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

by Michael Panush

  Wooster stepped in her path, blocking her way. “Don’t look down there, little lady. Don’t let the kraut boy look down there either. It ain’t fitting for your eyes.” He pointed to Felix, who dashed to Roscoe’s car with an odd assortment of tools and supplies under his arm. “Why don’t you go and help him?”

  Betty nodded. She and Felix prepared, keeping their backs turned to the carnage in the canyon. Roscoe was grateful for that.

  Roscoe walked over as Felix worked. The boy’s hands were shaking. He could hardly imagine the fear gripping the kid at that moment. Felix carefully set a skull, bone white with hints of yellow, on the edge of the exposed motor. He added arm and leg bones around it, pressing them in between the coils. String, candles, and chalk followed. Felix started to recite words in Latin and odd Germanic dialects. He drew a piece of chalk and started to inscribe runes on the side of the Deuce. Normally, Roscoe wouldn’t like a bunch of crazy crap covering his car. But today was far from normal.

  Felix did his work quickly and stepped back. He noticed Roscoe for the first time. “Hello there, sir. I believe the work is complete. The entropic engine should now function perfectly, as it never did in the laboratories of the Black Forest or the Crimson Cove.” He shivered a little at the memory. “You are well, sir? So am I—and Snowball is safe in Mr. Weaver’s apartment. But how are the others? Mr. Deadbeat and Mr. Swann and Mr. Barrow―and Ace and poor Penny? Are they still alive?”

  “They’re okay, kiddo. Roach will have his mind on us—and not his hostages,” Roscoe assured him. “Let me test the engine out.”

  He shook his head at the outlandish modifications, got in, and revved the engine. For the first few seconds, it turned over and over like a dying animal emitting a final growl. Roscoe grabbed the roof, about to haul himself out, but stopped. The fuel gauge crept up towards the F, and was now glowing brilliant silver. Roscoe moved out of the car and looked it over. The entire automobile shined, glowing from something beneath its paint. Light poured from the eye sockets of the skull, as bright as the headlights. Roscoe nodded.

  The entropic engine was doing its job just fine.

  “Dios,” Angel whispered.

  Walt laughed. “Roscoe, your ride’s never looked better.”

  Roscoe had to agree. He jumped into the driver’s seat. It hadn’t been long since he’d driven away from the Mission and left Roach alone with the hostages―though so much had happened. He didn’t want to give Roach any more time to harm his friends. Now that the Deuce was bursting with supernatural energy, it would have the power to put an end to the demon.

  Angel called to Roscoe. “All good?”

  “Looks like it!” Roscoe gave Angel a thumbs-up. “You and others better head back to La Cruz. It’s time we finally took back our city and brought the fight to Strickland.” He glanced over and found Felix sitting in the passenger seat. The boy was fastidiously buckling his seatbelt and adjusting his tie. “Get out.”

  “Nein, Mr. Roscoe―I must stay. The entropic engine requires me to say certain words to keep the death energies contained.” Felix turned his pale face to Roscoe. His eyes were wide under his spectacles. “And I must see my friends safe.”

  “Get out,” Roscoe repeated. “I won’t take you―”

  “There is no time,” Felix whispered. “Please.” He leaned over and set a single black candle on the dashboard. Then he began reciting words in strange languages, ignoring him. Roscoe sighed as he grasped the wheel and gave it a spin. He started to drive down to the canyon floor, but stopped when Betty caught his eye. She hurried over as he rolled down the window. The entropic engine glowed and hummed.

  Betty looked in and saw Felix in the passenger seat. Her eyes flashed. She did not look happy. She folded her arms and stared at the ground. “You’ll take care of him? “It wasn’t really a question. She trusted him. That was more terrifying than any foe Roscoe could face―that cold sense of responsibility. It was something more than the call of leadership. He sped down the slope, and steered around the ruins of cars and bodies

  “Keep your head down,” Roscoe said. “Don’t look.”

  Felix did as he was told. They drove through Cowl Canyons―back to the Mission.

  The sun had vanished. Night had come to claim the Canyons. The Deuce glowed and shook. Roscoe felt the tension in the wheel, the entropic energy seeping up and spilling into his fingers. Electric jolts traveled through veins where blood had once flowed. It wasn’t life. It was the opposite. But it crackled and burned, and Roscoe couldn’t say he didn’t like it. Next to him, Felix kept on chanting. Words trailed into each other, a complex tapestry of arcane phrases.

  At the Mission, a small detachment of zombies waited for him—all that Roach had left. Four blocked the slope, standing with guns drawn. The hostages were further back, still crouched on the shadowed ground and maybe unharmed. It was hard to tell. Felix emitted a shallow gasp as he saw them. He quickly resumed the chants. Roscoe focused on driving. He had to get some killing done before he could rescue them.

  The zombie gunmen stepped closer, going for their weapon.

  “Keep your head down, kiddo.” Roscoe roared. “And close your eyes, for Christ’s sake!” Shots pinged into the windshield. Roscoe did not bother firing back; he kept his head down and steered right at them.

  “What are you going to do?” Felix asked. He covered his eyes and ducked.

  “Drive,” Roscoe replied. The Deuce crested the slope and rammed the zombies. They went down together, crushed under the wheels. The cracks and snaps of bones filled the air. Felix clenched his teeth. Even though his eyes were closed, he could still hear the noise. Roscoe drove over the slope and was on the plateau before the Mission. Now, only Roach stood between him and what he wanted.

  Roach was a distance away from the hostages, watching the Deuce. He had a shotgun under his arm. Aside from a rip in his shirt, his flesh had completely healed. Hopefully, Roscoe had made the right call, and the death energy would be enough to finally bring the demon down. It was time to find out. He lined the hood ornament up with Roach and gunned it.

  “Roscoe!” Roach cried.. “You think a fancy car’s gonna scare me? I’ll get right back up and gouge out your eyes with my teeth! You think you can just―”

  The front end of the Deuce bashed into Roach and drove on. Roach plastered against the front end, his skin stretched over the exposed motor. The gleaming skull stared at him with its glowing eyes. Roscoe didn’t stop. Felix yelped in panic a split second before Deuce rammed into the adobe wall, stepping on the Roach.

  Roscoe looked over at the demon. The exposed engine had ruined him. Worms crawled from his wounds. Roscoe lowered his sunglasses, staring the demon in the face. He put the car in reverse and eased it back. Roach hit the ground―in two pieces. His torso fell with a splat and his legs followed.

  Roscoe turned to Felix. “Get out and go to your friends. Make sure they’re okay. I’ll deal with him.”

  “Y-yes, sir, Herr Roscoe.” Felix stumbled out of the car, and tripped in the sand. After a brief uncoordinated crawl, he found his footing and scrambled to the others. All the while he yelled, having slipped into German―maybe because of his earlier chanting. The Deadbeat was the first on his feet. Penny was next. She flew into Felix’s arms and gave him a tight hug. Ace patted Felix on the shoulder and the Deadbeat ruffled his hair. Swann waved, and Roscoe waved back. They would stay with Felix. He could leave the killing to Roscoe.

  Roach’s torso crawled away. Worms writhed behind him, leaving a slime trail as he pulled himself along. Roscoe ran over and stepped on Roach’s back and pressed his boot down. “You like it when people are like this, don’t you? Powerless. It gives you something close to happiness. Maybe, if you do hold someone’s fate in your hands, you ain’t such a loser after all. Maybe if you can eat a guy’s eye and make people afraid of you, you’re not such a chump.”

  With a crack, Roach’s neck twisted around until his head faced backwards. “What do you know about it, de
ad man?” The centipede tongue slithered through his teeth, rising like a charmed serpent. “What do you―”

  The sawed-off boomed. A detonation of slime and insect legs painted the ground. Segmented coils boiled up from the wound. Roscoe leaned all his weight into Roach’s back and reloaded. He was about to fire again when he heard footsteps behind him. The wooden gates had opened. Father Montez emerged, carrying a brass pail. He wore a dark shirt and collar under a heavy overcoat. Water sloshed from the bucket as he hurried to Roscoe’s side.

  Roach gurgled and flailed, scratching at the ground in a futile effort to drag himself away.

  “For two longs days and one long night, this demon stayed outside the house of God,” Father Montez said. “For two days, this demon threatened to spill innocent blood. He said terrible things and taunted me. He reveled in the brutality of what he would do to his prisoners.” He tapped the bucket. “You know what this is, don’t you, Roscoe?” Father Montez winked. Without further ceremony, the old priest upended the bucket, dumping the holy water onto Roach’s face.

  A torrent of steam rose as the water struck. Roach writhed. His skin melted away, his face collapsed inward as though his skull had vanished. His skin slipped away next, leaving only his clothes and the fleshy, wiggling worms. They slithered and burrowed into the dirt. Roscoe crushed one under his boot, grinding his heel to drive the last vestiges of Roy Roach from the realm of the living.

  Roscoe straightened up and tucked his sawed-off into his coat. He turned to Father Montez, bowing. “Quick thinking with the holy water, Padre.”

  “I had a long time to think about it.”

  “Yeah.” Roscoe looked over at his friends.

  Felix led them over to join him, supporting Ace who had a bad limp. Penny stayed under the arm of her father, and Swann helped the Deadbeat along. All of them looked dusty and weak.

  “You guys all look like you could use something to eat.” Roscoe glanced at the priest. “I’ve got some favors I need to ask of you.”

  “Where is the Captain?” Father Montez asked.

  “He got laid up. Left me in charge.” He pointed to his friends. “First off, I need you to look after them. Give them some soup and plenty of water. Maybe a change of clothes. I’ll send a car when the fighting in La Cruz is over.” He paused. The next request would be the hard one. “You know what Roach―what Reed Strickland―wanted in your church, don’t you?”

  “The Crimson Cross,” Father Montez whispered, nodding.

  “Yeah. And I’m gonna need it, to help take back the city. See, Strickland can just sit back behind his zombies and his fortune while the world goes to Hell. He won’t show himself unless he’s got a reason. The Crimson Cross will be that reason. Sir Roderick the Red will smell it. He’ll make Strickland go for it, and then I’ll kill them both.”

  The request made Father Montez pause. “Is this the Captain’s plan?”

  “No. He wasn’t in any shape to talk strategy. It’s my plan, and I think it’ll work.” Roscoe removed his sunglasses and looked Father Montez in the eye. “Right now, my friends are in La Cruz, battling Strickland’s goons. The longer this battle goes on, the more chance they have to get hurt. I trust them to handle themselves but I need this war to end. To ensure that, I need the Cross.” He held out his hand. “I don’t got much to swear by. I’ve got no soul. No family. No lover. But I’ve got my friends. I’ll swear on them that I’ll get you the Crimson Cross back, with the day saved.”

  “Okay,” Father Montez said. “Wait here.” He headed into the Mission.

  The Deadbeat slapped Roscoe’s hand. “Like what you did with the car, brother. Real slick driving.” He pointed to the wet spot where Roach met the wall. “And I’m glad to know the Roach is squashed for good. Is the Reedster soon to follow him?”

  “You know it,” Roscoe said. He raised his voice, calling to his friends. “The padre’s agreed to take you guys in, help you get your strength back. He’s a good man, and he’ll keep you safe.” He let a little bit of emotion into his voice. “You’ve suffered enough for Donovan Motors.”

  Basil Barrow smiled. “We are among the living―my daughter and I both. For that, we have a dead man to thank.”

  “And Felix,” Penny added.

  “And Felix,” Basil said.

  Felix blushed.

  Ace stepped away from the rest of the group and approached Roscoe. “You saved us. My parents…they blamed you guys for what happened, I think. When I tell them that you saved me―and everyone’s lives―they’ll change their minds.” He held out his hand. “You’re the best, Roscoe. You really are.”

  Roscoe clasped the kid’s hand. “Head inside and get some rest. You’ve earned it.”

  Father Montez returned, carrying a bulky burlap bundle under his arm. He held it out at arm’s length, like the bundle was giving off a noxious smell. Roscoe took it and unwrapped the cloth. Father Montez didn’t say another word to him. Instead, he ushered everyone else inside. Felix waved, apologized in muddled English and German, and hurried to Roscoe’s side.

  The cloth came apart and fell down.

  “Mein gott!” Felix whispered. “Is that―”

  “Yeah,” Roscoe said.

  It was a normal-looking crucifix―about the size of two forearms. The wood was free of any marking, save for a deep, malevolent red coating. It seemed to absorb the light, to pull it in and hold it for good. The substance looked like dried blood, but of a deeper crimson, and it still seemed wet. Roscoe was afraid when he pulled his fingers away, the paint―or blood―came with it, staining his hands. He hurried back to the Deuce, Felix running with him.

  Roscoe handed Felix the Crimson Cross while he started the engine. Felix nearly dropped it, but rested the artifact on his knees and began to speak his Germanic chants. The Deuce glowed and rumbled. The needles in the dials flicked and snapped in an erratic cacophony of clicking. Roscoe started the engine and drove. This time, Roscoe didn’t bother taking the long way through the canyon. He swerved through a gap in the walls, taking a shortcut to the highway. It was empty, nothing but black pavement and bright moonlight. Up ahead was La Cruz.

  The city sprawled over the horizon, against the glittering ocean. No neon glowed in the street. There were no lights at any kind―except for the occasional flash of gunfire from Main Street.

  A single turn off the curving road set them rolling down Main Street. Roscoe sped into an intersection, finding Donovan Motors still boarded up and empty. In front of the building, the war had entered its final, bloody phase. The drivers and their allies―the Speed Fiends and Swann’s gangsters―traded lead with the last of Strickland’s forces. The three black-and-whites from the La Cruz Police Department were there as well, their officers fighting alongside bikers, criminals, and Roscoe’s friends. Roscoe didn’t expect that―but it was a nice surprise.

  The street was dark and shadowed. Some fog had even rolled in, mixing with the clouds of gun smoke. Strickland’s mandatory curfew had been a blessing, keeping innocents off the street while La Cruz’s fate was decided with blood and bullets. Muzzle flashes illuminated the night, automatic fire, the moans of zombies and the wet slaps of bullets striking bodies echoed. It was just like the brutal urban fighting Carmine Vitale had seen too many times during the war―and now it was in his backyard.

  Further down the street, rushing past little diners, a drug store and several cute gift shops, came Strickland’s force. Armored cavalry, skeletal knights on skeletal horses, charged at a mad gallop into blasts of gunfire. Undead Strickland Securities guards followed, shambling mindlessly down the street. Lower order zombies in coveralls shambled mindlessly toward their foes. Giant skeletal Rocs swooped over everything. A few of Don Lupo’s surviving gunsels, unnerved by their allies, fought as well.

  Roscoe drove to the center of the street, joining his friends. Betty and Walt crouched behind a makeshift barricade of parked cars, firing carbines at the incoming knights. They brought the hulking armored forms down, blastin
g open helmets and sending the knights crashing to the street in avalanches of metal and bone. Across Main Street, Wooster popped out from behind a bench and sprayed them with his Thompson. One zombie sprang at him from an alley. Wooster spun around and planted his Bowie knife in the zombie’s skull, still holding down the trigger. Angel stood with the Speed Fiends, crouched by the diner and cracking away with revolvers and automatics to pick off the Strickland Security goons across the street. One of Angel’s automatics clicked empty. Terry tossed him another. Angel caught it and kept shooting, bursting open a zombie’s belly after three concentrated shots. Roscoe wasn’t sure who to help.

  He sat in the car, the engine rumbling and then looked over at Felix. “Give me the Cross,” he said. “I’m gonna end this.” Felix handed it over. His face flashed pale with fear. “Keep your head down, for God’s sake.” Roscoe gripped the Crimson Cross by the end. He waved it out the window of the Deuce. “Strickland!” Roscoe shouted, forcing his weathered lungs to bulge and bellow louder than the gunfire. “I’ve got what you wanted! I’m bringing it to you! Come on and get it, if you’re not so scared that you hide behind dead men!”

  Everyone turned to stare at Roscoe. Even the zombies stopped shuffling. In the distance, a lean figure emerged from the shadows by where the mist crept in from the ocean. The zombies in coveralls stepped aside. The Strickland Security gunmen held their weapons like they were saluting a general. Roscoe squinted. Reed Strickland walked straight to the silent battlefield.

  Strickland was dressed to the nines, wearing his suit and tie with geometric designs, his hair slicked back and his pencil-thin moustache brushed. He had the long sword―the one wielded by the skeleton―in one hand, dragging against the pavement like its weight was too much for him to bear.

  Roscoe set the Crimson Cross in his lap. He’d have one shot at this. “Where’s Sir Roderick? Did you happen to bring him along, you murderous goddamn bastard? Or does he like hanging behind the scenes too, directing his armies from the rear?”