That night, Roscoe went to his room and did his best to slip into the kind of half-sleep that was the closest zombies could come to slumber. He lay on the bed, gazing up at his posters of horror movies and comics, rendered shadowy in the dark. He couldn’t dream, couldn’t truly shut down his consciousness―but he could try. Roscoe groaned and mumbled to himself as he rolled over. On good days, he could enjoy a decent enough rest, and would emerge refreshed and ready to work. But tonight, something stopped him from slipping away into a peaceful oblivion. His hands clenched the covers, gripping the bedspread and digging into the mattress. Knocking came from the door, a feverish and panicked pounding. With a groan, Roscoe rolled out of bed and stumbled to the door.
He pulled it open and found Felix Tannenbaum on the balcony outside the second-story room, in a dark robe and striped pajamas. Snowball bounced along at his feet, screeching wildly. Roscoe glared at the boy. “Kiddo… You read my horror comics again and got nightmares, didn’t you? I told you not to read them too late. I’ve told you a hundred times and―”
“Nein, Herr Roscoe.” He slipped into German―as he often did when he was afraid. “Es ist… um, it is something else. The ectospectrometer in my room is recording spiritual activity that is off the charts!” He pointed back to the city. “There is great deal of arcane energy growing in La Cruz.” He glanced at Snowball, then reached down and petted the Yeti’s furry scalp while whispering calming words in German. “Snowball has also become highly agitated.”
“Yeah?” Roscoe asked. “What else is new?”
Before Felix could reply, a burst of deep purple light blazed down Main Street. It sent shadows dancing across La Cruz. Roscoe had to turn away from the sudden blast. The sound of shattering glass echoed through the town as more light blasted out from the far end of the street. Sirens blared in the distance and lights in suburban houses winked to life. Roscoe scurried back into his room. He pulled on his jeans and leather jacket then grabbed the crowbar and sawed-off shotgun. When he stepped back outside, more glowing lights flared up along the thoroughfare.
By then, Wooster and Angel had also emerged from their rooms, looking ready for war. Angel was in his shirt and tie, wearing a pair of shoulder holsters equipped with pearl-handled automatic pistols. Wooster, wearing only an undershirt and trousers, packed a tommy gun.
Felix looked at the weapons and then back to Roscoe. “We will investigate, Mr. Roscoe?”
“We will,” Roscoe said. “You stay put. Lock the doors.” He and his friends started down from the balcony. As they descended the stairs, Betty exited her room to join them. The Captain was already waiting on the pavement below in vest and shirtsleeves. Roscoe waved to him. “Trouble in town?”
As if in answer, more purple light flashed down Main Street, brighter than neon.
The Captain nodded. “I just got a call from Sheriff Braddock. The lights are converging at the sheriff’s station. I think it’s Mars’ doing.” He pointed down the street. “Take the Packard for strength and the coupe for speed. Get there quick.” He paused. When he spoke again, a trace of fear fringed his words. “Protect our town.”
“Got it.” Roscoe pointed to Betty as he rested his sawed-off on his shoulder. “I’m riding with you, sister. Angel, you ride with Wooster. Be the backup with the big guns; we’ll figure out what’s going on. Now let’s go.”
They hurried to their cars. Roscoe took the passenger seat and Betty started the engine. Her coupe was smaller than Roscoe’s, with a shining white paint job and a convertible top. However, its small size made it a bit more maneuverable. She sped out of the driveway, hitting the street while the Packard rumbled along behind. The two-car convoy rolled toward the source of the glowing purple lights. Betty kept the gas pedal down, her knuckles whitening on the wheel.
Roscoe glanced over at her. “Bringing back memories?”
“Yeah,” Betty said. “Nightmares of La Cruz turned into a war zone last year.”
“That’s finished. Strickland’s dead and the Crimson Cross is safely stored up in the mission. The devil won’t have this city.”
“Maybe,” Betty said. “But what if Townsend Mars is something worse?”
As they drove down the street, the ground shook and splintered. When he had been alive, Roscoe once experienced a little LA earthquake. It was a small tremor, enough to shatter glass and wobble the floor, but not too much more. In a city as wild in LA right before the Second World War, it was small potatoes. But the quake had stuck with Roscoe, and he remembered it now as the road heaved. Then, up ahead, the pavement split. A giant, pale pink crystal erupted out of the ground. It reared up into the night air, shining and brilliant and twice as tall as the car. Betty closed her eyes and spun the wheel. The Coupe careened around the crystal, narrowly avoiding its spiked sides. Wooster’s Packard wasn’t so lucky. Its edge rammed hard into the crystal and the metal crumpled on impact.
They drove ahead as more crystal spires reared up. The spikes split the sidewalk and the street. One popped Betty’s front tire and she battled the wheel to stay on course. “What’s going on?” she screamed. “Where are all these crystals coming from?”
“Mars.” Roscoe shouted. “I’ve seen them before. His gods are helping him out―the Crystal Creeps.” He pointed up ahead. “Turn here, sister. The police station is right ahead.”
Betty spun the wheel and the car screeched around the corner―straight to a wall of crystal spikes. They formed a loose palisade twice the height of a man, blocking off the road. Roscoe looked inside the spikes and swore he could see murky shapes trapped like flies frozen in novelty ice cubes. The forms seemed somewhat humanoid, but warped and strange.
Betty gunned the motor. Roscoe stared at her. “Betty, what are you―”
“I’m not letting this town become a battlefield again. We’re going in.”
She released the brake. The coupe shot forward―straight for the crystal fence. The nose rammed into the barrier, sending crystal flakes flying through the air. Roscoe gritted his teeth at the impact. Betty swerved once they were through. Pink chunks bounced off the hood and cracked the windshield. Betty spun the car to the side and planted the front end straight into a tree right in front of the police station―a little domed structure that looked like the architect had clumsily tried to replicate a Grecian temple. Sheriff Leland Braddock, a plump fellow in an ill-fitting uniform, rested on the steps with a pump-action shotgun in hand, backed-up by two terrified deputies. Dr. Bolton, still in handcuffs, stood behind him. Roscoe stepped out, holding his sawed-off shotgun. He waved to the sheriff.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“We’re not doing so good, Roscoe!” Sheriff Braddock wailed. “These crystal shards poked into Bolton’s cell. We had to get him out of there. Thank Christ he was the only prisoner in the place. Now more crystals have been springing up and―Judas Priest!” He pointed back at the spires emerging from the ground. Roscoe turned, sawed-off at the ready.
The crystals cracked like eggshells, the fragments raining down, and creatures slipped out of the broken shards. Roscoe had fought them before―the Crystal Creeps that had served Mars during his previous incursion in La Cruz. These seemed to be a different variety, a subspecies. They had the size and shape of chimpanzees, but were covered in spiky, crystalline skin with jagged edges. They looked like odd statues, unfinished and waiting for the points to be smoothed down. Moving like apes, they darted from their broken prisons on hands and knuckles. Some had spikes projecting from their wrists or swinging, club-tipped tails. Roscoe counted about a dozen, all converging on the steps of the police station.
He waved o Betty and the cops. “Stay back. Protect Dr. Bolton.” He leveled his sawed-off at the Creeps and walked forward, reaching down to his belt to grab his crowbar. “Hey! Why don’t you guys head back into your crystals and return to the underground. I got a feeling it’ll be safer.”
The Creeps faced him. They hissed, a musical piping sound like an orchestra warming up―and charged.
The Crystal Creeps swarmed toward Roscoe, racing together over the pavement. Roscoe fired both barrels, one after the other. His first shot tore a Crystal Creep in half, scattering stones across the street. His second shot removed another’s head, shattering the beast’s face into a hundred little spikes. Roscoe tucked the gun into his coat and whipped out his crowbar as they reached him. He swung the pronged edge down, smashing the Crystal Creeps with each blow. Their claws slashed and gouged his legs. One creature bit down on his foot, razor-sharp diamond teeth digging into his skin. Roscoe howled and caved in the Creep’s skull. Then another jumped onto his back and went for his throat. Roscoe grabbed the Creep’s head and pushed it away from his neck. Teeth pierced his fingers instead.
“Roscoe!” Betty’s snub-nosed revolver popped and the Creep’s back split. It sank down, crashing to the street and shattering. Betty hurried closer, backed up by Sheriff Braddock and his two deputies―they’d sprung into action as soon as they overcame their surprise. They moved in, cutting down the nearby Creeps with their revolvers to give Roscoe some space. He scrambled back, his swinging crowbar holding the Creeps at bay. He smashed two more creatures, sending a spray of crystalline gore onto the road. Betty’s revolver flashed as she punched all six shots into the Creeps. Then she grabbed Roscoe’s arms and tugged him toward the stairs.
Roscoe grinned. “I’m okay, sister. Just a little exercise.”
“They’re going to overwhelm us, Roscoe.” Betty snapped open her revolver and reached for extra bullets. Her thin fingers slid them in one after the next without dropping any. She might not have been a natural around firearms, but she’d had plenty of practice. “We need to fall back to the sheriff’s office and protect Dr. Bolton, okay?”
“Don’t worry.” Roscoe pointed to the adjoining road. “The cavalry’s arrived.”
As he spoke, the Packard smashed through the remains of crystalline fence in a spray of shards. The paint had been chipped to hell and the sides had countless dents. More Creeps and spires had doubtlessly blocked their path, but Wooster and Angel had arrived ready for the fight. Wooster aimed his Thompson at the Crystal Creeps and gave them a long rattling salvo before stepping out. Angel exited with a leap and hurried next to Betty and Roscoe. Another wave of creatures leapt toward them, but Angel brought up both pistols and unloaded, each automatic thundering away. Crystal pieces rained on the ground and the musical roars of the creatures became pained and wild. Sheriff Braddock and his deputies joined in, keeping up the fire.
Wooster advanced, firing bursts from the hip. “You doing all right there, Roscoe?”
“Fine.” Roscoe cracked open his sawed-off and slid in two more shells. He snapped the gun shut and gave both barrels to the Creeps. “These little bastards need to learn a lesson. I guess we’re teaching them.” He grinned at Angel. “Maybe those Crystal Gods ain’t that bright after all.”
“Maybe they just don’t mind dying,” Angel said.
Then Betty pointed down the road. “Oh no,” she muttered. “The Creeps―they were just a diversion!”
Roscoe twisted around, in time to see the pearl-colored limousine come speeding around the corner. The Buicks flanked it, with Crystal Church worshipers standing on the runners, armed with rifles. They took aim at Roscoe and his friends, and the deputies― waiting to open fire. The Creeps still hadn’t let up their assault, demanding their immediate attention. The limousine sped to the side of the Sheriff’s Department, rolling onto the grass and coming to a halt right by the long marble steps.
Roscoe groaned and reloaded. “Keep holding off the Creeps. I’ll deal with Mars.”
Sheriff Braddock winced as he fumbled to reload. “Sure, Roscoe. This is your business―you’re the expert here.”
Betty glanced at him as she raised her pistol. “You sure you can handle him, Roscoe? He is a prophet, after all―and he’s got plenty of supporters.”
“He’s a bearded nut,” Roscoe said. “And I’m a dead man.”
He sprang back, leaving the firing line and running down the stairs. His friends and Sheriff Braddock put down some covering fire, but another crystalline wall ripped its way out of the ground, rearing up before them and blocking their shots. They might be able to scale those sudden shimmering battlements, but for the moment, Roscoe was on his own.
Mars stood at the bottom of the stairs and held out his hands. “Bolton!” he roared, his voice booming. His voice softened as Bolton spotted him. “Come to me, my son.”
Bolton obeyed the order. He crept down the steps, hanging his head, and hurried into Mars’s arms. Mars embraced Dr. Bolton tightly and kissed his forehead. “Head to the limousine. There is great work to be done.”
Roscoe reached the base of the stairs. He charged toward Mars, raising his sawed-off. The cultists opened fire; Roscoe caught a slug somewhere in the gut and another in the shoulder. Bullets whined past him and he felt them go in, cutting tunnels through his body and making him stumble. But he still grabbed Mars’s shoulder and rammed the sawed-off into the cult leader’s side. Mars didn’t seem surprised.
“I’m afraid Dr. Bolton’s staying put,” Roscoe grumbled.
Mars smiled at Roscoe. “You don’t know what we are trying to accomplish. You do not know what we will bring about.”
“I don’t care.”
“No, dead man―you care.” Too late, Roscoe noticed Mars’ hands tighten on the pointed crystal skewer that served as his walking stick. “Because I am going to give you exactly what it is you really want. I am going to give you total and eternal war.”
He swung the spire up and plunged it into Roscoe’s chest with impossible speed. Roscoe didn’t have a chance to fire. He gagged as the staff stabbed through him and exited between his shoulder blades. He stumbled back, breath coming involuntarily into his lungs. They inflated and closed, pushing out dead air that he didn’t need. He stumbled and sank down to his knees. Roscoe glanced up, staring into the cold eyes of Townsend Mars.
The cult leader patted Roscoe’s head. “War, my son. Soon.” He kicked Roscoe and knocked him down.
Roscoe struck the cement. The crystal remained wedged inside him, fused into his skin, pinning him to the ground. Betty and Angel shouted his name, but they sounded far away. He kept breathing and his eyes closed. Everything became fuzzy and indistinct.
Roscoe slipped away.
He fell into the memories of the man he once was. These flashbacks were nothing new, Roscoe had learned sometime last year, after old faces from the past had come back to try and take over La Cruz. But now, he lived them again. He was Carmine Vitale, a Sicilian-born hood with an aptitude for motors and murder. He’d come to America as a kid, grew up a punk, and ran errands for hoodlums in Boyle Heights and Bunker Hill until he got pinched and went to fight the war in Sicily. After killing Nazis and fascist Italians for a year or two, the military let him go and he became a full time button man. Vitale would never have stopped―if he hadn’t fallen in love with the Don’s wife. They made a plan to steal her husband’s money and split. He just had to do one more job.
It was a hit on a small time gambler who owed too much money and needed to be turned into an example. But the gambler’s mother was a fortuneteller, a strega from the Old Country. Carmine killed her son in front of her and she cursed him―making his body as dead as his soul. The next day, he got another job in La Cruz. Two of the don’s torpedoes took him there. That’s when he realized that the Don had found out the truth about his wife and his top shooter. He was the target now. He pulled a weapon, but the torpedoes gunned him down and left him in a ditch on the road. Carmine died with their last words ringing in his ears: “He’s got a roscoe!” Hours later, Roscoe found himself awake, and shambled down the road until Angel crashed into him. The Captain had taken him in. He’d worked with them ever since.
Roscoe didn’t like to remember his old life. All of his villainies―his sadism, his rage, his love of carnage―came floating back and infected him once again. Roscoe considered himself his own
person, free of Carmine Vitale and the past. He hated being reminded that wasn’t true. But the crystal staff did its job. Roscoe drifted through the memories until he found the pure and endless sleep that had been denied to him earlier.
When consciousness finally came, Roscoe found himself lying on his bed in his room. His strength seeped back, and when he looked to the nightstand, he found a thick submarine sandwich and a bottle of Coke waiting for him. He glanced down at his chest. Someone had removed his shirt and tied a set of clean bandages over the wound. Roscoe gave them a pat. He could feel the gaping hole in his chest, but it wasn’t particularly bad. He grabbed the sandwich and gobbled it down before he stood and got dressed. A quick glance at the window revealed that it was morning, but he didn’t know how long he had been out. Roscoe slid on his leather jacket and licked mustard from his fingers, then hit the stairs and went to check up on his friends.
As he expected, they were in the kitchen, along with Major Raskin and Special Agent Pruitt. The Captain sat at the end of the table with a map of the surrounding area. Felix stood next to him, looking it over. Wooster grilled eggs, while Betty and Angel flipped through a set of thick door-stopper books. They had bandaged their wounds from the battle outside the sheriff’s office. Snowball sat on his cushioned bed in the corner, biting a Milk-Bone nearly in half. All of them looked up when Roscoe walked in.
Angel hurried to Roscoe’s side. “How you doing, man? All recovered?”
“It was nothing,” Roscoe said, maybe a little too quickly. He nodded to Felix. “Doesn’t hurt at all. I’ve had bigger splinters.” He sat and pointed to the counter. “You’re making eggs? I better eat a few. Scramble them and fill them up with whatever you got in this kitchen.”
Detour to Apocalypse: A Rot Rods Serial, Part One Page 3
