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

by Michael Panush

  “He’s here!” Strickland’s eyes flashed. They glowed red. “He’s here, and he wants what is owed to him!”

  “All right.” Roscoe gunned the motor. “I’ll give it to him.”

  There was no time to push Felix out of the car. The boy still had his head down when Roscoe took his foot off the brake. The Deuce’s tires smoked for a second before catching, sending the car rocketing toward its target. They weaved among the stationary automobiles, sending a door or two flying on close calls. He took a shortcut over the sidewalk to avoid a police car, running down a few zombies and an armored knight. With a ka-thump, the car leapt back to the road, squealing in a serpentine as Roscoe fought to steer for Strickland.

  The entropic engine hummed. One single, bloody impact and then La Cruz would be free for good. Roscoe gritted his teeth and gripped the wheel with both hands as his dead heart beat in anticipation. A large shape rolled out of the mist and came to a stop behind Strickland.

  Strickland Industries had made its fortune as a weapons manufacturer. They had already given surplus guns to their zombie servants and mobster allies. Roscoe could only stare in surprise as a bulky armored Sherman tank wheeled out of the mist. Its treads whirred as it came to a stop right behind Strickland. A zombie in a Strickland Securities uniform and peaked cap manned the .50 caliber machine gun above the bulbous turret. Strickland ducked behind the tank for cover. The zombie in the cupola opened fire. Bullets tore past the car. Roscoe tried to keep control. The main gun angled around to bear. Roscoe screamed, telling Felix to brace himself as he wrenched the wheel to the side. Roscoe had no time to avoid the shot.

  Everything went white-hot and painful. Roscoe flung himself over Felix to shield him, forcing the boy into the door and through it. He rolled out and struck the pavement with enough force to leave bits of him behind. He couldn’t hear a thing. One of his eyeballs dangled free on a nerve, tapping against his cheek. He tried to raise his hand and pop it back in. Everything had gone to Hell. He’d attempted to fight with magic when Strickland had military toys to play with. Roscoe forced his head to the side. He was lying on his belly. His shattered bones scraped against his skin. It was impossible to tell how many breaks and rips there were. He looked back at the Deuce.

  The car was totaled―gone for good. It had been blown into at least four different pieces. The engine was gone. A shattered door lay near Roscoe. Roscoe felt a piercing bolt of sadness, even as he knew how dumb it was to get sappy over the car’s destruction. The Deuce was just a car. He had more important things to worry about. Still, he’d driven that Deuce every day of his new life. He had built it soon after arriving in La Cruz. It was a piece of his existence here and it was gone forever. Then Roscoe saw something else and felt an even deeper pain.

  The Crimson Cross laid just a few paces from Strickland’s boots. Felix was next to it. The kid had gotten clear of the car, but had still fallen on his arm, which jutted out at an odd angle―definitely broken. That hurt Roscoe more than his own injuries. He had been in charge of Felix’s safety, and now the boy was injured. He had told Father Montez he could be trusted with the Crimson Cross and now Reed Strickland―and Sir Roderick the Red―were about to take it. Roscoe gritted his teeth and forced himself to move. He dragged his legs along the ground and crawled closer.

  Strickland walked over to the Crimson Cross. Felix reached it at the same time. “Nein!” Felix cried. “You will not―”

  Strickland’s boot struck the kid in the chest. Felix went back and hit the pavement. Roscoe doubled his efforts. He reached for his sawed-off―and then he realized he didn’t have it. Roscoe looked down the street and spotted the lupara resting in the gutter. It had fallen from his coat during the explosion and was too far away. He still had his crowbar. He yanked it out, holding it in one hand, and dragged himself to his feet. Each step was agony, but he made it. He moved towards Strickland, keeping the crowbar loosely at his side.

  When he was nearly in front of Strickland, the industrialist looked up and raised his sword, pointing the tip at Roscoe’s chest. “Not another step. Or I’ll have this tank open fire and blow your friends to smithereens.” He licked his lips. His tongue was bleeding. It left red across his chin. Strickland reached down, going for the Cross. “You thought you could win. That your scrappy little gang of sideshow freaks could stop me. I am the future that America―and the world―must follow. What is your menagerie next to that?”

  “They’re my friends―and you should have been watching them.”

  Betty opened fire at the tank with her carbine, sending bullets pinging over the turret and striking the gunner at the .50 cal. While she took out the gunner, Angel scrambled up the side of the tank, a switchblade gleaming in one hand. He plunged it into the skull of the zombie, driving the blade to the hilt. Angel cursed in Spanish, grabbed the zombie’s shoulder, and pushed the body out. It rolled away, bounced off the tracks, and hit the street. A clamor of angry zombies echoed from inside the tank. The turret lobbed another shell, which exploded on the street a few yards shy of Roscoe. He hardly flinched. A streak of gleaming gray fur darted in from an alley. Wooster, full-on werewolf, pounced on the front of the tank, clambered over the turret, and disappeared into the open hatch. A spray of blood followed him, along with a severed arm and the frenzied howls of a predator at the kill.

  Strickland gripped the sword while Wooster slaughtered the tank’s crew. “I’ve waited centuries. I’ve traveled through Hell to get this Cross. Now, Roscoe, I will finally have what I deserve.”

  “Yeah,” Roscoe said. “You got that right.”

  The sword came at him, humming with blinding speed. It was a silver blur, streaked with moonlight. Roscoe forced his arm up, bringing the crowbar to parry. With Roscoe’s battered arms and broken bones, he barely made it in time. His crowbar caught the sword; metal clanged against metal. Strickland tried to force it through the block. Roscoe kept the crowbar steady. Strickland had an impossible amount of strength for a man, the force of an undead crusader behind his blow. Roscoe knew he couldn’t hold it. He wouldn’t win this fight unless he played a little dirty.

  He twisted, angling the crowbar to divert Strickland’s force to the side. The sword slid off it. Roscoe rammed his fist into Strickland’s face. His knuckles caught Strickland’s cheek, driving hard into teeth and bone. He moved into an attack with the crowbar, but Strickland’s sword was too fast. Strickland parried the blow and struck back. He exploited his reach, driving Roscoe back with each swing. Clang after clang echoed into the night as Strickland forced his way to the Cross.

  Roscoe’s battered arms could not move the crowbar fast enough to defend against the skill of a professional swordsman. He took a slash to the side, a deep cut that bit into his ribs. Roscoe ignored the pain, gripping the crowbar with both hands and pounding it to Strickland’s chest plate. Bones snapped, but Strickland didn’t fall.

  “Dead man!” It wasn’t Strickland’s voice―or it was, but there was a second tone under it, a voice he had not yet heard. It was a cold voice, a tired and hateful rasp. “Peasant! You know not your place!”

  “People been telling me that my whole life―and after it ended, they say the same thing.” Roscoe braced himself. “They’re wrong. My place is right here, stopping you.” He lashed out.

  The blow made it halfway before Strickland’s sword came humming down. For a second, Roscoe wondered where his arm had gone. It had been there one second and the next it had vanished. He looked down. It was on the pavement, severed, the crowbar still clenched in his hand. Roscoe turned back to Strickland as the sword come down again.

  He twisted to the side and rolled, ignoring the dull throb in what was left of his upper arm. He had no crowbar now―but that was no problem. Roscoe kicked Strickland in the knee before ramming his remaining fist into Strickland’s gut. The sword blurred into motion again as Roscoe pulled his arm back. This time, he knew what was going to happen. He felt the kiss of steel, and his left arm left his side and struck the grou
nd. Now Roscoe had no arms left. Strickland drew back the sword and plunged it to the hilt in Roscoe’s chest. Roscoe wheezed, staggering backwards. Strickland advanced, pushing the tip of the blade into the pavement, pinning him to Main Street. Roscoe was transfixed. The blade had gone straight into his and struck his heart, dividing it completely. The two halves tried to beat for a little and then stopped altogether. Roscoe stared up at Strickland, who let go of the sword and left him there.

  Strickland stumbled back and spat blood. “Well… I try not to get my own hands dirty. But it was necessary. It was all necessary.”

  He reached for the relic. Roscoe writhed and tried to stop him. Strickland gave him a hard kick to the side. His hand settled on the Crimson Cross. He hoisted it up.

  “An ordered world. A kind world. A world where―”

  A single rifle shot cracked through the air. Strickland’s eyes filled with a sudden, disappointed sadness as his forehead caved in and brains sprayed over the street. He toppled over backwards and fell down.

  Roscoe wrenched his head to the side. It took a lot to rip his consciousness away―but losing two arms and having an enchanted sword hack his heart in two was enough. He forced the darkness away for just a few more seconds. A new car parked on the street―a Rolls Royce. The Captain leaned over the hood, holding his old bolt-action rifle. The old soldier straightened up and worked the bolt on his gun. A spent, smoking brass popped out and spiraled to the ground with a hollow metallic clatter.. He closed the bolt and slung it over his shoulder. The weight hunched him over. He walked around his car, limping only slightly, heading toward Roscoe.

  “I’m sorry, Roscoe,” he said. “That it took me so long to get here.”

  “Yeah.” Roscoe rasped. His lungs had been gouged and torn, along with every other part of his body.

  The Captain knelt down next to Felix and helped the boy to his feet. Betty and Angel ran to him, along with Wooster―who slipped back into his trousers as he hurried over. The Speed Fiends, the La Cruz cops, and Walt Weaver and Swann’s men did the same, all converging on Roscoe. Betty looked at him and then turned away. Felix replaced his broken glasses, saw Roscoe, and began to emit an endless stream of sad German pleas.

  “Sorry I bungled it so bad, boss,” Roscoe croaked.

  “What are you talking about, soldier?” The Captain knelt down. He rested his hands on Roscoe’s cheek. The old man’s fingers felt cool. “Strickland’s gone. His zombies are collapsing. A few might have a little power left, but we can mop them up in short order. The threat is gone. We have a total victory―and it’s your doing.”

  “I guess it is at that,” Roscoe said. “Cigarette?”

  “Here, man.” Angel drew out a cigarette and lit it. He leaned down and pressed it between Roscoe’s mangled lips. “You gonna be okay?”

  The smoke from the cigarette wound down Roscoe’s throat, leaking out through countless wounds and holes, like a soul slipping away. Roscoe never had a soul. He was a dead man―and dead men could get beat up and hacked to pieces.

  They couldn’t die.

  “You know,” Roscoe said. “I kind of hope I will be.” Then his eyes closed for good. It wasn’t sleep that took him. It was the blackness―the total cold silence―of pure death. Roscoe wrapped it around himself like a blanket. Sense and pain fled from him. He buried himself in death and waited.

  oscoe awoke slowly. He looked at the inside of his eyelids for a while, listening to quiet whispers somewhere in the darkness. Eventually, he decided to put some effort into lifting those eyelids. He had no idea what he’d see. Maybe it would be the Gates of Heaven―or the other place, more likely. There was no point in delaying it. It was like ripping off a scab. You couldn’t take it off piece by piece. You just had to clench your teeth and wrench.

  He braced himself and forced his eyes to open. A brilliant light flashed down. It nearly blinded him, and he blinked a few times until it settled down. It wasn’t that bright at all. In fact, it was just average La Cruz afternoon sunlight, coming in through the windows of the kitchen in the apartments behind Donovan Motors. Roscoe felt something stiff and flat beneath him. He was lying on the kitchen table. He twisted his head to the side.

  “Dios! He’s awake!” Angel’s face appeared in Roscoe’s vision, blocking the blue tiles of the ceiling. “Hold on, man.” Roscoe could hear pounding feet as more people hurried into the kitchen. “You’re real weak―but don’t you worry. You’re all pieced together. Here, eat this and get some strength back.” Angel held out a fresh chili dog, steaming and slick, in front of Roscoe’s mouth.

  He forced his jaws to open and close. He felt something odd, a longing in his chest for more food. He was hungry. That had never happened to him before―at least, not since he’d become a zombie. Roscoe gobbled down the offering and Angel unwrapped a baked potato from tin foil. Roscoe devoured it, skin and all, and after that a thick ham and cheese sandwich.

  The rest of Roscoe’s Donovan Motors family came inside while he ate. Wooster was the first to Roscoe’s side. His wolf teeth poked down from his lips, and he fiddled with his bolo tie. Betty looked sadly at Roscoe and pushed up her spectacles. Finally, the Captain walked in―supported by Felix. It was hard to tell who was more beat up. The Captain had to lean on Felix’s shoulder. The boy had his arm in a sling and bandages pressed across his face. Snowball pattered in and hopped into a kitchen chair.

  When the ham sandwich was gone, Felix stepped a little closer. “Okay. Now try to move your arms, sir.”

  For the first time, Roscoe looked to the left and right. His leather jacket was gone. He wore only his faded jeans and white shirt. His arms were back. They had been sewn back on, the black thread of the stitches stood out like snakes burrowing through his green skin. Once again, Roscoe knew there was no point in delaying the test. He flexed his fingers. They moved. He raised his arms, first his right and then his left.

  Each felt terribly heavy, as if made of solid rock. Roscoe forced himself to sit up. He put his bare feet on the ground and managed to stand. His foot slipped on the tiled floor. Angel caught him and helped him into a nearby chair, then held out a cold chicken drumstick. Roscoe swallowed skin, gristle and bone. When it was finished, his fingers felt a little more pliable and his arms were stronger. He gulped down the rest of the chicken and grinned.

  “Good as new,” he said.

  Betty sighed and Felix beamed. “The little lady and the kraut put you back together again, humpty-dumpty,” Wooster explained. “It was real bad for a while. They had your belly open and had to put your heart in one piece. They sewed on your arms, did a bunch of Hoodoo rituals and hoped for the best.”

  “But it is working?” Betty asked.

  “It’s swell,” Roscoe agreed. “How’s everything else?”

  The Captain patted Roscoe’s shoulder. “As well as can be expected. You were out for a night and a day or so. We’ve cleaned up the town. The Speed Fiends and Swann’s associates helped in removing the last of the zombies. The various bodies are currently feeding sharks in the ocean.” He sat down in another chair, Felix standing next to him. “Mayor Corrigan and Sheriff Braddock have returned. People are getting back to their day-to-day business. It seems like Strickland’s reign of terror was just a nightmare, quickly forgotten.”

  “And our friends?” Roscoe asked.

  “All returned to their families,” Felix chimed in. “And doing quite well.”

  “Wonderful.” Roscoe leaned back. He let his eyes close in a blink―another holdover from his long period in the dark. “That’s good to hear.” He stretched, loving the way his muscles moved under his skin. “So, what’s on the agenda for today?”

  “Nothing for you to worry about,” Angel said. “Me and Felix got an errand we gotta run.”

  “And I’ve got class to study for,” Betty added.

  Wooster shrugged. “You’re with me, Roscoe. Just waiting around and enjoying the day while we heal. For you, that means eating as much junk food as you can cram into
your belly.” He held out his hand. “Come on. I’ll help you to the garage and then bring you some grub.” Roscoe stood, with Wooster’s help and followed him through the kitchen and to the screen door. Snowball hurried along at Roscoe’s feet.

  Roscoe looked down at the little yeti. He had always liked the loyalty of Felix’s beloved pet―but never really showed it. He didn’t want to be seen cuddling the ball of white fur. Now, Roscoe didn’t care. He reached down and scratched the back of Snowball’s neck. The yeti curled up excitedly and pounded his feet on the floor, the claws clicking on the tile. The yeti exuberantly licked him for a moment until Wooster took his hand and led him outside, into the sunshine.

  The day dragged on. Felix and Angel headed out on their mysterious errand, taking the cherry red Cadillac. Betty went back in to study while the Captain had a nap. Wooster stopped by the nearby diner to grab some more take-out for Roscoe to devour. Meanwhile, Roscoe sat outside in the little wicker chair in the garage, resting in the cool shade beside their parked cars. The radio in the corner was on, spewing some twangy rockabilly noise from the Deadbeat’s station. Roscoe reclined and listened to it while his strength returned. He waved to Felix and Angel as they drove away in the Cadillac. Snowball curled up in Roscoe’s lap.

  After a while, the song ended and the Deadbeat’s velvet voice oozed out of the speakers. “That was Bobcat Black and the Hell Cats with ‘Devil’s Scratching Post’―a real gone little number.” The Deadbeat paused. “Seems like a good choice as that’s just what our little town of La Cruz used to be. But it’s not anymore. I hear that the sharks off Crimson Cove are dining on rotten flesh―and gobbling down the body of a mysteriously missing industrialist whose face is now plastered all over the papers. But, hey, boys and ghouls, you didn’t hear it from me. That was your La Cruz news update. Now here’s another rocking hit.”