Detour to Apocalypse: A Rot Rods Serial, Part Two

by Michael Panush

  The G-Man backed down. “I’m just… I’m saying that you need to leave this to the professionals.”

  “The sort of professionals that brought back Nazi scientists to work with them?” Roscoe asked. “To Hell with that. And to Hell with Agent Dodd.”

  Wooster stood up from the bed. He approached Special Agent Pruitt. “I think you’re finished here, boy. Y’all better leave.”

  “Well, I-I-I can’t―” Special Agent Pruitt turned to Major Raskin, who shrugged. Finally, the FBI Agent stormed outside without another word.

  Major Raskin stood next. “I’m sorry about Pruitt. He can be quite rude.” He paused and faced the Captain. “But sir? Task Force X is composed of some dangerous people. They’re sort of like boogeymen in government circles. Everyone’s got a horror story they heard secondhand.”

  “We ain’t scared of horror stories,” Angel said.

  “That may be so,” Major Raskin said. “But I’m afraid you fellows could be in over your heads.”

  “It doesn’t matter, sir,” the Captain said. “I made a promise a long time ago to protect the innocent. My whole family has made that promise. I rejected it for a while, but I took it up again when I was half-drowned in a puddle of mud, and shells screamed down all around me. I promised to protect the innocent from the unknown and that is what I intend to do. That includes rescuing that alien, immediately. Do you understand?”

  Major Raskin nodded. “I understand, sir. And I’ll do my best to help.” He stood and held out his hand. “I might get orders not to, but I won’t follow them. I’m an off-the-books agent anyway, and I’m not afraid of Task Force X.” The Captain shook his hand. “Good luck, sir. I wish you the best.” He walked out of the motel room.

  The drivers stared at each other in total silence. The Captain settled into a rocking chair near the bed, his head lowered. Once again, he looked like an old and tired man―broken down after a hard life. He sagged in his seat.

  Roscoe walked over to him. “You made the right call, boss.”

  “I know,” the Captain said. “I did what’s right. But I worry about what that will do to us.”

  “Well, we will persevere.” Felix had utter confidence. “As we always do.” He hurried to the Captain’s side and took his adopted father’s hand. The Captain glanced at the boy. “Do not worry, sir. You will overcome any tribulation that we encounter.” He faced his friends. “Now, we have to figure out a way to rescue that poor alien from the basement of the Sandpiper Casino. What do you suppose our plan should be?”

  “We could ask for some help on the government front,” Roscoe said. “Call up Sergeant Quarter.”

  The Captain nodded. “That’s a good idea.” Sergeant Nathan Quarter, a soldier who fought under the Captain’s command in Korea, was one of their most loyal government contacts. “Sergeant Quarter may have more insight into Task Force X.”

  “You serious?” Wooster asked. “That stuck-up Sambo’s nothing but trouble.”

  “He’s a government servant, man,” Angel added. “We don’t need him.”

  Betty shook her head. “That is not true―and Wooster, you oughtn’t use such racist and hateful language, especially around Felix. The sergeant helped rescue him from the Nazi base in Antarctica. He is a good man, and he’ll help us now. But in the meantime, what do we do about the alien?”

  “We have to break him out,” the Captain said. “But I’m not sure how.”

  “Well, there’s no use thinking on an empty stomach.” Roscoe pointed to the door. “There’s a little diner down the road. How about I swing by and pick up some grub for everyone? I’ll bring it back and then we can eat and make our plans.”

  “Very well,” the Captain said. “But take Wooster with you, as security.”

  Wooster patted his belly. “I’m fixing to get me some chicken-fried steaks.”

  “May I go as well, sir?” Felix asked. “I would like to see more the city, if I can.”

  The Captain considered it. “All right.” His eyes settled on Roscoe. “He’s a child. He should enjoy his vacation.”

  “Sure.” Roscoe put his arm around Felix’s shoulder and steered the boy to the door. “Come on, kid. We’ll pick you up some strudel.” Wooster fell in behind him.

  They moved outside, Felix pausing to pet and assure Snowball that he’d return soon. The kid believed in their cause―and that they’d prevail. Roscoe wished he shared Felix’s confidence. He followed Wooster outside and they went to the Packard. Roscoe’s eye still itched. Gobbling down a couple sets of burgers and fries would at least solve that problem.

  The closest diner looked like a miniature Greek temple made of linoleum, complete with wide pillars flanking the door. Wooster parked outside on the curb and they strolled inside. Rows of shaded booths stretched off to the left, and a long, cream-colored counter stood in front of them. A bored counterman flipped through a comic book and scratched his pimpled chin while a few families in the back booths devoured milkshakes and hot dogs. Roscoe figured most people went to the casino buffets and upscale restaurants to dine. This joint suited his purpose fine. Wooster, Roscoe, and Felix walked up to the counter. Roscoe tapped it.

  The teenager glanced at him. “Yeah?”

  “Y’all serve chicken-fried steak?” Wooster asked.

  “Yup.”

  “How about strudel?” Roscoe asked.

  “We got doughnuts,” the teenager said.

  Roscoe reached for his wallet. “We’ll take a few. We’ll need half-a-dozen burgers as well―and put bacon on mine and extra cheese.” He tapped his eye. “And a chili dog. Throw in a dozen cokes, and a bottle of milk.” He paused and looked at Wooster. “And a beer.” Roscoe thought a little. “Anything else?”

  “A milkshake, perhaps?” Felix asked. “Chocolate, if you don’t mind.”

  “A chocolate milkshake,” Roscoe added. “All to go.”

  The teenager nodded quickly. “Sure. I’ll have them go and cook it up.” He took the order, but his eyes moved to the door. “Um, are those people with you?”

  Buzz Craddock and two of his goons walked inside. One of Craddock’s boys, a buck-toothed, corn-fed fellow with too much stubble, carried a baseball bat over his shoulder. Roscoe had left his crowbar and sawed-off in his car. He looked over at Wooster and at Felix. The kid’s face went pale and he edged a little closer to Roscoe. Wooster didn’t look surprised. He crossed the linoleum floor and approached Craddock, his arms outstretched.

  “Buzz!” Wooster said. “Buzz Craddock! Ain’t you a sight!”

  “Wooster.” Craddock returned his smile. He walked closer and they embraced. “You’re riding with this greaser and the kraut kid?”

  “Yes, sir,” Wooster said. “And you?”

  “Working for Frankie Fink,” Craddock said. “He’s a goddamn Heeb maniac―but he pays well.” He reached into his pockets. When they came out, each hand bore a brass knuckle. “He’s paying me double to run you out of town.”

  Roscoe looked between Wooster and Craddock. “You two know each other?”

  “Sure do,” Wooster said. “Me and Buzz here used to rob banks together. You remember that Bakersfield job, Buzz? Hot damn, now that went wrong real fast. Man at the wheel of the getaway car fell asleep. The Yegg set to blow the safe didn’t know what he was doing. Off-duty cops getting coffee in the place next door. How we got out of that one, I don’t know.”

  Craddock nodded at the memory. “I remember it, Wooster. I surely do.” His drawl seemed to increase as he talked to his old friend. “I remember you was an odd one―but a good fellow nonetheless.” He tugged at his tie, as if the band were choking him. “Those were good days. And look at us now―you working for some odd crew of freaks under an old man and me serving some Jew mobster. The mind reels at the thought of it.” He looked at his shoes, seeming ashamed. “You was a good fellow, Wooster. But I got a job to do and I reckon you feel the same way. If you leave now and get out of town, that’ll be it. But I know you and I got a feeling that
ain’t the path you’ll choose to walk.”

  “No,” Wooster said. “You’ve changed, and I have too. Got me a family now. I’ll fight for them.” He moved back and looked at Roscoe. Craddock’s two thugs inched closer, the one with the stubble raised his bat and the other fellow―who had a thick scar across the bridge of his nose―yanked out a beavertail sap and spun it idly. “Keep it easy, Buzz. Don’t you hurt no one that you ain’t ordered to, and we’ll settle this in the proper way.”

  The teenager returned to the counter, weighed down by two bags of grub. “Sir?” he asked Roscoe. “Your food is ready…”

  “Better hold onto it,” Roscoe said. “For the moment.”

  “Mein Gott,” Felix whispered. “Mr. Roscoe, we must―”

  Craddock and his boys launched their attack. The fellow with the buckteeth swung his bat at Roscoe. The blond, weighty chunk of wood blurred as it slammed against Roscoe’s chest and knocked him straight back onto the counter. Roscoe’s spine cracked against the counter and then the bat came again, bashing into Roscoe’s ribs. The bones shifted under the blow. Roscoe tried to steady himself.

  “Herr Roscoe―” Felix shouted his name and tried to help. The bat came again―and this time it went for the kid. Roscoe couldn’t let that happen. He leapt from the bar and tackled the goon with the bat. They went down together and crashed on the linoleum. Roscoe drove his fists into the guy’s face, slamming them down until his arms ached. The bat rammed against his side, then went limp and stopped. Roscoe looked up, heard Felix shout again, and the beavertail sap flew down and cracked against his face. It burned against his cheek and he hit the floor.

  While Roscoe lay on the linoleum, Craddock swung at Wooster. The brass knuckles kissed Wooster’s chin and upper chest. Wooster stumbled back and slugged Craddock across the face, knocking him into a nearby booth. Craddock kicked out, planting both feet in Wooster’s gut. Wooster didn’t fold. He merely grinned wolfishly, grabbed one of Craddock’s legs and twisted it. Craddock howled. Wooster left him whining in the booth and then turned to Roscoe. He pulled the Bowie knife from his belt and charged.

  The scarred guy with the sap kept cracking it down against Roscoe’s head. Felix tried to help him, but the goon pushed the boy away with one hand. He raised his sap again, but Wooster rammed the heavy handle of the Bowie knife into the thug’s head. He swiveled around and Wooster brought up the blade, pressing it close to his throat. “Easy, boy.”

  Craddock slipped out of the booth. He stood and stumbled toward Wooster. Roscoe came to his feet too, weaving in front of him. Craddock lunged at Roscoe, working over his face with the brass knuckles. Roscoe took two blows; the impacts raced through his skull and blurred his vision. He struck back, ramming his forehead against Craddock’s face hard enough to make something crack. Craddock gasped and sank away, clutching his bleeding nose. Roscoe grabbed his shoulder and rammed him against the counter.

  “Felix!” he called. “Get the food.”

  “Yes, sir.” Felix grabbed the two paper bags. He struggled to hold onto all the grub, but managed not to drop anything.

  Roscoe kept one hand on Craddock. He pulled his wallet from his coat and tossed it to Felix. “Reach into my wallet, kiddo. Pay the man―and give him a fat tip so we don’t have to explain this to the cops.”

  “Yes, sir,” Felix said. He had to set down the food to extract the money from the wallet, but managed it quick enough.

  Wooster pushed the scar-faced fellow to the ground and snarled at Craddock. “I appreciate you doing what you had to. But this is it. You go back to your boss and tell him we’re gonna bring the trouble we promised until he stops sheltering Mars and lets go of that alien. You tell him to talk, if he wants to. We can still do this peaceful-like. You understand?”

  Craddock nodded weakly. “You got it, Wooster.”

  “Damn straight.” Wooster sheathed the knife as Felix tossed down the money. “Now get out of here. Tell your boss to look us up. Otherwise, we’re coming for him.” He let Craddock go.

  His old bank-robbing pal nodded to his men. They picked up the guy on the ground and hurried outside, dragging their friend with them. A few seconds later, an engine rumbled and they sped away.

  Wooster sighed and let out a low groan. He gingerly touched his bruised cheek. “Well, I’m glad that’s over with.” He patted Felix’s shoulder, nearly upsetting the boy and the bags of food. “Come on, little fellow. Let’s get all this grub back to the motel. I’ve worked up an appetite.”

  They headed outside, leaving the rest of the diner in stunned silence. Roscoe and Wooster dashed out onto the parking lot with Felix between them.

  “I gotta say,” Roscoe said. “I’m a little surprised. I didn’t think you’d let them walk away.”

  “Would you?” Wooster asked.

  “Maybe. Maybe not.” Roscoe hadn’t really considered it.

  “Well, maybe I’m trying to turn over a new leaf―same as you are,” Wooster said. They walked down the darkened sidewalk together, nearing the bulky form of the Packard. “Showing a little mercy, doing things the peaceful way. Maybe I can handle it.”

  “I am certain that you can, Mr. Stokes,” Felix said. “And your tact has assured that there will be a peaceful solution. Mr. Craddock will tell Mr. Finkelstein of the situation, and the alien will be freed. Then we can return to La Cruz. I am certain that my friends will be amazed by my stories of visiting Las Vegas, meeting the boss of a casino, and encountering an extraterrestrial being. It will be a most―”

  The roar of a motor cut off Felix’s words. Roscoe looked down the street. A powder blue Buick, polished to a bright shine, rumbled down the street. It sped toward the sidewalk, blazing over the open road. Roscoe knew what this was. He’d been on the opposite side of a drive-by hit plenty of times, back when his name was Carmine Vitale. He glanced at Wooster, who had the same open-mouthed look of horror.

  “Felix!” Roscoe cried. “Get down!” He dropped to his knees, grabbed the boy’s shoulder, and pulled him back. The bags of food spilled on the ground. One burger fell from its cardboard box, straight onto the sidewalk. Felix yelped in panic as the Buick roared by and guns blazed.

  Craddock leaned out of the passenger seat with a Thompson. In the back, one of his men toted another sub-gun. Bullets cracked the pavement, kicking up sparks. More blasted holes in the metal of Wooster’s Packard. The air tasted burnt. Roscoe found himself taking in shallow breaths again. Felix had his eyes closed, mumbling quietly to himself in German. He’d been in this position before.

  Wooster tossed Roscoe the keys, as Roscoe was closer to the car. Roscoe reached up. The tommy gun kept chattering―Craddock packed a big drum magazine―but Roscoe ignored it. He pulled open the Packard’s door. His sawed-off shotgun rested under the seat, right where he had left it. Roscoe grabbed the gun and stood. A burst from the Thompson took him in the side, gouging out a chunk of flesh. He fired both barrels, one after the other, into Craddock’s car. Glass shattered and metal bent. The engine boomed again.

  The car gained speed, as Wooster stood. He pulled his revolver and fired all six shots, fanning them off as he walked into the street after the speeding automobile. He pumped bullets into the back of the Buick as it sped away.

  “Goddamn you, Craddock!” Wooster cried. “We were friends! We took down scores together! Shooting at a kid like Felix after I let you go―you’re asking for it now, and you’ll get it―you hear me, boy!”

  The Packard zoomed away and squealed around the nearest corner, vanishing from sight.

  “What’re you thinking?” Roscoe tossed the sawed-off into Wooster’s car and helped Felix up. Together, they gathered the food and put it inside the vehicle. Felix stumbled shakily into his seat and snapped into the seatbelt.

  “We’re gonna rob that casino.” Wooster started the car. “I’ll tell my plan to you when I tell it to the Captain. Now get in and let’s go before the cops arrive.”

  Roscoe hurried into the passenger seat. The two-ton
e Packard creaked down the street, breaking the speed limit as it pulled away from the diner and drove back to the Oasis Motel. It had taken a line of bullet holes, but the hulking Packard could still navigate. Wooster gripped the wheel, knuckles white. Felix’s breath came in ragged gasps. The poor kid was still terrified. Roscoe felt his own heart beating, stirred to life by fear. He forced it to go silent and reached back to grab a burger from the bag. He had a feeling he’d need to heal quickly.

  They arrived at the Oasis Motel and headed inside. Angel, the Captain, and Betty looked over maps of Las Vegas, spread out on the bed. They looked up when Roscoe, Wooster, and Felix came inside.

  Betty looked worried. “Oh, god,” she whispered. “What happened?”

  “Craddock paid us a visit,” Roscoe said. “He tried brawling and when that didn’t work, ran a drive by on us.” “We did get the grub, though.” His words sounded pathetic. “I guess a peaceful solution is off the table.”

  Felix set the food down on the little coffee table, and hurried to stand beside the Captain, who patted the kid’s shoulder. The boy seemed to have calmed down a little.

  “Yeah. And I got me another idea.” Wooster reached into the bag and withdrew the bottle of beer. He used his Bowie knife to pop the cap, letting it fall onto the carpet. “I know armed robbery. I know it well. Roscoe knows the layout of the place, from when he saw the alien. So he’ll tell me and then we’ll think of a plan.”

  “A plan to do what, man?” Angel asked.

  “Rob them,” Wooster said. “Steal that alien right out from under them. Maybe take some of their money too. See what Craddock and Frankie Fink think of that.”

  Silence filled the motel room.

  The Captain’s eyes moved to Roscoe. “What do you think?”

  “This wasn’t going to end peacefully, Captain.” Roscoe felt a little like he was surrendering, giving up somehow―or giving in. But Wooster was right. There was no other way. “I say we listen to Wooster, hit the casino tomorrow morning, rescue the alien, and talk to it to find out what Mars is planning and why he snatched Dr. Bolton. Then we put a stop to it.”