“If you ever wanted to go back,” Major Raskin said. “You know―in a more official capacity. I guarantee that we’d love to have you.”
The Captain paused. He walked next to Felix and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I respect your desire, Major, but I’m retired. I’m happy to be retired. I’ve got a family now.” He looked at the table, his eyes darting over each of his drivers. “I defend a small town and help my family. That’s all I want.”
Major Raskin nodded politely. “Well, until we meet again.” He shook hands with the Captain and then grabbed Dr. Bolton’s arm. “Let’s go, Dr. Bolton. Don’t worry about this. Soon enough, it’ll all be a memory.” He led Dr. Bolton to the door.
The scientist let out mumbling little whispers of protest.
Special Agent Pruitt remained in the room, watching them. “I didn’t think you degenerates could ever help the US government, but you have, and I thank you for it. I suggest you do your best to stay out of our way from now on.”
Wooster stood up from the table. He walked over to Special Agent Pruitt, towering over the G-Man. “Boy.” he made his lips bounce as he drawled the word. “I suggest you be on your way.” He removed the toothpick from the corner of his mouth and wedged it between his fingers, then wiggled the pointy end at Special Agent Pruitt. “Get gone.”
That was all it took. Special Agent Pruitt glared at them and hurried away.
After the door shut, Wooster headed back to the chair. The Captain was counting the money in the envelope. “Well, that was easy―as jobs go,” Wooster said. “And a big payday to show for it.” He leaned back, letting his alligator boots fall on the table. “So what do we ought to do now?”
“Now, Wooster, I’ll need you to go shopping.” The Captain handed Wooster some of the money. “Shopping list is on the counter. And please, follow it this time. Don’t buy nothing but alcohol and red meat.” He looked at Felix. “Son, you’ve got school tomorrow―and a history test. Betty can help you study and then you can help her on her paper about Germanic folklore. I bet she’d appreciate it.” He faced Angel and Roscoe next. “Roscoe, are you sufficiently healed?”
“Well enough,” Roscoe said between bites of a chicken drumstick.
“Good. We’ve got a few cars that need repairs. Angel, you can help him.” The Captain gave them all a quick nod―perfunctory and containing all the emotion he cared to share. “And you did an exemplary job today.” That was the most praise they could expect from him. The Captain headed upstairs to his office and everyone else went to their various tasks.
Angel and Roscoe went outside to get some work done in the garage. Though the garage was mostly a cover operation, La Cruz’s citizens still brought their automobiles in for repairs. Roscoe, Angel, Betty and Wooster knew cars well and the cash helped finance Donovan Motors’s other activities. Now, they had some housewife’s powder blue Chevy with a malfunctioning engine. Roscoe relaxed on the lawn chair by a table in the corner of the garage while his wounds healed. Angel popped the hood and got to work. Roscoe pulled up his shirt. The rips in his flesh were already fusing shut.
He glanced over at Angel. “Can I do anything to help?”
“Nah, man,” Angel said. “I’m good, but maybe you can put on the radio? I think the Deadbeat’s on.”
“Sure.” Roscoe went to the radio in the back. He fiddled with the dials and soon static formed into the dulcet tones of the Deadbeat’s voice. The Deadbeat was a DJ, a beatnik with an origin no one could place. His radio show pumped out rockabilly tunes and occult news. Most people thought the occult stuff was just a long-running gag, but Roscoe and the drivers of Donovan Motors knew better.
Strumming guitars faded as the Deadbeat spoke. “Good afternoon, boys and ghouls. That was Chris Crypts and the Six-Finger Five. A real gone little number, if I do say so myself. Now, here’s your mid-afternoon La Cruz news update.” He cleared his throat. “Dig this, listeners―seems like our defenders in Donovan Motors had a little clash in the desert outside of town. No word as to what was their quarry, but Old Rayford out by Cowl Canyons reports seeing a flying saucer. Are Martians invading our little town? Well, maybe not. But we do have another visitor related to the red planet. Mars himself―or Townsend Mars to be exact―just showed up at the city limits.”
“Townsend Mars?” Angel asked. “That kook?”
“Nuts,” Roscoe muttered.
“Don’t know about the Marster, cats and kittens? Stand by as the Deadbeat dispenses some education,” the Deadbeat continued. “Townsend Mars started life as a traveling salesmen. Hauling around a sample case and trudging up and down LA’s sun-blasted streets might have been fun, until the Depression wrecked Mars’ business for good. Now this is where things get weird, you dig? Mars claims he was contacted by the spirit of Sir Caleb Craul. For those of you who don’t know your arcane history, Sir Caleb was a British occultist in the Era of Queen Elizabeth. He grooved with John Dee, Edward Kelley and all those alchemists and sorcerers. Sir Caleb Craul claimed he contacted angels who gave him the secret to eternal life. A little strange considering he kicked sometimes in King James’ reign. But his ghost lived on and told Townsend Mars about the angels. And if the Craul name sounds familiar, it’s because one of his descendants is none other than Cassius Craul, noted British occultist and Satanist who became London’s conduit to the demonic in the years between the wars.”
“A whacko supreme,” Angel said, as he slid the hood of the Chevy shut.
The Deadbeat continued. “Under Sir Caleb’s ghostly instruction, Townsend Mars started an outfit called the Crystalline Church. They worship Sir Caleb’s angels, which Mars called the Crystal Gods who dwell under the ground. He’s even conducted services in Cowl Canyons once or twice.” The Deadbeat paused to let out a fond laugh. “Crazy as waltzing mouse, cool cats? Maybe. But one thing’s not up for debate. Townsend Mars has acquired some major power thanks to his Crystalline Church. Some of the Hollywood set have become paid-up members of Mars’s Church and the disaffected of LA have joined as well. Mars may be a relative newcomer to the cult scene, but he’s already amassing quite a following. Maybe the Crystal Gods are smiling down on him. Or make that ‘up,’ since they’re supposed to be buried under the earth, eh, cats and kittens?” The radio clicked as the Deadbeat reached for a record. “Now, Townsend Mars is coming to La Cruz for a visit. Is he sightseeing? Hitting the beach? Who can say? If he’s listening to this, I hope the Marster enjoys this next tune. It’s Susan Sun and the Subterraneans with Underground, All the Way.”
Rock and roll boomed from the radio. Angel looked over his handiwork and turned back to Roscoe. “Mars is crazy, man,” Angel said. “Crystal Gods? That stuff’s straight out of a comic book.”
“Well, your mother is a practicing shaman,” Roscoe pointed out. “Mixing up Catholic and Indian rituals over in Los Angeles. That could be considered a little weird, if you think about it.”
“That’s different,” Angel said. “See, shamans like my mother want to heal the world ―to make it better. Mars and his people―cult leaders and so on―they want to transform the world, to make it completely different.” He held out his hands, indicating the street. “See, we know that things are hard enough without trying to craft some crazy utopia. Mars thinks himself up to the challenge. That’s what makes him dangerous.”
“I guess we’d better prepare for the danger, then,” Roscoe said. “Here he comes.”
A sleek ivory white limousine rolled down Main Street and straight for Donovan Motors. It looked like an old fashioned limo―one of those hulking battleships of the 1920s. Two matching white Buicks followed it, like it was part of some off-color presidential motorcade. The limousine spun to the side and rolled to a stop right on the curb. The Buicks followed. The doors opened and members of the Crystalline Church stepped out. They wore white suits and matching ties, making them look like waiters at an upscale restaurant. They stood at attention, hands folded. The broad-shouldered chauffeur, wearing a white uniform, stepped out next. He op
ened the limousine door and then helped Townsend Mars out into the afternoon daylight.
Townsend Mars looked like an Old Testament prophet in a swanky white suit. His beard hung down to his waist, shimmering and silver. He didn’t have much hair on his head and what he did have framed a face that looked stretched over his skull and wrinkled. He walked with a cane―a jagged and thin length of a magenta crystal shard that tapped almost musically against the pavement. Mars stepped onto the parking lot of the garage. His eyes blazed like someone had set fires inside his head. He looked around and then his eyes settled on Roscoe and Angel.
Roscoe stood up from the table. He pulled his coat closed, hiding his healing wounds. “You got some cars need repairs? Our rates are inside. Just park over here in the garage and then go inside and I’ll ring you up.”
Mars stared at Roscoe. “Dead man… I do not wish to talk with you.”
“I’m here,” Roscoe said. “So let’s talk.”
“Fetch your master.” Mars squinted. “I would speak with him.”
Angel raised his hands. “Okay, man. Okay, I’ll go get him. He’s just up in his office.” He turned to Roscoe and nodded silently. The message was clear―be careful with this guy. Roscoe knew that Angel could be cautious at the proper moments and he appreciated the sentiment. Angel scrambled away and headed back into the apartments for the Captain’s office.
Mars remained still, resting on his cane. “We have met before, dead man.”
“Yeah,” Roscoe said. “You tried kidnapping local kids. You pinched Negros from Butcher’s Row, because you figured nobody would miss them, and tried to use them to awaken your Crystal Gods. Well, it didn’t work. We trashed your Crystal Creeps and sent you packing. Now you’re back and I can’t imagine why.” He cracked his knuckles. “You want a rematch?”
“The Gods meant for my defeat, then,” Mars said. “Just as they will grant me a victory now.” By then, the Captain had walked down from his office. He followed Angel and they stood together on the open asphalt. The door to the living quarters creaked open and Felix and Betty peered out as well, watching everything. Snowball sat at Felix’s feet, emitting squeaking growls at Mars and his followers.
The Captain walked over to Mars and held out his hand. Mars didn’t take it. “Good afternoon. I know who you are, Mr. Mars. I know about your religion. I don’t care what you worship, but if it threatens my town, I will care and I will involve myself. Now please explain why you have come to La Cruz?”
“The Crystal Gods whisper to me,” Mars said. “They whisper many things. They speak of bondage and an endless, undying imprisonment. They want to be free.” He jabbed his finger into the Captain’s chest, emphasizing each word. “And they want my dear friend, Dr. Clyde Bolton, to be set free and released into my custody. Do you understand, Captain? I want to leave your town with Dr. Bolton by my side.”
“I can’t allow that,” the Captain said. “He’s not in my custody anymore.”
“You rule this town. You can― “
“No,” the Captain said. “I defend it. That’s all I want to say on the matter. Now kindly go back to your vehicle and leave my garage.” He never raised his voice, but it made Mars’s eyes get wide and wild. Evidently, the cult leader wasn’t used to people talking to him that way.
“You would stand against the will of the Gods?” Mars asked.
“The Gods haven’t done much for me over the years,” the Captain said. “Now, please―leave.”
“So be it.” Mars turned and walked back to limousine. He hardly seemed to limp. His followers returned their cars as well. Soon, the whole motorcade pulled away and rumbled off down Main Street, turned a corner and vanished from view. The drivers of Donovan Motors stood on the curb and watched them go.
Once the Crystalline Churchmen were gone, the Captain turned back to the others. “You all have work to do. I’ll see you for dinner.” He headed for the garage and for his office.
Silence filled the street and the garage. Roscoe glanced at the Captain heading up the stairs and going back to his office. He seemed so tired, like it took effort to make it up each step. But the Captain had just stared down a fanatic and the fanatic had blinked. Roscoe couldn’t think of a stronger man, and he burned with pride to work for him. He and Angel headed to the next car to make their repairs and Roscoe tried to put Townsend Mars and the Crystalline Church out of his mind. He was just a kooky cultist, after all, and Roscoe had handled him fine before.
That night, Roscoe went back to his room and tried to slip into the kind of half-sleep that was the closest zombies could come to slumber. He lay on the bed, looking at his posters and pin-ups of horror movies and comics rendered shadowy in the dark. He couldn’t dream, couldn’t truly shut down his consciousness―but he could try. Roscoe groaned and mumbled to himself as he rolled over. On good days, he could enjoy a decent enough rest and would emerge refreshed and ready to work the next day. But now, something stopped him from slipping away into a peaceful oblivion. His hands clenched under the covers, gripping the bedspread and digging into the mattress. Then he heard a knocking on the door, a feverish and panicked pounding. With a groan, Roscoe rolled out of bed and stumbled to the door.
He pulled it open and found Felix Tannenbaum on the balcony outside the second-story room, in a dark robe and striped pajamas. Snowball bounced along at his feet, screeching wildly. Roscoe glared at the boy. “Kiddo… You read my horror comics again and got nightmares, didn’t you? I told you not to read them too late. I’ve told you a hundred times and― “
“Nein, Herr Roscoe.” He slipped into German―as he often did when he was afraid. “Es ist… um, it is something else. The ectospectrometer in my room is recording spiritual activity that is off the charts!” He pointed back to the city. “There is great deal of arcane energy growing in La Cruz.” He glanced at Snowball, then reached down and pet the Yeti’s furry scalp while whispering calming words in German. “Snowball has also become highly agitated.”
“Yeah?” Roscoe asked. “What else is new?”
Before Felix could reply, a burst of deep purple light blazed down Main Street. It sent shadows dancing across La Cruz. Roscoe had to turn away from the sudden blast. A noise like glass shattering came as more light blasted out from the far street. Sirens blared in the distance and lights in suburban houses winked to life. Roscoe scurried back into his room. He grabbed his jeans, leather jacket, crowbar, and his sawed-off shotgun before he stepped back outside as more glowing lights came from Main Street.
By then, Wooster and Angel had also emerged from their room, looking ready for war. Angel was in his shirt and tie, wearing a pair of shoulder-holsters equipped with pearl-handled automatic pistols. Wooster, wearing an undershirt and trousers, packed a tommy gun.
Felix looked at the weapons and then back to Roscoe. “We will investigate, Mr. Roscoe?”
“We will,” Roscoe said. “You stay put. Lock the doors.” He and his friends started down the balcony. They hit the stairwell and walked down, just as Betty came out of her room. The Captain, having emerged from his own office, stood on the pavement in vest and shirtsleeves. Roscoe waved to him. “Trouble in town?”
More purple light flashed down Main Street, brighter than neon, pointed like a finger away from Donovan Motors.
The Captain nodded. “I just got a call from Sheriff Braddock. The lights are converging at the sheriff’s station. I think it’s Mars’s doing.” He pointed down the street. “Take the Packard for strength and the coupe for speed. Get there quick.” He paused. When he spoke again, a trace of fear fringed his words. “Protect our town.”
“Got it,” Roscoe said. He pointed to Betty as he rested his sawed-off on his shoulder. “I’m riding with you, sister. Angel, you ride with Wooster. Be the back-up with the big guns after we figure out what’s going on. Now let’s go.”
They hurried to their cars. Roscoe took the passenger seat while Betty started the engine. Her coupe was smaller than Roscoe’s, with a shining white
paint job and a convertible top. However, its small size made it just a bit more maneuverable. She sped out of the driveway, hitting the street while the Packard rumbled along behind. The makeshift two-car convoy rolled towards the source of the glowing purple lights. Betty kept the gas pedal down, her knuckles whitening on the wheel.
Roscoe glanced over at her. “Bringing back memories?”
“Yeah,” Betty said. “Nightmares of La Cruz turned into a war zone last year.”
“That’s finished,” Roscoe said. “Strickland’s dead and the Crimson Cross is safely stored up in the mission. The devil won’t have this city.”
“Maybe,” Betty said. “But what if Townsend Mars is something worse?”
As they drove down the street, the ground shook and splintered. When he had been alive, Roscoe experienced a little LA earthquake. It was a small tremor, enough to shatter glass and wobble the floor, but not too much more. In a city as wild in LA right before the Second World War, it was strictly small potatoes. But the quake had stuck with Roscoe and he remembered it now as the road shook crazily. Then, up ahead, the pavement split. A giant, pale pink crystal erupted out of the ground. It reared up into the night air, shining and brilliant and twice as tall as the car. Betty closed her eyes and spun the wheel. The Coupe careened around the crystal, narrowly avoiding its spiked sides. Wooster’s Packard wasn’t so lucky. Its edge rammed hard into the crystal and the metal clanked and dented.
They drove ahead as more crystal spires reared up. The spikes split the sidewalk and the street. One popped Betty’s front tire and she battled the wheel to stay on course. “What’s going on?” she screamed. “Where are all these crystals coming from?”
“Mars.” Roscoe shouted. “I’ve seen them before. His gods are helping him out―the Crystal Creeps.” He pointed up ahead. “Turn here, sister. The police station is right ahead.”
Betty spun the wheel and the car screeched around the corner―straight to a wall of crystal spikes. They formed a loose palisade twice the height of a man, blocking off the road. Roscoe looked inside the spikes and swore he could see definite shapes trapped like flies frozen in novelty ice cubes. The forms seemed somewhat humanoid, but warped and strange.
Dead Man's Drive: A Rot Rods Novel (Rot Rods #1) Page 27
