Dead Man's Drive: A Rot Rods Novel (Rot Rods #1)

by Michael Panush

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  A Taste Of Detour to Apocalypse: A Rot Rods Novel

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  To all of my Los Angeles family.

  dead man sat at the wheel of the sleek, black modified Ford Deuce. The car had a polished, gleaming exposed motor and silver flames painted along the side. The dead man’s name was Roscoe. He sported a black leather jacket and worn, oil-stained jeans. His skin had a green tinge and his hollow eyes stared out of a lean face below a midnight black spit curl. Roscoe was dead―but he didn’t seem to care. He parked the car across the street from a row of shotgun houses, a part of a coastal slum on the outskirts of the Southern California town of La Cruz. He kept the engine running as he stared out at the broken fence, the dusty porch and the palm trees bent like twisted serpents in the yard. Candlelight appeared in the window. The ocean, beyond Crimson Cove, loomed like a dark blanket stretching out to the horizon.

  Next to him, his best friend Angel Rey fiddled with the radio. Angel and Roscoe worked at the same garage, Donovan Motors, on La Cruz’s main street.

  “The Deadbeat on?” Roscoe asked, as static hummed and crackled in the car. He opened the glove compartment while Angel got to the proper channel. Roscoe trusted Angel with what passed for his life―even though it was Angel who had been driving the Buick when it slammed into Roscoe at sixty miles per on the freeway outside La Cruz. The Buick belonged to a man called the Captain, who owned Donovan Motors. He’d peeled Roscoe off the hood of his car and offered the zombie a job. Roscoe had agreed.

  “Yeah, man.” Angel upped the volume. “But we gonna wait here listening all night?”

  Roscoe shrugged. “We gotta wait anyway. Might as well have some tunes.”

  “Can’t argue with that.” Angel leaned back in his seat. A young Mexican man, Angel always wore a brilliant red zoot suit, matching fedora, and broad tie. He had a neat, thin moustache on his coffee-colored lip and a pearl-handled automatic pistol in his coat. Angel’s mother was a shaman from Sonora, who had settled in Los Angeles. He’d grown up with Pachuco hoodlums. That made him perfect for the Captain and Donovan Motors―a unique sort of employment.

  Roscoe was perfect for Donovan Motors too. The undead gearhead had no memory of anything beyond his name, and his skills with cars and guns. Also, he couldn’t feel much pain; he could take a ton of damage and heal up just by eating any kind of food. That was probably why the Captain had been keen to hire him and―with nothing else to do―Roscoe had been keen to agree. Donovan Motors did automotive repair, but that was just a front for their real calling―keeping La Cruz safe from paranormal threats. It was a full-time job.

  The radio crackled to life and the slick, relaxed tones of the nighttime DJ known as the Deadbeat filtered through the crisp, salt-tinged night air. “Evening, boys and ghouls,” the Deadbeat crooned. “Got a real gone show for you tonight with Billy Bats and the Va-Voom-Vamps, but first here’s a little news update.” The Deadbeat always supplied occult news. Everyone else thought it was part of his act. The drivers of Donovan Motors knew better. The Deadbeat had countless anonymous sources―some living, some dead―who told him every tidbit of supernatural gossip in the region. “More strange goings―on in La Cruz, you dig? Red lightning strikes in Butcher’s Row―but that’s the Negro part of town so nobody minded much. But then there was a two-headed goat born in some millionaire’s ranch a little out of town and that even got some attention from the mayor, before it was stolen away by parties unknown. And yesterday? Scent of sulfur in La Cruz Park ruined many a family picnic. Bodes trouble for the upcoming Sand and Surf Festival, if you ask me. Keep your heads down, loyal listeners, and enjoy Billy Bats with ‘My Bloodsucking Baby.’“

  The music started, a warbling rockabilly ballad. Roscoe listened to it as he pulled a set of binoculars―US Army, standard issue―out of the glove compartment. He brought them to his unblinking eyes and stared at the dismal shack ahead. The Deadbeat was right. Satanist groups had moved into La Cruz to raise Hell. The drivers did their best to stop them. They’d broken up three cults in the last two weeks and now here was a fourth. Roscoe scanned the yard. A dozen or so motorcycles rested in a row in the dead grass of the yard like cavalry waiting to charge. That meant the Speed Fiends were involved―again. He lowered the binoculars.

  Angel stared at him. “Trouble?” he asked.

  “What else?” Roscoe asked. “Speed Fiends Motorcycle Club must be pulling the ritual.”

  “Damn,” Angel muttered. “I thought we ran those bike-riding pendejos out of town.” He nodded to Roscoe. “Any chance they’re just stopping by to talk about gear shifts and not to do dark rituals and contact demons?”

  “Nope. This is the address that Swann gave us.” Eldridge Swann was a crime boss in the poverty-stricken Negro neighborhood of Butcher’s Row. Necessity had made him and the Captain allies. Mutual respect had made them something close to friends. “They’re running this cult, just like they ran the others.” Roscoe put the car in drive and then reached under the seat. “Good thing we got backup coming. If they arrive on time, that is. Otherwise, well….” He drifted off. “These bastards will have a hard time taking me down at least.” Two weapons waited for him: a heavy steel crowbar and a sawed-off shotgun. Roscoe set them both in his lap and then revved the engine.

  It was time.

  The Deuce shot forward. Angel swore as they bounced over the crumbling sidewalk and hit the fence. Chicken wire snapped like twine as they dragged some of the wooden fence posts from the dirt. Roscoe aimed the Deuce like it was a missile. He loved that car, but protecting La Cruz meant that sometimes it would get damaged. But― like him―it could always be repaired. He drove up to the porch.

  His auto slammed into the front of the old shack. Splinters flew. Wheels screeched and burned rubber on the wooden floor. Two bikers had been standing by the door and bounced off the front of the car. They fell to the ground, heaps of black leather and broken bones. Roscoe killed the engine and kicked open the door. The sawed-off rested in his coat. He clutched the crowbar. His boots thudded down on the floor of the room, and he eyeballed his surroundings. A pentagram written in blood and marked in candles had been etched like a brand on the floorboards. A two-headed goat skull sat in the middle of the five-pointed star―the place of honor.

  Biker devil-worshippers packed the place. Roscoe counted maybe a dozen, and they were probably armed. Candles flickered in the corners, and shadows danced on the rough, wooden walls of the dump. Roscoe’s eyes settled on the Speed Fiends MC president, a two-bit tough named Terry Torrance.

  Torrance leaned against the wall like he hadn’t noticed Roscoe and Angel’s entrance. His white-blonde hair shone in the low light and he kept a toothpick poised in the corner of his mouth. He wore thick gloves, silver pentagrams emblazoned on the black leather. Torrance coolly removed his toothpick while he looked Roscoe over. His lips curled back, revealing teeth Roscoe wanted to bust. Torrance was a habitual criminal, a former juvenile delinquent and Korean War vet who’d gone from petty hold-ups and burglaries to Satanic intrigue. He was a native son of La Cruz who had come back to raise Hell.

  He walked toward Roscoe as Angel exited the Deuce. “The Captain’s bootlickers.” Torrance smirked. “Or maybe his freak show.” He reached to the floor. A baseball bat waited there, a Louisville slugger with steel nails driven into the wood. “A bean-eater in a bad suit and a zombie punk. Both of you get into your jalopy and leave this ritual before we beat you to a pulp and give whatever’s left to His Satanic Majest
y.”

  The Speed Fiends all came to their feet, some reaching for daggers or bike chains or even a revolver.

  Roscoe returned Torrance’s sneer. “Tough talk,” he said. “You gonna back it up?”

  “Until my dying day,” Torrance replied.

  “Heh.” Roscoe grinned. “You shouldn’t have insulted my car.” He stepped closer and Angel did the same. “And you shouldn’t have insulted Angel’s suit.” He held the crowbar loosely in his hand. He decided to let Torrance have the first shot.

  It came faster than Roscoe expected, the baseball bat blurring as it sped through the air and rammed into the dead man’s belly. Roscoe’s ribs bent inwards, cracking under the weight of the blow. The nails tore at his t-shirt and ripped his skin. Rot spilled from the wounds. Torrance pulled back the makeshift weapon, but Roscoe caught it, ignoring the steel nails tugging at his fingers. He drove his fist straight into Torrance’s chin. Torrance rocked back and stumbled toward the pentagram, dragging the bat away. Roscoe followed, readying the crowbar for a killing blow.

  Meanwhile, Angel was taking care of the other Speed Fiends. He pistol-whipped one with the butt of his automatic, dropping the biker to the floor in a single strike. Another biker pulled his revolver, but Angel was seconds faster on the trigger. “Pendejo!” Angel cried, blasting a bullet into the Speed Fiend’s knee. The biker moaned and sank back. The battle had gotten close-up now, so Angel reached into his coat and pulled a switchblade. He snapped it to life, the little blade glowing in the light of flickering candles, and advanced on the remaining Speed Fiends. They were scared. They were right to be.

  Torrance struck at Roscoe again―this time aiming for the head. Roscoe’s skull took the blow. The impact rocked Roscoe’s head, and his vision went black, white, and then blurry. Roscoe’s right eye popped out of his skull, hanging down over his cheek on a single filament. Roscoe grabbed the eye. It felt like an oversized grape gone rotten as he rammed the eye back into its socket. Torrance stood stunned in a mix of surprise and disgust. He forced himself to blink a few times and grinned at Torrance. He had a splitting headache, fitting for the split skull. His crowbar crashed into the bat and brought it hard to the ground. He kicked, and his boot cracked into Torrance’s gut. The biker stumbled back and bumped into Angel. The Mexican driver spun, and his switchblade bit down, slashing Torrance’s arm as he backpedaled to the center of the pentagram.

  Holding his bleeding arm like a loaded gun, he faced Angel and Roscoe as the two drivers glared at him. “You’re gonna be sorry,” he said. “All of you goddamn toadies are gonna pay for keeping the rebels out of your precious little city. You’ll be made to realize your mistakes―right before you start to burn.”

  “Oh yeah?” Roscoe asked. “Who’s gonna do that?” He stepped closer. “Someone backing your play, Terry?”

  Torrance’s reply was immediate. “Mr. Roach is coming to La Cruz, pal.” He raised his hand. “But, right now, I’m bringing over another friend.” His arm slapped, spraying droplets of blood over the fused goat skulls. “Cimeries!” he roared. “66th Demon and Marquis of Hell―I conjure thee!” The shack began to shake. “Come forth from the Pit!” Torrance continued. “And feast on the souls of our enemies!”

  Blue fire burst into the chalk lines of the pentagram, rising up like sudden storm clouds on a once sunny day. Torrance stumbled back as the billowing smoke, bearing the rotten egg stench of sulfur, filled the shotgun house. Roscoe tucked the crowbar into his belt and drew his sawed-off. He stepped back and went low, so he could see. The blue flames continued to burn and flicker. Bright crimson, almost pink cores appeared in the flames and the tongues of fire danced and curled around the altar like caressing hands. The two-headed goat skull cracked like an egg. A dark clawed hand far too big to have fit into the bone, reached out from between the shattered bone. The hand looked like it belonged to a bear, except it was covered in midnight black fur and ended in at least a dozen claws. The countless claws wiggled like tufts of grass in a light breeze. Cimeries the demon was emerging.

  Roscoe and Angel exchanged a glance.

  “Get outside and wait for the others?” Angel asked.

  “Sounds swell.” Roscoe leveled his shotgun and fired both blasts at the demon, then turned to run. Angel scrambled alongside him. They hurried to the ruptured door and the parked automobile. Roscoe heard Torrance approaching him and spun with the shotgun. He bashed the Speed Fiend president with the handle, sending him down hard, gurgling as he hit the rough floor. But something else was moving in the smoke, like a bull crashing its way through a junkyard. Furniture broke and rattled against the floor. Heavy footfalls sounded, and the whole house swayed on its loose foundations.

  They reached the door and slipped out, moving past Roscoe’s car. Roscoe hoped his ride wasn’t banged up too bad as they stepped into the grimy, trash-strewn yard. Roscoe and Angel both stopped. The remaining Speed Fiends had split from the shack and were now in the yard, aiming all the cannons from their bikes at the two drivers. Roscoe stared at shotguns, cut-down carbine rifles and plenty of handguns. The Speed Fiends seemed more than willing to fill them with lead. Behind them, in the shack, Cimeries growled. The roar sounded like sheets of steel being crumpled.

  “Looks like a rock and a hard place kind of situation,” Roscoe muttered.

  “Yeah, man. And I spent my last shell back in that house.” Then Angel pointed down the darkened, moonlit road. “But we got a little luck. Backup’s arrived.” Roscoe followed his friend’s finger and saw a pair of yellow circles―big headlights―glowing their way down the road. The two other drivers for Donovan Motors had arrived to help.

  The headlights belonged to a Packard, a bulky, hillbilly tank with a two-tone tan and white paint job and bull’s horns mounted above the bumper. The Packard slammed into the chicken wire fence and crumpled it, the brakes squealed, and the car came to a halt. The front doors opened and Wooster Stokes and Betty Bright hopped out, both loaded up for war. Wooster was a tough-as-leather Okie, a former bank robber whose family had come over from some armadillo-infested, Dust Bowl-blasted dump. He’d worked for the Captain for a long time. Wooster still looked wild, with thick brown sideburns coming down just past his ears, a tan suit with a bolo tie, and alligator-hide boots. He carried a Bowie knife on his belt and a Thompson submachine gun in his hands.

  Wooster grinned at the bikers, Roscoe, and Angel. “Well, howdy.” He flashed his large, white teeth.” Glad to see I came to the party on time.” Then he lowered his submachine gun and started shooting. The tommy gun rattled out lead and sent the bikers dashing for cover. A few tried to shoot at Wooster, but his chattering sub-gun kept their heads down and their shots went wild. Their bullets kicked up dust at his feet. Wooster didn’t notice.

  The gunfire gave Roscoe and Angel time to scramble away from the house and reach Betty Bright. She was the youngest of the drivers, a La Cruz tomboy and the daughter of a famed folklore professor. Growing up, she had been interested only in fast cars and the mythology her father taught. Now that she was in college, she had found a job that let her pursue both. Betty was a petite woman with short blonde hair framing a pleasant face with an upturned nose. She wore a light red jacket over a white blouse and tweed trousers. She held an open valise, her thin hand already reaching inside for some charms.

  Betty selected a large cross as the front porch shattered. Roscoe’s Deuce rolled back, out of the yard and into the street. The exposed engine dented by the force.

  “You guys sure know how to make trouble,” she said. “Think it’s gonna be as bad as the last couple?”

  Cimeries barreled out of the porch.

  “Think it’s gonna be worse, sister.” Roscoe raised his eyebrows, letting her look at his misshapen eyes.

  The demon was gorilla-sized, with something close to King Kong’s shape and eight clawed legs. It had spider eyes, dark and glistening, set in two groups of four on an elongated, oversized goat’s head. The goat’s horns curled back, gnarled as tree
roots and they writhed as Cimeries moved. The bristly fur ended in thin, dark spines, each one radiating a black glow and emitting sulfur-stained smoke. Cimeries crawled down, his legs blurring across the yard and approached them. The demon made the rest of the Speed Fiends flee.

  Roscoe thought fast and looked back at Wooster’s Packard. “Stokes, give me your car keys, and give me a second. I might have a way to beat this monster. Betty, you better keep it busy.” He darted back to the Packard as Wooster tossed him the keys. Roscoe popped the trunk and rifled through it.

  Meanwhile, Cimeries bee-lined for the drivers. Betty stepped up to meet him, pulling a large silver cross from her handbag. She raised the crucifix and started to pray, Latin mixed with Hebrew. Cimeries responded with a roar. A forked tongue the size of a garden hose snaked out of the demon’s mouth and struck the browned lawn. Saliva hit the dead grass and turned it black. Cimeries advanced.

  “Roscoe!” Betty stepped back, onto the sidewalk. “I can’t hold him!”

  Wooster raised his Thompson and started shooting. Angel slammed another clip into his automatic and joined in. Lead ripped into Cimeries, and the demon snarled and roared. Blackish blood sprayed out, steaming as it struck the ground. Cimeries recoiled slightly, but kept going.

  By then, Roscoe had found what he needed. He got it ready and spun around. “Let him come then! I’m ready for the big guy!” He held a silver chain in his hands, one end tied into a lasso and the other knotted to Wooster’s bumper. Roscoe spun the chain around, making it hum. The chains were mildly enchanted, forged of electrum bands. Hopefully, they’d work.

  The others stepped back. Cimeries galloped toward them. Roscoe let the lasso fly. It sailed through the air, looped over Cimeries’ bull neck and tightened. Roscoe was already running around to the front of the car. Betty scrambled up next to him and leapt into the passenger seat as the motor roared. Roscoe dove into the driver’s seat, jammed the key into the ignition and stomped on the gas. Roscoe drew out his own keys and tossed them back. They clanked on the sidewalk, near Angel’s feet.