Detour to Apocalypse: A Rot Rods Serial, Part Two

by Michael Panush

  “Don’t that kooky cult worship aliens?” Wooster asked.

  “They worship the Crystal Gods―which may be aliens, of a fashion. But they’re not like this guy.” Betty smiled at the alien. “Besides, they certainly didn’t treat him like a god. And Mars called him a demon when we rescued him.”

  Felix stood again and approached the alien. “Do you know, sir? Why Mars captured you?”

  The Ambassador stared at Felix without expression. He held out his hand.

  “Very well. If you think it necessary.” Felix touched the alien’s hand, lapsing into shudders as soon as their fingers made contact. A moment later, he stepped back and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “He doesn’t know. But the poor fellow did manage to send out a distress signal as he went down. He has friends that he contacted and promises they will arrive soon to rescue him.”

  “Rescue?” Wooster asked. “You know what that means, don’t you?”

  “I don’t think I do, man,” Angel said. “Explain.”

  “Think about it,” Wooster said. “You’re some high-flying alien zooming over a backwater Earth and you get engine trouble, crash, and find yourself kidnapped. Not only kidnapped―but experimented on and tortured and then kidnapped again. Then your friends show up. It ain’t rescue you got in mind. It’s retribution.” He sipped his beer and licked his lips. “I seen it often enough, back home. Locals would kidnap somebody, thinking it’d be easy money. Then the FBI and the local cops and hired guns start combing the hills, burning homes, shooting it out with anybody. They bring everything down.” He pointed to the Ambassador. “That’s what his pals are gonna do, to the planet. Count on it.”

  “What?” Felix asked. “You think they’re going to destroy the world?”

  “Or blow up large parts of it,” Wooster replied.

  Felix shook his head. “No, sir. I don’t think that will happen. The Ambassador is a good person―or well, an alien. He knows that such an attack would harm innocents, people who had nothing to do with his captivity.” He held out his hand to the Ambassador. “You know that, don’t you, sir?”

  The Ambassador remained unresponsive.

  Betty patted Felix’s shoulder. “We’ll convince him. We’ll show him that humanity is okay. We’ll prove that we don’t deserve to be blown to pieces by his friends.” She stepped closer to the Ambassador. “Do you understand, mister? We’ll take care of you and protect you. I promise.”

  “And you have my word as well, sir.” Felix approached the alien and held out his hand. The Ambassador took it and, this time, did not send any psychic messages to Felix. Instead, he merely clasped it. The alien and the kid looked at each other for a moment before Felix stepped back. “He also is a little hungry. He would like mashed potatoes. They fed him mashed potatoes in the Sandpiper Casino and he quite enjoyed them. He has no teeth, you see, so he must eat mushy foods.”

  “I’ll go and see if the little restaurant they got here will make some,” Angel said. “Maybe that will help convince him we’re okay.” He headed for the door.

  As he left, Roscoe gazed at the Captain. “What do you think, boss? Are we gonna protect him?”

  “From who?” Betty asked.

  “Townsend Mars and Frankie Fink.” Roscoe started counting. “Agent Dodd and Task Force X.” He sighed. “Not to mention the entire US government. They pretty much think he’s their property. The government needs him for interrogation so they can keep cranking out their experimental weapons and vehicles. Mars needs him for some other nutso reason. They’ll come for him and try to take him back. The question is―do we protect him?”

  Silence filled the room. The Captain remained where he sat. “What do you think?”

  Roscoe looked at Betty and Felix and the Ambassador. “I don’t even know if it’s our business. We got hired to do a job and it went wrong, and we got pulled. Bucking the entire government for some big-eyed alien―that’s a sucker’s play, boss.” But as he spoke, he knew that was what Carmine Vitale would say. Carmine did what he was paid to do, which usually involved murder. Roscoe wasn’t that person anymore. “But keeping him safe is the right thing to do. This alien didn’t deserve what happened to him, and the whole world may be in danger if we don’t protect him. So I say we guard him with our lives. We protect him until his friends show up and then let them take him back to outer space. We prove to him that humanity’s decent.”

  Felix beamed. “Thank you, Herr Roscoe.”

  “Thanks,” Betty added.

  The Captain nodded. “You’re right. I have done bad things and I have faced horrors, but I will not allow an innocent, even a creature from another world, to come to harm.” He stood and approached the alien. “Ambassador, you are now under our protection. I know you really have no choice in the matter, but we are good people.” He looked over his friends. “We’ll defend you, from all enemies. We will keep you safe. You have the word of Donovan Motors on that.”

  The Ambassador stared at him, still expressionless.

  A knock came at the door. “I’ll get it.” Betty hurried to answer.

  Snowball slid off the couch and pawed over the Ambassador. He sniffed the alien continuously. Once again, the alien showed no response. Roscoe wondered if the Ambassador would ever crack a smile or frown―or if he even could.

  Betty stepped back into the cabin. “Captain? Sergeant Quarter is here.”

  Sergeant Nate Quarter stood in the doorway. Roscoe had only worked with him once before and wasn’t entirely sure if he liked the guy. Quarter looked like he had stepped off a recruiting poster, wearing a spotless olive green suit coat and tie under a matching military jacket. He had a shaved head and dark moustache and carried an automatic on his belt.

  Sergeant Quarter entered. His gaze moved to the alien. “Captain.” He gave a curt nod and smiled at Betty. “Good evening, Miss Bright―and the same to you, Master Tannenbaum.”

  “It is good to see you, Sergeant,” Felix said.

  “How do we know he ain’t spying on us? Reporting back to his government masters.” Wooster pointed at Quarter. “His people are supposed to be servile, ain’t they?”

  “Shut up, Wooster.” Roscoe glared back at Quarter. “He does have a point, though,” he said. “You’re an American soldier. Can we trust you?”

  “I’m on leave, sir,” Quarter replied. “I was not followed. Are you asking if I’ll repeat what I say to my superiors?” He stared at the Captain. “I can see you don’t trust me. But you’re not in charge of this operation. The Captain is.” He nodded to the Captain. “Can you trust me?”

  “Yes,” the Captain said.

  Quarter stared at Roscoe and the other drivers. “Is that answer enough for you?”

  “Of course it is,” Betty said.

  “Good.” The sergeant pointed to the door. “Captain, we’ve got to discuss the situation. You told me a little about your plans on the phone yesterday and we need to discuss matters privately. Just for a little. Is that okay?”

  The Captain stood slowly and with effort. He balled his weathered hands into fists and had to force his legs to straighten. He picked his fedora up from the coffee table and walked over to Sergeant Quarter. “Betty, Wooster, Felix, stay here and keep the Ambassador company. Wooster, I’d like you near the door. Armed, if you don’t mind, in case there’s trouble.” The Captain paused. “Roscoe, please accompany me and the Sergeant.”

  “Boss?” Roscoe asked.

  “You heard me,” the Captain said. “I want you in on this conversation too.”

  “Okay, okay.” Roscoe paused to pat Snowball on the head and Felix on the shoulder before heading for the door. He looked at his friends and the Ambassador. His eyes met the dark pools in the alien’s face. “You don’t know how lucky you are. To have run into people like my friends.”

  He followed the Captain into Ghost Gulch.

  The three of them walked away from the tourist cabins toward the main street of the abandoned town. Sergeant Quarter’s cloth-top olive g
reen military jeep rested in the parking lot with the other vehicles. Roscoe had a feeling the sergeant had brought along some military equipment. He was at a level where he could do things like that, and not have to answer questions or fill out paperwork.

  The Captain noticed it too, and pointed to the jeep. “You brought hardware?”

  “Yes, sir,” Quarter said. “I always do, when you contact me.”

  “We can always use more,” Roscoe added.

  They walked through the parking lot to the main street of Ghost Gulch. A few tourists lurked about, enjoying the souvenir shops and snapping photos while the sun set. The town’s owners had set up a few repurposed Tiki torches that didn’t fit the place’s Wild West atmosphere. The horses stood near hitching posts, sniffing the air and warding off flies with their swinging tails. Roscoe, the Captain, and the sergeant walked past all of them, straight down the dirt street. Dust stirred around their boots, like smoke in the fading evening light.

  Nobody said anything for a while.

  Quarter folded his hands and looked at his boots. “Captain. I understand you’re in a state of hostilities with Task Force X.”

  “I wouldn’t call it a state of hostilities,” the Captain said.

  “I would.” Roscoe snorted. “They tried to run me and Angel down in Los Angeles when they figured we were going after the same target. And I think they wanted Dr. Bolton so they could get to Mars―so they could get the alien. Now that we got the alien, they’re gonna come after Who are these Task Force X people, Quarter? Who the Hell gives them the right to play Gestapo?”

  “The President―and everyone on down,” Sergeant Quarter said. “They were created a few years ago, to handle paranormal and extraterrestrial threats to America. Task Force X has access to the most advanced weapons and technology and the legal permission to use it at their discretion. They can destroy anyone to achieve their goals, and can pursue black operations anywhere in the world. Needless to say, their existence is a complete secret.” He paused. “I’m breaking several laws by talking to you. I’m breaking oaths that I swore.”

  The Captain listened calmly. “Why?”

  “To convince you of the dangers you are facing.” Quarter stepped in front of the Captain. He spoke clearly, as if that would make his words more persuasive. “Task Force X will come for that alien. They will destroy anything in their path and they don’t give a damn about collateral damage. They’ll wipe you from the face of the Earth if you try to move against them.”

  “How can people like that exist?” Roscoe asked. “I thought this was America.”

  “It’s the Cold War,” the Captain muttered. “Everyone’s terrified of Soviet spies and threats that could end the world. Task Force X is one symptom of many.” He turned back to Sergeant Quarter. “So you would have us return the alien to them? Forget about it and go back to La Cruz?”

  “Yes, sir,” the sergeant said. “Because Task Force X frightens me. I squatted in snow near the Chosin Reservoir, fighting the Chinese attack. All I had was a lone sniper rifle against endless human waves. Not much has frightened me since―but Task Force X does. They are nightmares in uniform. They don’t kill people. They ensure that their victims disappear―with all records removed. They fight battles ordinary soldiers could never comprehend.” He paused. “I respect you, sir. I respect Roscoe and the other drivers.”

  “Well, thanks for that,” Roscoe muttered.

  “I don’t want you or your friends to be hurt.” Quarter continued like he hadn’t heard Roscoe’s comment at all. “Please―just this once―give in.”

  The Captain looked at Roscoe and stared back up and down the street. “I will not. That alien was tortured by my own government. I will fight to protect it. That may make me a traitor, but I’ve been accused of that before. I don’t care.”

  “It’s a losing fight―” Quarter started.

  “It’s a just fight,” the Captain said. “That’s all that matters.”

  Roscoe glared at Sergeant Quarter. “You came to get an answer and you got it. Now, what are you gonna do about it?”

  The sergeant turned to the Captain. “Sir?”

  “Answer the question, Sergeant,” the Captain replied. “I’d like to know as well.”

  “I’ll stand with you, sir. When Task Force X arrives, I’ll try and arrange a peaceful solution.”

  “And if a peaceful solution is out of the question?” the Captain asked. “Will you fight representatives of your own government?”

  The question made Sergeant Quarter pause. He lowered his eyes. “Sir… My government didn’t do much for me in New Orleans. It didn’t do much for me in Korea, either. But you did―and for that reason, I will stand with you.” Roscoe kept staring at him. “You want me to say it, I’ll say it. I will fight on your side, against Task Force X, if need be.” He glared at Roscoe, his temper finally starting to rise. “If you’ll have me, of course.”

  “I got a feeling we’ll need every gun we can get,” Roscoe said. “Even yours.”

  “Thank you for that vote of confidence.”

  “You’re real welcome, Sergeant.”

  The Captain coughed slightly and Roscoe and Quarter shut up. “That’s enough. All right. Sergeant Quarter, I’d like you to return to the cabin and come up with a rudimentary defensive plan. Angel should have returned by now, and Wooster, Betty, and Felix will help you.” He reached out and touched Quarter’s arm. “You protect them, Nathan.”

  “Yes, sir,” Quarter said softly. “What’s our next move?”

  “That’s what Roscoe and I will discuss.”

  The sergeant stared at Roscoe. For a moment, he looked like he was about to protest, but instead headed back to the cabin. Roscoe and the Captain stood alone. In the street, the performers of Ghost Gulch acted out their final mock gunfight of the night. A bearded drunk in a black hat and a teenager in a white one squared off, drew cap guns, and opened fire at each other. The cap pistols made little crackling pops, like branches being snapped. The fellow in the black hat clutched his belly and keeled over backwards. Dust rose in a cloud as he plopped down. The small audience of tourists applauded half-heartedly and snapped pictures. Roscoe and the Captain walked past them.

  “Roscoe,” the Captain said. “I’ve been testing you for the past couple months. Ever since that business with Strickland. You proved yourself, and I think you know why.” He stopped and put his hands in the pockets of his coat. He looked tired down to his bones. “I won’t be around forever. I’m going to need a replacement.”

  “Boss…” Roscoe said. “You ain’t gotta talk about―”

  “No, Roscoe. I do.” The Captain faced him. “If something happens to me―because of my age, or because of this business we’re in―I want you to take the job.”

  “Captain.” Roscoe shook his head. “You don’t―I’m not―” He tried to straighten his thoughts. “I’m not the man for the job.” He tapped his green cheek. “I’m the resurrected corpse of some heartless Guinea hitman.”

  “You’re the right man for the position,” the Captain said. “I don’t care about your past or what you were in life. You’ve got the perfect understanding of tactics, vehicles, and weaponry. You can win any battle that you start. You can be mean. You can fight dirty when you need to. But you believe in doing what’s right. You’ll protect your friends and you’ll keep this world from getting any worse.” He held out his hand. “I didn’t know it when Angel clipped you with his car, but I know it now. You’ll find the papers all drawn up when we get back to La Cruz. If anything happens to me, you’ll become the new owner of Donovan Motors. Do you understand?”

  “Boss, I can’t―”

  “Do you understand?”

  The Captain’s voice, tensing around the question, was all Roscoe needed. “Yeah. I understand.”

  “Good.” The Captain took Roscoe’s cold hand. He gave it a squeeze before walking off down the street, leaving Roscoe alone in the dirt.

  Roscoe stood out under the b
rightening stars, the Tiki torches smoldering along the sides of the road, leaking smoke into the darkening sky. He realized that his lungs had started to inflate again and forced out the air. They belonged empty. Back up the street, the tourists had gone to their cabins and the performers had cleared away. Even the horses had left. Roscoe stood alone in the ghost town. He put his hands in his pockets and kicked at the dust, watching it rise into the air, before trudging back toward the cabin.

  He didn’t know if he could do what the Captain wanted―to lead Donovan Motors and the drivers. He didn’t know if he could protect them. But the Captain thought so, and Roscoe had learned to trust the Captain’s judgment. The Tiki torches flickered and began to fade. Soon Ghost Gulch would be completely dark. It was time to go.

  As Roscoe walked, a light glittered down from the sky. He stepped onto the parking lot outside the cabin and looked up. Something shone down on the pavement like a spotlight. A strange growling sound fluttered overhead, like a wind that stopped and started a hundred times in each second. He looked up. Moonlight gleamed on vast glassy bulbs―at least three of them―hanging under sets of rotors. They had all been painted pitch black. Roscoe’s heart beat again.

  Task Force X had arrived.

  Michael Panush has distinguished himself as one of Sacramento’s most promising young writers. Michael has published numerous short stories in a variety of e-zines including: AuroraWolf, Demon Minds, Fantastic Horror, Dark Fire Fiction, Aphelion, Horrorbound, Fantasy Gazetteer, Demonic Tome, Tiny Globule, and Defenestration.

  Michael began telling stories when he was only nine years old. He won first place in the Sacramento Storyteller’s Guild “Liar’s Contest” in 2002 and was a finalist in the National Youth Storytelling Olympics in in 2003. In 2005, Michael’s short story entitled, Adventures in Algebra, won first place in the annual MISFITS Writing Contest.

  In 2007, Michael was selected as a California Art’s Scholar and attended the Innerspark Summer Writing Program at the CalArts Institute. He graduated from John F. Kennedy High School in 2008 and has recently graduated from UC Santa Cruz.