Detour to Apocalypse: A Rot Rods Serial, Part Two (9 page)

“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 brightening 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.

Other works by Michael Panush:
Dinosaur Jazz
,
Stein and Candle Series
, and
El Mosaico Series
.