Detour to Apocalypse: A Rot Rods Serial, Part One

by Michael Panush

  “We better split up,” Roscoe said. “I’ll go to the bar, and you can head outside and check the buffet. Start pumping these clowns for any info about Dr. Bolton and Mars.”

  “Got it.” Angel looked over the guests again and shook his head. “White people, man,” he muttered and headed to the stairs leading outside.

  Roscoe made his way to the bar. He busied himself making a quick martini, even though booze didn’t really affect him anymore, and walked back through the house. He passed a few bedrooms with locked doors, the sounds of chanting slipping through the walls, and then wandered into a sunroom. A single man sat on the chesterfield in the center of the room, so still that Roscoe at first thought he was one of the decorations. He wore a pure black robe, the collar pulled close so that none of his skin was visible, and the bottom reaching down to cover his legs completely. His mask covered the entirety of his head―a devil’s face with red pointed horns reaching up toward the ceiling, narrow eye slits, and barely any other features. It looked like it had been made of wood or maybe painted metal, something solid that couldn’t be yanked away. He swiveled his head slowly to look at Roscoe.

  “Good evening,” he said, his accent pure British aristocracy.

  “Good evening.” Roscoe held out the martini. “You want a drink?” He couldn’t see any mouth holes in the mask―barely any holes at all, actually―but it was worth a shot.

  “Thank you, no.” He kept his hidden eyes focused on Roscoe. “You are a dead man, are you not?”

  For some reason he couldn’t place, Roscoe didn’t feel like lying to the devil. “Yeah. Cursed, you know. I’m a zombie, I guess. I can’t die. I can feel okay, but it comes and goes. It ain’t that bad.”

  “Death rarely is what we think it will be,” the devil said.

  “That’s true.” Roscoe paused and looked at the devil again. “Say… Are you Cassius Craul?”

  “Cassius Craul is dead.” The devil seemed to think that answered the question. “I do not think you are here for the party. You do not believe in the power of the devil―even though you have seen it firsthand. No. I think you are here for another reason.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “You do not look like the usual guests who come here.” The devil sighed. “Oh, if only you had come back in the golden age of devil worship. In the Twenties, when tradition had died on the bloody fields of France and no one trusted the angels anymore, those were grand times. In the Thirties, after the Stock Market Crash forced so many into debt and despair, they turned to the devil then as well. You should have seen the rituals we conducted. The beings we summoned across the black gulfs of space and time. My boy, that was the proper time to be a decadent.”

  “You didn’t happen to meet a guy named Mars during those times?” Roscoe asked. “Townsend Mars?”

  “Townsend….” The devil repeated the name softly. “Yes. I knew him. A weak man. A frightened man, seeking answers as so many did in those days. Now? They do not seek answers. They want new cars. Better refrigerators.” He scoffed. “Truly, we dwell in wretched times.”

  “What about Dr. Bolton?” Roscoe asked. “They said he liked your writings quite a bit.”

  “Another weak man,” the devil said. “It seems that is all there is, these days.”

  Roscoe had a feeling that this line of questioning wouldn’t work. It was time to get more exact. “Do you know where they might go―Mars especially―if things got too hot for them in LA? Do they have any friends out of the city? Safe houses? That sort of thing?” The devil stared at him. “Look… I was hired to find Dr. Bolton. Mars snatched him and split. I’m trying to track him down before Mars does something crazy.”

  “Such as?”

  “I don’t know. End the world?”

  The devil laughed. “Would he have to work so hard? U.S. and Soviet Russia fill their silos with nuclear missiles. At a moment’s notice, they will let them fly. The fires will come―pillars of fire, as it says in Revelations―and all will be wiped away.” He leaned back in his seat. “That is enough to make the devil laugh. That it is god-fearing men, content in their nations and their faith, who will end the human race.”

  “Yeah.” Roscoe wasn’t laughing. “Hilarious.”

  “But I think I know what you ask,” the devil said. “In the old days, before and during the War, Mars’s followers started traveling to Mexico to study the ruins. Have you ever seen them? The Aztec and Mayan pyramids. Brilliant monuments to their blood hungry gods, built of solid stone and stretching up to the heavens.”

  “I’ve seen some of the Aztec pyramids,” Roscoe said. “During trips to Mexico. Impressive stuff.”

  “And of deep mystical significance.” The devil held up a hand. He wore a glove, so that Roscoe still couldn’t see his skin. “Their artifacts, their very stones, sing with magical power. Mars brought back several artifacts himself, and then dispatched his followers to do the same. It seemed simple enough. Hand a few dollars over to some poor Mexicans and smuggle the artifacts north. Mars’s followers, clean cut Americans that look like missionaries, received little scrutiny at the border.” He folded his hands, his fingers intertwining. “Now you tell me, Roscoe, what else can be smuggled out of Mexico and brought into this fine country?”

  Roscoe knew the answer right away. “Dope.”

  “Exactly. That brings us to a man who became Townsend Mars’s dear friend―a common criminal named Frankie Finkelstein. ‘Frankie Fink’ to his friends. They moved in the same circles. Mars provided spiritual relief to the celebrities of Hollywood in the Thirties. Fink provided them with narcotics and smuggled goods. Then Mars and Fink met, and they became friends. Mars smuggled dope along with his Indian artifacts from Mexico, and Fink paid him. Their respective businesses boomed.”

  That wasn’t exactly heartening news. Roscoe had heard of Frankie Fink. He had come over from New York after Prohibition, a back alley Jewish hood from Brooklyn turned into organized crime’s representative on the West Coast. Fink was ruthless, violent, and had a notorious temper. He’d ruled in LA for a while, but moved to a new project around the time of the war. And that was where he was now.

  “You know where he is, don’t you?” Mars asked.

  “Yeah,” Roscoe said. “Las Vegas.” The city that Frankie Fink, organized crime, and pure greed had built. “I know.”

  “The Sandpiper Hotel and Casino.” The devil smoothed down his robes. “Go there, Roscoe. You will find Mars. You will find Dr. Bolton.”

  “Got it.” Roscoe raised the martini glass to his mouth and drained it. Bitterness slithered down his throat.

  The devil reclined. “But do you think it will matter? When the world is so close to war already?”

  “It’ll matter,” Roscoe said.

  “So say the angels, when the fires of Hell rise to the gates of Heaven.”

  “I’m no angel.” Roscoe set the empty martini glass down on nearby table and took two steps away. He had to find Angel and get out of there. “So long, Mr. Craul. Until we meet again.” He walked down the hall, leaving the devil where he rested on the couch.

  He stepped back into the hallway and walked to the main room. A couple of guests in rabbit masks walked by, tugging a goat on a rope collar. The goat didn’t seem keen to go with them. It snorted and shook its horns, but they hauled it outside anyway. Roscoe had the feeling that they were planning to sacrifice the poor animal. He spotted Angel sitting on the patio, sipping beer from a bottle. Roscoe waved to Angel, who came in to join him. He skirted around the goat and walked over to stand next to Roscoe on the carpet.

  He didn’t look happy. “I hope you got more than me, man. I’ve been talking to this stockbroker who makes his purchases based on the blood pouring down from these sacrifices he does. Spends his time reading chicken blood and apparently makes a fortune. He was trying to sell me on it, telling me how much money I could make. I told him I had to freshen my drink and left. What’d you find out? Recipes for Jell-O or some other useless crap?”<
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  “Nope,” Roscoe said. “But I found out where Mars probably went to.”

  “Seriously? Where?”

  “Las Vegas. The Sandpiper Casino.” Roscoe took Angel’s beer and had a quick sip before handing it back. “Seems that Mars was once best friends with Frankie Fink. He helped Fink smuggle dope from Mexico, and I can’t think of a more secure place for him to hide out with Dr. Bolton than Vegas.”

  “You trust the guy who told you that?” Angel asked.

  Roscoe nodded. Somehow, he knew the devil didn’t lie. “Yeah. So now, I guess we gotta decide what our next move is. We ought to go back to the Captain, tell him the score and―”

  He didn’t get to finish his sentence. The pig-headed door greeter scrambled into the room, arms flailing. “Cops!” he cried. “A Lincoln pulled up! LAPD cruisers are behind! They’re raiding the place!” He let out a squeal that matched his costume and then ran away. Outside, Roscoe could hear sirens whining. The cops must’ve kept them quiet right until they rolled up. And the Lincoln? It sounded like Agent Dodd. No doubt about it, he was after the same quarry they were. Roscoe didn’t want to face him again.

  He turned to Angel. “We gotta go.”

  “Yeah,” Angel said. “Fast.”

  It seemed every guest at the Infernal Masquerade had the same idea. They scrambled from the backyard and out of every room, running with bloody sacrificial knives and sticks of incense still in hand. Women tripped over their evening gowns and had to be helped up, their jewelry clicking as they hurried away. The goat broke free of its captor. It galloped around the room, waving its horned head and knocking over tables and chairs as guests scrambled to get away. Roscoe didn’t see the devil fleeing with the others. He could probably turn into a cloud of smoke and float out the chimney. Roscoe and Angel ran as well.

  They reached the door, pushing their way through the crowd as they struggled out. A portly guy in a rubber gorilla mask elbowed Roscoe, trying to push him out of the way. Angel grabbed his shoulder and tossed him back, hurling him into the drinks cabinet. They sprinted through the door and out onto the lawn. The gargoyles glared at them, still snarling, as they joined the crowd scrambling toward their cars. A thin line of maybe half-a-dozen uniformed cops tried to intercept the guests and handcuff them, but they weren’t having much luck. One guest sporting a giant deer’s head had managed to get his mask switched the wrong away around, and he stumbled straight into the wall and crashed into a flowerbed. The cops sprang on him, but he reared up and pushed them back with his antlers. It was a mess―with enough chaos for Roscoe and Angel to escape.

  They didn’t bother with the sidewalk. Instead, Roscoe and Angel headed straight down the open street. Their shoes clattered on the pavement, clicking in unison. Roscoe looked over his shoulder.

  “Goddamn,” he whispered. “It’s Dodd. He can’t take a hint.”

  Agent Dodd sat behind the wheel of his black Lincoln. He revved the car to life and it shot into the road, speeding after Angel and Roscoe. He didn’t slow as he drew closer. Roscoe knew what he was going to do―ram into them, run them down, and then pop out and detain them, or just shoot them each twice in the head and be done with it. Judging by the way his face shifted in a cold scowl behind his sunglasses, it would have to be the latter.

  Roscoe and Angel ran. Roscoe’s legs ached from the crash he had taken earlier, but he still scrambled down the street. Angel panted and gasped, but didn’t slow. The Lincoln rolled closer and closer, gaining speed. Its yellow headlights painted the street before them gold. The engine roared. Roscoe could hardly believe it. He’d called Dodd’s bluff and the government man seemed perfectly willing to play for blood. Up ahead, Angel’s Cadillac rested on the curb. A couple more steps and they’d reach it―but the Lincoln’s bumper would reach them first, and there wasn’t time to dash to the lawns or the curb.

  Wooster’s Packard came speeding down the street. It swiveled around and rammed into the side of the Lincoln. Steel crunched on steel. Agent Dodd fell back against the window as his Lincoln shifted to the side. Wooster leaned out of the window. “Roscoe!” he cried. “Angel! Run and follow me! We’ll get out of here damn quick!”

  Wooster didn’t have to tell them twice. Roscoe and Angel raced to the Caddy. Angel got there first and hopped the side, leaping behind the wheel and jamming the key into the ignition in one fluid movement. Roscoe dove into the passenger seat as the engine roared. Wooster’s Packard rumbled back, leaving Dodd’s Lincoln with a crumpled side and a busted headlight.

  Agent Dodd stepped out of the car, not saying a word as he reached into his coat. The fading sunlight glinted on steel as he withdrew the silenced pistol, taking aim with both hands and sighting on the Cadillac.

  “Drive into the lawn, not the street,” Roscoe ordered. “Get as much space as you can from Dodd and kick up some dirt.”

  “Why not just zoom ahead of him?” Angel asked as the Cadillac shot forward.

  “Because he’s smart enough to know how to cripple a car by shooting out our tires.” Roscoe reached for his seatbelt. “Now go.”

  The Caddy roared onto the lawns of the neighboring houses. Its fat wheels churned the earth, sending up torrents of dirt and flowers that provided some cover. A gun flashed behind them. The bullet plinked against the rear bumper of the Cadillac, denting the metal―but missing the tires. Roscoe glanced over his shoulder and looked at Dodd in the seconds before Angel twisted the wheel to round the corner. He stood in the center of the road, pistol in his hand. He didn’t look angry or disappointed. He looked bored, tired, already weary with his job. The Cadillac switched around the corner and Agent Dodd disappeared from view.

  Roscoe settled back in his seat. He glanced over at Angel.

  “Any damage to my ride?” Angel asked.

  “Rear bumper caught a slug.”

  “Great,” Angel muttered. “But I suppose it could’ve gone worse.”

  “Very true,” Roscoe said. Up ahead, Wooster’s Packard rumbled its way down the open road. “And we got what we came for.”

  “So where to now?” Angel asked.

  “Home,” Roscoe said. “I got the feeling we’re gonna be on the road come morning.”

  They sped on through Los Angeles. Up above, the purple sunset gave way to the black of night. Stars appeared, faint in the smog. Roscoe wondered if Townsend Mars and Doc Schlock were right. Maybe the world was set to end. Maybe it had endured too much, and was finally ready to stop turning. He shook the thoughts from his head as he leaned back. They had a long way to go.

  The little two-car convoy hit La Cruz an hour or two after nightfall. They drove down La Cruz’s Main Street, quiet and mostly deserted now apart from a few teenagers breaking curfew, and headed to Donovan Motors. The lights in the living quarters behind the garage flashed on. Angel and Wooster parked their automobiles and got out. The Captain opened the door for them as they walked inside.

  Betty and Felix waited for them at the table. Felix was blinking back sleep, but he still turned the pages of some ancient leather-bound tome, which seemed bigger than he was. Snowball lay as a white pile in his cushioned dog bed, fast asleep. Felix looked up from his work as Roscoe, Angel, and Wooster came inside and sprang up. “Mr. Roscoe, Mr. Rey, Mr. Stokes―it is very good to see you.” He pointed to the books. “I have been examining certain writings of Sir Caleb Craul and his descendant, Cassius Craul. They are most interesting, full of conversation with divine beings and demonic entities.”

  “Cassius Craul,” Roscoe repeated. “I think I met him.”

  “He is dead, sir,” Felix said. “He has been for several years.”

  “Ain’t it past your bedtime, kiddo?” Roscoe sat next to Felix. He glanced up at Betty.

  She shrugged. “I let him stay up. He was too excited to sleep anyway.”

  “He should get some rest now,” Angel said. “We gotta hit the road in the morning.”

  The Captain walked back in. “And go where?”

  “Las Vegas,”
Roscoe said. “Townsend Mars had a business relationship with Frankie Fink―smuggling dope along with artifacts. They’re apparently bosom buddies and Fink’s Sandpiper Casino is probably the most secure place Mars knows. You want my bet? He’s there right now, hiding out with Dr. Bolton.”

  “Las Vegas,” Wooster repeated. “That’s a rough town.”

  “Will we visit it?” Felix asked.

  “Yes.” The Captain walked over to Felix and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Now prepare for bed. We’ll be leaving tomorrow and you need your rest.” He gave Felix’s head a quick pat. “Sleep well, son. I’ll wake you up tomorrow morning.”

  “Yes, sir. I will look forward to the vacation.” Felix hurried to the corner, picked up Snowball and darted away. The yeti whined at the disturbance and Felix soothed him in German as he hurried outside.

  “We’ll take Felix with us?” Betty asked. “Captain, are you sure it’ll be safe?”

  “I don’t want to leave him alone in La Cruz,” the Captain said. “He was separated from his parents before and he never saw them again. I don’t want that to ever happen when I’m around.” He sat at the table and faced Roscoe. “Did you encounter any difficulties in the reconnaissance?”

  “Sure did,” Roscoe said. “Some kook who works for the government. Calls himself Agent Dodd. He’s trouble, Captain. He was after Dr. Bolton too. I get the feeling we’ll be seeing more of him―and he ain’t the kind to roll over easily.”

  “I’ll talk to Special Agent Pruitt and Major Raskin,” The Captain said. “They’ll explain that we are also working to acquire Dr. Bolton for the government and straighten things out. I’m sure Agent Dodd won’t be a problem.” He stood before anyone could protest. “Now, I want all of you to pack supplies for the journey. We’ll be departing tomorrow, right after breakfast. I expect us to arrive in Las Vegas and immediately resume operations.” He started to leave, but paused. He looked back at Roscoe, Angel, and Wooster. “Good job on the reconnaissance.” He walked away.