked like a pencil pusher gone mad, with a wild head of tangled hair above a pale face, a thin moustache, and a disheveled collared shirt and tie that could have doubled as pajamas.

  He stared at Roscoe, then reached down and grabbed a wrench. “No! You don’t understand―I’ve got to set things right! I’ve got to save the world.” He swung the wrench at Roscoe, slamming it into Roscoe’s chest. The hit must have mashed a broken bone; a wave of pain knocked him back. He toppled onto the side of the flying saucer. Roscoe flailed and grabbed the edge of the cockpit. He clamped on, fighting the wind tearing at him. Dr. Bolton looked at him. Their eyes met.

  Dr. Bolton sighed as he raised the wrench. He had Roscoe at his mercy. “I’m sorry. But you’re a dead man―aren’t you? This won’t kill you. And you’ve got to know, sir, I am meant for great things. I am going to set the world free, and I cannot allow you to stop my great work.” He pulled back the wrench. “I’m sorry.”

  “Sure,” Roscoe muttered between gritted teeth. “No hard feelings.”

  “You should have known better,” Dr. Bolton said. “You really should have.”

  “So should you.” Roscoe managed a weak grin. “You should have kept your eyes on the road.”

  With a nervous yelp, Dr. Bolton spun around. He had flown toward Cowl Canyons―and would smash straight into a broad spire of rust-colored stone if the flying saucer didn’t change course. Dr. Bolton reached for the controls.

  Roscoe’s other friends, the two final members of the drivers, sprang into action. A bulky, brown and white two-tone Packard rolled out from behind a copse of sagebrush, bull’s horns resting on the bumper. It rumbled toward the flying saucer like a tank on the attack. Dr. Bolton tried to steer the other way, but swerved back when a cherry red Cadillac zoomed out from behind a scraggly grove of Joshua trees. The Cadillac hummed low to the ground, burning rubber as its motor roared.

  The Packard and the Caddy sped along next to the silver disc. They boxed it in, ramming it and keeping it on course. Dr. Bolton stared at the spire. Sweat beaded on his forehead, making his pale skin gleam.

  He looked down at Roscoe. “Oh, no. You don’t understand.”

  “I understand enough, Doc,” Roscoe said. “For instance, you should probably hold on.”

  The flying saucer slammed into the stone. The metal shook on impact like a cymbal struck by a drumstick. Roscoe flew off the side and crashed into the dust. The UFO sank down, its front chipped and broken. Dr. Bolton undid his straps and pulled himself out of the cockpit. He rolled down the smooth side of the saucer, struck the dust, and landed next to Roscoe. The experimental aircraft settled down to rest on the desert floor. It made a noise like a ringing bell, which gradually faded into a dull hum, and then into complete silence. Roscoe rolled over and stared into a pure blue sky marked with puffs of cloud.

  The doors of the Packard and the Cadillac swung open. Angel Rey stepped out, straightening the red tie of his scarlet zoot suit and brushing the dust from his matching trousers. He wore a red fedora and kept a carefully combed, thin moustache on his olive-skinned face. Roscoe looked up from where he lay and gave Angel a broken grin. The former pachuco thug had grown up on the tough streets of East LA―brawling with sailors, cops, and hoods instead of going to school. His mother worked as a famed shaman, and she’d taught him everything he knew. Now he was Roscoe’s best friend and one of the toughest of the drivers.

  Dr. Bolton sprang to his feet. He staggered, swaying and shaking. “No… I cannot let myself be―” Dr. Bolton stumbled away from the wreck.

  “Easy there.” Angel caught up to him. He grabbed Dr. Bolton’s shoulder. “You ain’t going anywhere.”

  “No!” Dr. Bolton tore away, ripping his coat as he tried to run.

  Wooster Stokes stepped out of the Packard. His alligator-hide boots slid into the dirt. Wooster had broad shoulders, and thick mud-brown sideburns framing a face that seemed caught in a perpetual snarl. He sported a Stetson and a bolo tie with a silver clasp. A Bowie knife rested on his belt in a snakes
kin scabbard. Wooster was pure Okie nightmare―a reformed bank robber who had never quite let go of his outlaw past.

  He walked over to Dr. Bolton, grabbed him by the shoulders, and held him in place. “Sit on down, boy.” Dr. Bolton wriggled, and Wooster rammed his forehead against the scientist’s face with a rapid head butt, causing him to crumple to the ground. Wooster grabbed the doctor’s wrist and yanked a pair of cuffs from his belt, securing the doctor’s arms. “He won’t give us no more trouble.”

  “We’re just supposed to bring him in alive, man,” Angel said. “Not hurt him.”

  “He’s in one piece, ain’t he?” Wooster asked. “That’s more than I can say for Roscoe.” He lifted Dr. Bolton up to his knees and sighed. “Jesus… We might have to scrape you up and shovel you home.”

  Roscoe grunted and managed to sit up. He touched his chest, feeling the broken bones. “I would appreciate a little help.”

  Angel hurried over and helped him up as more engines rumbled close by. Roscoe’s Nash-Healey rolled up―Betty at the wheel―the Rolls Royce close behind. They puttered to a stop beside Dr. Bolton. Betty and the Captain stepped out, along with Felix, Snowball in his hands. Betty and Felix hurried to Roscoe’s side.

  “Roscoe.” Panic shone in Betty’s eyes. “Are you okay?”

  “Peachy,” Roscoe said. “Just let me eat a few steaks and I’ll be right as rain.” That was one of the benefits of being a zombie. Roscoe had to munch a few meals and all his injuries would heal. A living dead constitution came in handy. He gave Betty a lopsided grin. “How’d the Nash handle?”

  “Like a dream,” Betty said.

  “You are certain you are well?” Felix asked.

  Roscoe nodded and clasped the boy’s hand. Snowball let out a little squeak at Dr. Bolton. Wooster led the scientist back to the Rolls Royce; he would be taken back La Cruz and handed over to the government men who wanted him.

  “Dr. Bolton?” Felix asked, his voice hesitant. “I am sorry for this. Dreadfully sorry.”