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

by Michael Panush

  Dr. Bolton shot down the desert. His vehicle made Roscoe stare. It resembled a flying saucer― a UFO right out of a cheesy sci-fi flick. It was about twice the size of a large van, an oversized chrome pie plate topped with a dome of dark glass. The sides gleamed in the sunlight making it look as if the saucer had caught fire. A golden cloud of light shone down from the bottom, oozing across the ground and illuminating the dust. The strange vehicle hung near the ground, balanced on a cushion of air about a foot or two thick. It didn’t drive―it flew. It sped towards Cowl Canyons, humming along with effortless ease. Maybe Felix had been right, and Roscoe couldn’t handle this. He gritted his teeth at the thought. He could handle anything.

  He popped the glove compartment and grabbed his sawed-off shotgun. “Hey!” Roscoe cried. He aimed the sawed-off with one hand, keeping the other gripped to the wheel. Roscoe closed the gap between him and the flying saucer. The speed wobbled his lips and pelted his dead skin with dust. Roscoe didn’t care. “Bolton!” Roscoe roared. “Dr. Bolton! You pull that thing over right now! Stop and we’ll talk about it!”

  The flying saucer didn’t stop. Roscoe felt a sense of déjà vu. It was going to be the hard way after all.

  The sawed-off barked in his hands. He gave the hovering disc one barrel and then the other. The shells blasted into the smooth, curved sides of the experimental vehicle. Sparks flew. But the flying saucer didn’t slow or weave to the side. It kept zooming along. Roscoe gawked at the metal. The shots hadn’t even dented it. He’d seen what the gun did to cars and bodies before. Roscoe shook his head. That was fine. The Captain and he had planned ahead. Roscoe let the sawed-off fall to the passenger seat.

  He reached over past the seat, and grabbed a harpoon with a thin projectile ending in a serrated spike—magnetized by Felix so it would stick to any surface it stabbed. Roscoe rested it on the dashboard. He kept the gas pedal down, roaring alongside the flying saucer. Roscoe fingered the trigger and stared into his reflection, blurred and distorted, in the side of the silver disc. It was a funhouse mirror, making his forehead and chin oversized. He pulled the trigger.

  The harpoon slammed into the side of the flying saucer. Metal rang on metal, sounding almost musical against the roar of engines and the hum of machines. The pronged point of the harpoon stabbed into the metal, cracked it and held. The rope snapped out, unwrapping fast as lightning crackled and then going taut. Roscoe killed the engine and took his foot off the gas pedal. He clamped onto the harpoon with both hands, with just enough time to undo his seatbelt before the rope ripped him out of his seat and hurled him into the air.

  He flew towards the hover disc, wind and dust ripping at his coat and his body. Roscoe struck the dusty ground and bounced hard against the dirt. His bones pressed ragged against his throat. Roscoe gritted his teeth at the impact, wincing at the raw pain. The flying saucer sped on, dragging him across the desert. Some of his bones had broken―even if he didn’t know which. He managed to hold onto the harpoon launcher while he pressed another button. It retracted, tugging Roscoe to the side of the flying saucer. Roscoe reached out, groping blindly as the gritty road shredded his shirt and tore at his guts. His fingers gripped the edge of the experimental aircraft.

  Another yank and he was on. He clutched at the sides. It was smooth, but he found seams to cling to. Roscoe climbed up. He let the harpoon fall once he had a grip. Roscoe dragged his belly closer to the dark glass dome. The chrome surface was strangely cool, despite the sun beating down. He felt like he was scaling an oversized refrigerator as the Frigidaire zoomed along the desert. The wind ripped at him, disrupting his sunglasses. Roscoe shook his head and knocked them aside, then kept crawling. The glass dome drew closer. He reached to his belt; the crowbar waited there.

  “Dr. Bolton!” Roscoe cried. “You’ve gone far enough!”

  He had reached the dome now. One hand held onto the side of the flying saucer and steadied him. He raised the crowbar and then brought it down, smashing the pronged side on the glass. It cracked and broke. Roscoe swung again. Cracks spread from the impact, racing along the glass dome. Roscoe was grinning. He loved this― loved the chase and the hunt, cornering some chump and proving that he was better on the road and off it. He could outrun anybody, win any fight and it would give him the usual rush of excitement and joy. Roscoe brought down the crowbar again.

  Glass shattered and broke away―then it split, a line appearing in the center as the dome opened like a big clam. Apparently, the UFO was convertible. The glass rolled down, slipping into the rim of the UFO’s cockpit. He looked inside, where a shapeless stool sat before a round bank of controls. Dr. Bolton was inside, his hands resting on various levers and buttons. Dr. Bolton looked like a pencil pusher gone mad, with a wild head of tangled hair sprouting from a pale forehead, a pencil moustache and a disheveled collared shirt and tie that looked like they doubled as pajamas.

  He stared at Roscoe and then reached down and grabbed a wrench from the bottom of the cockpit. “No!” he cried. “You don’t understand―I’ve got to set things right! I’ve got to save the world.” He swung the wrench at Roscoe. It came down hard, slamming across Roscoe’s chest. It must have mashed a broken bone, because it made a wave of pain race through Roscoe and knock him back. He toppled down onto the side of the flying saucer. Roscoe flailed and grabbed the edge of the cockpit. He clamped on, fighting the wind tearing at him. Dr. Bolton looked down at him. Their eyes met.

  Dr. Bolton sighed as he raised the wrench. He had Roscoe at his mercy. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But you’re a dead man―aren’t you? This won’t kill you. And you’ve got to know, sir, I am meant for great things. I am going to set the world free and I cannot allow you to stop my great work.” He pulled back the wrench. “I’m sorry.”

  “Sure,” Roscoe muttered between gritted teeth. “No hard feelings.”

  “You should have known better,” Dr. Bolton said. “You really should have.”

  “So should you,” Roscoe said. He managed a weak grin. “You should have kept your eyes on the road.”

  With a nervous yelp, Dr. Bolton spun around. He had flown towards Cowl Canyon― and would smash straight into a broad spire of rust-colored stone if the flying saucer didn’t change course. Dr. Bolton reached for the controls. That was when Roscoe’s other friends, the two final members of the drivers, sprang into action. A bulky brown and white two-tone Packard rolled out from behind a copse of sage brush. Bull’s horns rested on the bumper and it rumbled for the flying saucer like a tank on the attack. Dr. Bolton tried to twist the flying saucer the other way, when a cherry red Cadillac zoomed out from behind a scraggly grove of Joshua trees. The Cadillac hummed low to the ground, burning rubber as its motor roared.

  The Packard and the Caddy sped next to the silver disc. They boxed it in, ramming it and keeping it on course. Dr. Bolton stared at the spire. Sweat beaded on his forehead, making his pale skin gleam.

  He looked down at Roscoe. “Oh, no,” he whispered. “You don’t understand.”

  “I understand enough, Doc,” Roscoe said. “For instance, you should probably hold on.”

  The flying saucer slammed into the stone. The metal shook at the impact like a cymbal struck by a drumstick. Roscoe flew off the pie plate side and crashed hard into the dust. The UFO sank down, its front chipped and broken against the rock. Dr. Bolton slammed back against the edge of the cockpit and then slipped off. He rolled down the smooth side, struck the dust and rolled next to Roscoe. The experimental aircraft settled down to rest on the desert floor. It made a noise like a ringing bell, which gradually faded into a dull hum and then into complete silence. Roscoe rolled over and stared into a pure blue sky marked with puffs of cloud.

  The doors of the Packard and the Cadillac swung open. Angel Rey stepped out, straightening the red tie of his scarlet zoot suit and brushing dust from his matching trousers. He wore a red fedora and kept a carefully combed thin moustache on his olive-skinned face. Roscoe looked up from where he lay in the dirt and gave
Angel a broken grin. The former pachucho thug had grown up on the tough streets of East LA―brawling with sailors, cops and hoods instead of going to school. His mother worked as a famed shaman and she’d taught him everything he knew. Now he was Roscoe’s best friends and one of the toughest of the drivers.

  Dr. Bolton sprang to his feet. He staggered, swaying and shaking. “No…” he whispered to himself. “I cannot let myself be― Dr. Bolton stumbled away from the wreck.

  “Easy there,” Angel caught up to him. He grabbed Dr. Bolton’s shoulder. “You ain’t going anywhere.”

  “No!” Dr. Bolton tore away, ripping his coat as he tried to run.

  But then Wooster Stokes stepped out of the Packard. His alligator hide boots slid into the dirt. Wooster had broad shoulders and thick mud brown sideburns framing a face that seemed caught in a perpetual snarl. He sported a Stetson and a bolo tie with a silver clasp. A Bowie knife rested on his belt in a snakeskin scabbard. Wooster was pure Okie nightmare―a reformed bank robber who had never quite let his outlaw past go away.

  He walked over to Dr. Bolton and grabbed him by the shoulders and held him in place. “Sit on down, boy.” Dr. Bolton wriggled and Wooster rammed his forehead against the scientist, causing him to crumple to the ground. Wooster grabbed the doctor’s wrist and yanked a pair of cuffs from his belt. “He won’t give us no more trouble.” He slapped on the cuffs.

  “We’re just supposed to bring him in alive, man,” Angel said. “Not hurt him.”

  “He’s in one piece, ain’t he?” Wooster asked. “That’s more than I can say for Roscoe.” He pushed Dr. Bolton down to his knees and sighed at Roscoe. “Jesus… We might have to scrape you up and shovel you home, Roscoe.”

  Roscoe grunted and managed to sit up. He touched his chest, feeling the broken bones. “I would appreciate a little help.” Angel hurried over and helped him up as engines rumbled close by. Roscoe’s Nash-Healey―Betty at the wheel―and the Rolls Royce close behind. They drove to a stop around Dr. Bolton. Betty, Felix, with Snowball in his hands, and the Captain stepped out. Betty and Felix hurried to Roscoe’s side.

  “Roscoe,” Betty said. She raced to his side, panic in her eyes. “Are you okay?”

  “Peachy,” Roscoe said. “Just let me eat a few steaks and I’ll be right as rain.” That was one of the benefits of being a zombie. Roscoe just had to munch some meals and all his injuries would heal―the torn up meat re-growing thanks to his living dead constitution. He gave Betty a lopsided grin. “How’d the Nash handle?”

  “Like a dream,” Betty said.

  “You are certain you are well?” Felix asked.

  Roscoe nodded, reached out and clasped the boy’s hand. Felix returned it. Snowball let out a little squeak. Then Felix turned to Dr. Bolton. Wooster led the scientist back to the Rolls Royce, where he would be taken back and handed over to the government men who wanted him.

  “Dr. Bolton?” Felix asked, his voice hesitant. “I am sorry for this. Dreadfully sorry.”

  Dr. Bolton stared at the boy. “Oh Felix,” he mumbled. “It’s not your fault.”

  “It certainly isn’t,” the Captain said. “Don’t worry, Dr. Bolton. You won’t be harmed in our custody and I’m sure the government can help you come to terms with whatever made you steal and experimental vehicle and fly towards LA.”

  “No,” Dr. Bolton said. “They can’t help. Nobody can help.”

  “All right, pencil-neck.” Wooster cut him off. “That’s enough out of you. Now why don’t you set down and we’ll get you home.” He pushed Dr. Bolton into the back of the Rolls and slammed the door shut. He clapped the dust from his hands. “Back to La Cruz?”

  “Yeah,” Roscoe said. “Angel, I’ll ride with you. We gotta stop by the La Cruz diner. I have to eat an elephant.”

  “Sure thing, man,” Angel said. “Let’s go.”

  Angel helped Roscoe into the Cadillac. The others moved to their cars, Wooster pausing to tie the experimental aircraft to the back of his Packard so they could haul it back to town. Roscoe leaned against the white leather seats. His injuries would heal. The job was done and he felt pretty pleased with himself.

  They made it back to La Cruz in time for lunch. Roscoe and Angel swung by the diner on Main Street and loaded up on grub. Then they headed to Donovan Motors. It lay at the far end of Main Street, a large cement garage with small apartments and living quarters behind it ― all an island surrounded by a small sea of black asphalt parking lots. For Roscoe, it was his only home. Angel helped him out―carrying bags of grub―and they went to the little kitchen in the bottom of the apartments. Everyone else, including Dr. Bolton, was already there. Roscoe slumped down on the nearest chair and started to unwrap tinfoil and Styrofoam packages with his usual frenzy. He shoveled chili cheeseburgers and hot dogs into his mouth, barely bothering to chew, and washed it all down with several glasses of coke and hardboiled eggs. Bones and sinew moved under his skin as the wounds closed up and healed. Wooster, Betty, the Captain, Felix and even Dr. Bolton stared him with more than a little interest. Snowball patted around the linoleum under Roscoe, eager to snatch up any scraps that missed the zombie’s mouth. Roscoe grinned and Angel handed him a napkin to wipe away the chili crusting his face.

  Then a knock came. “That must be for you, doc,” Wooster said.

  “I’ll show them in.” Betty stood up and hurried to the door. She came back leading two men. Roscoe recognized one of them―FBI Special Agent Jay Pruitt. He wore a dark suit that looked it was still steaming from the iron. His brown hair had been fused solid with Brylcream. Roscoe didn’t like Special Agent Pruitt. The G-Man had tried to blackmail them and even murder them a few times in the past, before showing up and hiring them to capture Dr. Bolton.

  Roscoe didn’t know the other guy―a Major Phillip Raskin with the US Navy. Major Raskin had apparently left them sometimes in the Thirties―officially at any rate―while still doing off-the-books intelligence work. He also wrote science fiction stories. According to Felix, he was pretty good. Roscoe wouldn’t know. He preferred horror comics. Major Raskin stood at attention in the hall, a trim man in a nice blue suit slipping into middle age but with still no gray in his dark hair. He gave Dr. Bolton a smile and a nod.

  “Hello, Clyde,” Major Raskin said. “Gave us quite the runaround, didn’t you?”

  Dr. Bolton hung his head―a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “You don’t understand. None of you do.”

  “We understand plenty,” Special Agent Pruitt said. He walked around the table and grabbed Dr. Bolton’s shoulder, then hauled the scientist to his feet. “I’ve read your record, doctor.” He sneered out Dr. Bolton’s title. “You’re a loony, a kook, and a nut. You probably have communistic leanings, like most academic types do.” He glared at Betty, whose father worked as a folklore professor at UCLA. “Still, you couldn’t run away from us now.”

  Felix raised his hand gingerly. “What will you do with him, sirs? He is a good man. He was always friendly to me and he doesn’t deserve any pain or cruelty.”

  “Don’t worry, son,” Major Raskin said. “We’ll get him back in some top secret military base by this time tomorrow. He’ll get some psych evaluations and therapy and then be put back to work.” He patted Dr. Bolton’s shoulder. “This fellow’s way too valuable to imprison.” He turned to the Captain. “We’ll need a secure place to keep him for the rest of the day and the night. I don’t suppose we can lock the man up in your garage.”

  The Captain stood up. “I’ve called Sheriff Leland Braddock and explained the situation. He can stay at the Sheriff’s Department. It’s just down Main Street―near the town hall. Sheriff Braddock will let him stay in a cell until tomorrow morning. I’ve already had Mr. Stokes drive Dr. Bolton’s flying machine to the sheriff’s office as well, under a cloth, of course. You can take it with you as well. “

  Special Agent Pruitt glowered. “I know Sheriff Braddock. He’s a small town cop. He can get cats down from trees and give drunks a place t
o sleep it off, but that’s about it.”

  “Well, you just need a place for Dr. Bolton to stay―don’t you?” Roscoe asked. “So that’ll work. Now I’ll tell you what else to do, Junior G-Man. How about paying us up and getting the hell out of here?” He pointed to the pile of food in front of him. “You’re ruining my meal.”

  “Yeah, pendejo,” Angel added. “Beat it.”

  “I will not be insulted by delinquent trash and a Mex― “ Special Agent Pruitt started, but Major Raskin put his hand on his shoulder.

  “I doubt Dr. Bolton will try to escape,” he said. “The sheriff’s office should be fine.” He reached into his pocket and handed the Captain a manila envelope fat with cash. “The second half of the payment, as promised. And sir? I just want to say what an honor it is to meet you and work with you. In Naval Intelligence―Hell, in most intelligence circles―you’re something like a legend. The story of your courage and bravery in the First World War and your strategy and command in the Second as you defeated the Nazi occult programs are the perfect example of how to deal with paranormal powers on the world stage.”

  Felix beamed. Wooster laughed and patted the table and even Angel smiled.

  Only the Captain didn’t share their enthusiasm. “Thank you,” he said curtly.