Detour to Apocalypse: A Rot Rods Serial, Part Two (7 page)

They hurried past the ruined vault door and up the stairs. Wooster kept his Thompson raised. As he topped the stairwell, a shotgun blast burned the air above him. Roscoe crouched down and motioned for his friends to keep back. Betty stayed on the lower steps, clutching the alien tightly. Wooster moved over to stand next to Roscoe. They peered up together.

Buzz Craddock stood in the hall. His men flanked him, half-a-score of them all packing and eager for blood. Craddock had a shotgun resting his hands. He worked the pump. “Wooster?” he asked. “Is that you? I gotta say, I thought you were smarter.”

Wooster aimed his Thompson upward and fired blind. He sent a rattling hail of bullets down the hall. They blasted the barren cement walls and sparked on the tile floor. Craddock’s gunmen backed up, but kept the hall covered. “He’s right, Roscoe,” Wooster muttered. “Bastard’s got us bushwhacked. We gotta find some way to go past them and get out to the parking lot.”

“We’ll go out the front,” Roscoe said.

“What?” Betty asked. “But how’re we gonna get by all these guys? And Fink must have more men outside. How will we get by those?”

“We’ll scatter the crowd,” Roscoe said. “They’ll run out too. It’ll be chaos, and we can get to our cars.” He reached into the satchel on his shoulder. “As for these guys, we’re gonna have to go past them. I got just the ticket.” He pulled out a pair of steel cylinders―smoke bombs. The Captain had procured the military weapons and now his men would put them to good use. Roscoe popped both pins and motioned back to his friends. “Move quickly. If anyone gets in your way, put them down. No gunfire or everyone will hear. He faced Betty. “And keep our new friend safe.”

“You got it, Roscoe,” Betty said.

“All right.” Roscoe gripped the grenades, holding both in the same hand. “Here goes nothing.”

He tossed them down the hallway. The smoke grenades rolled and bounced, spilling along the cement floor while they trailed lines of wispy white smoke. They came to a sputtering stop right at Craddock’s feet, and erupted, spilling clouds of thick blue smoke that billowed around the mobsters. The fog curled against the wall, clung to the ceiling, and turned the entire corridor into a mass of gray fog. It was everything Roscoe and his friends needed. They didn’t let it go to waste. Roscoe stood, holding his sawed-off with both hands and charged down the hallway. Wooster and Betty followed.

Shots cut through the smoke. Bullets whizzed past as the hoods in the hall fired at random. He didn’t let it stop him, and kept moving through the smoke at a run. He reached for the crowbar on his belt. The sawed-off was too loud, and the gunmen would find him in the smoke from the muzzle flash, so the crowbar would have to work. Roscoe reached the line of men and swung. He couldn’t see much either―but he felt the beak of the crowbar bashing into flesh and heard someone shout. Roscoe used the crowbar again. He shoved another guard back, kicked someone on the ground, and brawled his way free. Wooster moved at his side, helping with his boots and fists, with Betty and the alien close behind.

They pushed through, but a meaty arm shot through the smoke and snagged Betty’s shoulder. Someone yanked her back, and the alien nearly spilled from her arms. Betty turned around and kicked. Her foot hit the gangster’s gut with a loud
thump
, causing him to lose his grip on her. She scrambled away while pulling the alien close, hurrying to join Roscoe and Wooster. They broke into a full run now, and soon had left the smoke behind completely.

Up ahead, slot machines clicked and rang behind a set of double doors. Wooster didn’t bother with the handles, and rammed his shoulder into them, smashing them open. Once again, Roscoe looked at the phalanxes of slot machines in their neat rows. Since it was only midmorning, the place wasn’t too crowded―but more slot machines and card tables were occupied than empty.

Behind them, Buzz Craddock emerged. He fired his shotgun into the air. The blast ripped past Roscoe and struck a nearby slot machine. Metal crumpled and the machine squealed. Coins bled from the wound in its side. More bullets cracked through the air as Craddock’s men opened fire. Wooster sent a few bullets back with his Thompson. The gunshots disturbed the gamblers and everyone forgot their games. They left the slot machines and the tables and raced for the door, forming a stampede of Hawaiian shirts and floral dresses. This was the chaos Roscoe had wanted, but it wouldn’t last for long.

“Quick!” Roscoe cried. “Into the machines! Hurry!”

He darted down a row of slot machines and his friends stayed close. Roscoe crouched down and took cover. Automatic fire blazed into the slot machines, which flickered and clanked. Coinage rang like bells and neon lights flashed wildly. Decks of cards and stacks of poker chips spilled into the air, turning the casino into a kaleidoscope of color. Roscoe could hardly believe the chaos of the gunfight. He crouched behind a slot machine and tried to stand―only for a rifle shot to wing past his nose. He ducked down and shook his head.

Betty realized it too. “We’re pinned down, aren’t we?” The bundled alien in her arms made a sudden groan―a strange sound, halfway between a rasp and a baby’s happy gurgling. Betty looked at the alien. “Don’t worry. We’ll get out.”

“You got a plan?” Wooster asked.

Roscoe stood and fired one barrel at the assembled gunmen, driving them back. Gunfire thundered around him and he ducked, wincing as another slug slashed his shoulder. He didn’t have a plan. It shouldn’t have gotten this bad.

Roscoe looked at Wooster, Betty, and even the alien, and knew he couldn’t say that. “We’ll keep inching back. Make it to the door and then run and―” Roscoe paused. He looked up the balcony overlooking the casino floor. A familiar figure in a set of coveralls waved to him. “Never mind. When I say so, you guys run for the door.”

Wooster nodded. “What about cover?”

“I’ll handle it,” Roscoe said. “Me and Angel.”

He stood and aimed at the door. “Go on and get them!” Craddock cried. His goons darted from the doorway to charge Roscoe’s friends. They aimed at Roscoe―but Angel leapt down from the balcony, his pearl-handled automatics clattering from each hand as he fired wildly in midair. Craddock and his men hadn’t been expecting an attack, not from on high. They scattered, and Roscoe’s thundering sawed-off drove them further back. Angel landed on a card table, which shattered under him, flinging cards into the air in a burst of confetti.

. Roscoe rushed over to Angel, and helped him up. Angel moved with a limp and winced through gritted teeth, but he seemed okay―compared to the table. Roscoe stared at his friend. “Someday, all the crazy crap we pull is gonna catch up with us.”

“Not today, man,” Angel said. “Now let’s get out of here.”

They raced for the door, hurrying to join the crowd of fleeing guests. Betty and Wooster had already gone ahead.. Angel’s Cadillac parked at the far end of the block. Roscoe’s Nash-Healey waited in the other direction. It was all part of the plan―split up and drive in different directions, so Fink’s men didn’t have a combined target to chase.

Roscoe paused for a second in the crowd. “I’ll see you at the meeting place.”

“You too.” Angel patted his shoulder. “Be careful.”

Angel loped toward his car while Roscoe did followed. He tucked the sawed-off shotgun into his satchel as he moved, hiding it from view. Thankfully, his bloodstains didn’t show on the dark gray coveralls. Then again, nobody in the crowd paid much attention to him. Roscoe reached the Nash-Healey as sirens started to whine in the distance. He tossed the satchel into the passenger seat and slumped back. The engine came to life and Roscoe pulled out in to the mess of traffic. He had to fight for a position, but soon joined the stream of cars zooming away from the Sandpiper Casino.

He slammed on the gas as soon as he broke away, zooming down back roads and alleys that he’d memorized the night before. He kept one eye on the rearview mirror to check for Fink’s men. They didn’t send anybody―not that they even knew what his car looked like. Roscoe stuck to side streets for a while and then turned onto the freeway, finally gunning the motor. The Nash-Healey flew, like he knew it could. He felt good. They’d pulled off the heist. They’d rescued the alien and gotten away without losing anybody. It wasn’t the whole war yet, but at least they had won the battle. Roscoe kept the motor roaring all the way down the open road.

In the early evening, he arrived at the meeting point. They had chosen a place called Ghost Gulch―a Wild West-themed tourist attraction and prime roadside dump. It featured a real Old West ghost town set back from the road: a single street collection of square wooden buildings, wooden sidewalks, watering troughs, and busted wagon wheels. Re-enactors in cowboy costumes shot each other with cap guns for tourist applause while sad-faced horses took mammoth dumps in the dust and waited for death. Beyond the town, Ghost Gulch had a couple of cabins, spacious and far apart. It seemed like a good place to lay low and get some much-needed privacy.

Roscoe swung up on a greasy spoon called the Chuck Wagon offered tri-tip and flank steak. He stopped long enough to buy a steak sandwich for his wounds, and gobbled it down as he drove around to the cabins. All the cars―the Rolls Royce, coupe, Caddy and Packard―gathered in front of the furthest cabin. Roscoe joined them and walked up to the door.

Betty answered his knock. She wore her usual clothes―a much more sensible light sweater and pale trousers. “Hey, Roscoe. You run into any trouble?”

“Sure. They overcharged me at that Chuck Wagon place. I guarantee that’s road kill coyote they’re selling as prime cut steak.” Roscoe walked inside, Betty staying close. “How’s our guest? Has he said anything? Thanked us for rescuing him?”

“Not yet. He hasn’t said a word.”

The cabin had a spacious, well-furnished Western sort of look, with pictures of cowboys, wagon wheels and bull’s horns mounted on the walls. A white and brown speckled cowhide couch and matching chairs sat around a small coffee table. Everyone relaxed: the Captain in the armchair at the back, Wooster stretched out on the couch with a beer, and Angel hanging back at the table in the kitchen. Felix stood next to the Captain. Snowball was curled up at his feet, sniffing the air around the overstuffed armchair in the center, where the alien sat. He wore a child’s cowboy costume, with a colorful pale blue shirt, fringed vest, and a little red hat with white string weaved around the edges. He gazed dead ahead, as he had while tied up in the Sandpiper Casino. Roscoe stared at him.

“The cowboy duds?” Betty asked. “I couldn’t just let him wear a pair of boxer shorts. This was the only thing they offered here in his size. I handed him the bundle and he walked into the bathroom and changed, then came back and sat down. He hasn’t moved or said anything else since.”

The Captain folded his hands. “He’s a creature we don’t understand. A visitor from another world. He didn’t receive the best treatment and he may be dangerous. We need to proceed cautiously.”

Wooster grunted. “I don’t want to talk to that big-headed Martian. What if he eats my brains?”

“He won’t eat your brains, Mr. Stokes.” Felix folded his hands. “I will speak with him.”

Everyone stared at Felix. “You sure?” Angel pointed at the alien. “He don’t really look normal, Felix.”

“Do you think he’ll listen to you, Son?” the Captain asked.

Felix nodded hesitantly. “Yes, sir. You see, we were both prisoners.” He stepped closer and approached the alien. The alien watched him, its deep black deep eyes fixing on the boy’s pale face. Felix nodded politely and held out his hand. “Good evening, sir. My name is Felix Gottlieb Tannenbaum. It is a pleasure to meet you. My friends and I wish to help as best we can, but we have a great many questions as well. How exactly did you come to be imprisoned by Mr. Mars?” He paused. “If you would rather not speak of it―I do not sometimes wish to speak of my own captivity―then I understand completely. But if you can―”

The alien reached out. His thin fingers rested on Felix’s shoulder. The kid’s mouth fell open. He closed his eyes. The Captain hurried to Felix’s side as Snowball perked up and yipped excitedly. Felix stumbled and the Captain caught him―but the kid didn’t fall. He stood and stared at the alien, and straightened his tie. He stepped closer again. “Oh. I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry.”

“What’d he do to you?” Betty asked.

“I believe he established a psychic link,” Felix said. “He communicated telepathically. It was a… somewhat distressing experience.”

Wooster scooted over and Felix sat down on the couch. Snowball bounced up and curled next to Felix in a fluffy white ball.

Felix patted the baby Yeti as he talked. “His name is Ambassador. Well, perhaps it is more of a title that he has now chosen to take. I don’t believe his people have names, as we understand them.”

“Where’s he from?” Wooster asked. “Mars?”

“He is no Martian,” Felix said. “The Ambassador did not exactly tell me of his home, only that he was traveling in a spaceship through this part of the universe when he experienced engine trouble. He crash-landed in a town called Roswell, New Mexico.”

All eyes went to the Captain. “I have heard of such a thing. Vague rumors of an extraterrestrial incursion. Task Force X handled it.”