Detour to Apocalypse: A Rot Rods Serial, Part One (2 page)

He fired the sawed-off, giving 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 just kept zooming along. Roscoe gawked at the completely undented metal. He’d seen what the gun did to cars―and bodies―before. Roscoe shook his head. That was fine. He’d planned ahead with the Captain. Roscoe let the sawed-off fall into 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 stared into his reflection, blurred and distorted, on the side of the silver disc. It was like 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 the casing, cracked it, and held. Felix had designed the harpoon, and its magnetized tip worked perfectly. The line snapped out, unwrapping with a rapid crack, and then going taut. Roscoe removed his seatbelt and killed the engine. He clamped onto the harpoon with both hand and the rope ripped him out of his seat and hurled him into the air.

He flew toward the hover disc, wind and dust ripping at his coat and body. Roscoe slammed into the ground and bounced against the dirt. His bones pressed ragged against his skin. Roscoe gritted his teeth at the impact, wincing at the raw pain. The flying saucer sped on, dragging him across the desert. His sternum cracked, and a rib went with it . He managed to hold onto the harpoon launcher while he pressed another button. The harpoon retracted its cord, dragging Roscoe up to the side of the flying saucer. Roscoe reached out, groping blindly as the gritty road shredded his shirt and tore at his guts. Finally, he gripped the edge of the experimental craft.

Another pull of the rope and he was on. He clutched at the sides. It was smooth, but he found seams to cling to. Roscoe climbed up, letting the harpoon fall once he had a grip. Roscoe dragged his belly closer to the dark glass dome. The chrome surface felt strangely cool, despite the sun beating down. He felt like he was scaling an oversized Frigidaire box as it zoomed along the desert. The wind ripped at him, tugging at his sunglasses. Roscoe shook his head and knocked them aside, then kept crawling. The glass dome drew closer. He grabbed the waiting crowbar in his belt.

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

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 out from the impact, racing along the dome. Roscoe grinned. He loved this―loved the chase and the hunt, cornering some chump and proving 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 a convertible. The dome rolled down, slipping into the rim of the UFO’s cockpit. Inside Dr. Bolton sat on a shapeless stool before a round bank of controls, his hands resting on various levers and buttons. A pair of leather straps wedged him into his seat. He looked like a pencil pusher gone mad, with a wild head of tangled hair above a pale face, a thin moustache, and a disheveled collared shirt and tie that could have doubled as pajamas.

He stared at Roscoe, then reached down and grabbed a wrench. “No! You don’t understand―I’ve got to set things right! I’ve got to save the world.” He swung the wrench at Roscoe, slamming it into Roscoe’s chest. The hit must have mashed a broken bone; a wave of pain knocked him back. He toppled 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 at him. Their eyes met.

Dr. Bolton sighed as he raised the wrench. He had Roscoe at his mercy. “I’m sorry. 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 managed a weak grin. “You should have kept your eyes on the road.”

With a nervous yelp, Dr. Bolton spun around. He had flown toward Cowl Canyons―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.

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 sagebrush, bull’s horns resting on the bumper. It rumbled toward the flying saucer like a tank on the attack. Dr. Bolton tried to steer the other way, but swerved back 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 along 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. 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 on impact like a cymbal struck by a drumstick. Roscoe flew off the side and crashed into the dust. The UFO sank down, its front chipped and broken. Dr. Bolton undid his straps and pulled himself out of the cockpit. He rolled down the smooth side of the saucer, struck the dust, and landed 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 the 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 and gave Angel a broken grin. The former
pachuco
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 friend and one of the toughest of the drivers.

Dr. Bolton sprang to his feet. He staggered, swaying and shaking. “No… 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.

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 go of his outlaw past.

He walked over to Dr. Bolton, 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’s face with a rapid head butt, causing him to crumple to the ground. Wooster grabbed the doctor’s wrist and yanked a pair of cuffs from his belt, securing the doctor’s arms. “He won’t give us no more trouble.”

“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 lifted Dr. Bolton up to his knees and sighed. “Jesus… We might have to scrape you up and shovel you home.”

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 more engines rumbled close by. Roscoe’s Nash-Healey rolled up―Betty at the wheel―the Rolls Royce close behind. They puttered to a stop beside Dr. Bolton. Betty and the Captain stepped out, along with Felix, Snowball in his hands. Betty and Felix hurried to Roscoe’s side.

“Roscoe.” Panic shone in Betty’s 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 had to munch a few meals and all his injuries would heal. A living dead constitution came in handy. 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 and clasped the boy’s hand. Snowball let out a little squeak at Dr. Bolton. Wooster led the scientist back to the Rolls Royce; he would be taken back La Cruz 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. 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 an experimental vehicle and fly toward LA.”

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

“All right, pencil-neck.” Wooster gave Dr. Bolton a shove toward the car. “That’s enough out of you. Now why don’t you sit down and we’ll get you home.” He pushed Dr. Bolton into the back of the Rolls and slammed the door. 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 into 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 before heading to Donovan Motors. It lay at the far end of the street, a large cement garage with small apartments and living quarters behind it, surrounded by a small sea of black asphalt parking lot. For Roscoe, it was his only home. Angel helped him out―carrying bags of food―and they went to the little kitchen at the bottom of the apartments. Everyone else, including Dr. Bolton, was already there.

Roscoe slumped down on the nearest chair and unwrapped the tinfoil and Styrofoam packages in his usual frenzy. He shoveled chili cheeseburgers, hardboiled eggs, and hot dogs into his mouth, barely bothering to chew, and washed it all down with several glasses of Coke. Bones and sinew moved under his skin as the wounds closed up and healed. Wooster, Betty, the Captain, Felix, and even Dr. Bolton stared at him with more than a little interest. Snowball pattered 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.

A knock came from the front.

“That must be for you, Doc,” Wooster said.

“I’ll show them in.” Betty stood and hurried to the door, returning a moment later leading two men. Roscoe recognized one of them―FBI Special Agent Jay Pruitt. His dark suit looked like it was still steaming from the iron. His brown hair had been fused solid with Brylcreem. 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 had only met the other guy once. Major Phillip Raskin was a trim man in a nice blue suit, slipping into middle age but with no gray in his dark hair―Major Phillip Raskin with the U.S. Navy. Major Raskin had apparently left them sometime in the Thirties―officially, at any rate―while still doing off-the-books intelligence work. He also wrote science fiction stories. According to Felix, his novels were pretty good. Roscoe wouldn’t know. He preferred horror comics. Major Raskin stood at attention in the hall.. 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―like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “You don’t understand. None of you do.”

“We understand plenty.” Special Agent Pruitt walked around the table and 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 can’t run away from us now.”