Felix stirred. He muttered something in German and then looked up at Roscoe. “Mr. Roscoe,” he whispered as he leaned against his pillow. “You are all right?” Snowball hopped up and curled next to Felix. The boy scratched the yeti’s round white head as he talked. “You returned from your mission rather late.”
“I’m fine, kiddo,” Roscoe said.
“And Miss Bright, is she―”
“She’s fine, too.” Roscoe paused. For some reason, he knew he could talk to Felix and say what he couldn’t to Angel or the others. “I battled some zombies tonight. They were…a little like me―or what I could have been, if things worked out differently.” He turned away and stared out the window at the darkened city. “And there was something else. Two men I swear I knew, even though I’d never seen them before.”
“Could they be from the part of your life before your, ah, death?” Felix asked. He stammered. “I apologize. I s-should not mention such a topic. It is extremely impolite.” He fell silent for awhile before he spoke again. “Do you remember anything from―from that time?”
“Bits and pieces,” Roscoe said. “Flashes. Like dreams that are gone by midday. Not that I dream anymore.” He sat down on the edge of the bed. “I don’t know what I was. I don’t know if I want to know. I’m happy being what I am.”
“Then that is what you are, sir,” Felix said, smiling. “You―and all the wonderful men and women at Donovan Motors―are truly heroes.” There was a strain in his voice as he talked. “You defend La Cruz from evil and protect the innocent. And you accepted me, as a family would, when it seemed that no one else in the world would care.”
Roscoe stood and walked to the door. “Well, kiddo. That’s what we do. Now you get some rest, okay? Don’t read any more of those horror comics. They’ll give you nightmares, and there’s enough scary stuff in the world.” He reached out and switched off the night. “Good night, Felix.”
“Good night, Mr. Roscoe.” Felix rested his head on the pillow.
Roscoe stepped outside and eased the door closed. He looked up at the stars for a long time. Then he went to his own apartment, on the first floor. He closed the door and sat on his bed, trying his best to sink into the sort of unconsciousness that passed for sleep. It took him a long time to manage it.
verything was quiet in La Cruz for the week before the Annual Sand and Surf Festival. Not even the usual troubles of the town’s restless dead residents trying to sneak out of the graveyard arrived. Roscoe didn’t like it. Nobody at Donovan Motors commented on the town’s peacefulness as they worked on various cars in the garage. They all seemed to know what it was―the calm before the storm. Roscoe often saw the Captain staring off into the distance while they worked, looking at La Cruz’s main street like he wanted to memorize its features and was in danger of forgetting them.
Before they knew it, they had reached the sunny Saturday when the Sand and Surf Festival would strike the town like a whirlwind. The town prepared for the festival as the drivers prepared for war.
They all rode to the Crimson Cove waterfront together, taking Wooster’s Packard and Roscoe’s Deuce. Roscoe drove with Angel in the passenger seat and Betty, Felix and Snowball in the back. The boy was excited for the festival. Nobody had the heart to tell him that danger might be waiting by the shore. Roscoe had his crowbar in his black leather jacket and the Packard carried more of Donovan Motors’s arsenal. That would have to be enough. Roscoe drove over to the Crimson Cove pier, which stabbed out into the glittering ocean like a broadsword. He found a parking spot by the curb, joining a long line of tourist and local automobiles. Roscoe and his friends got out and looked over the beach.
Felix stepped gingerly onto the pier as Snowball sniffed the air in excitement. Roscoe hadn’t wanted to bring him along, but they didn’t know if there would be danger for certain and it felt wrong to leave him at home while all his friends went to the festival.
Betty stood next to the boy. “This is your first Sand and Surf Festival, honey?” Felix nodded quickly as he stared at the crowded wharf. “Well, it’s a bit of a to-do around here. The whole town gears up for it and really tries to put on a show. When I was a little girl, I always thought it was just swell.” She smiled a little. “Don’t worry. You’ll get to see everything.”
The pier swarmed with tourists and locals. Colorful booths flanked the pier, each run by some local business offering its wares. A small midway featured games of skill and chance and a big Ferris wheel spun at the far end of the pier, doubled by its reflection in the clear waters. Everything was decorated with cardboard seashells, mermaids, and dolphins. Fiberglass seahorses hugged the streetlights and stared morosely at passersby with glowing, blue eyes. Families sporting matching Hawaiian shirts gobbled down corndogs, caramel corn and cotton candy. Roscoe felt uneasy. In the beach below the pier, the usual surfers were paddling out, and bathers lay limp in the surf-washed sand. A boat parade would float by later, featuring a tramp steamer manned by boozed-up bums in clown costumes and a gaudy vessel shaped like a whale. They’d toss flowers and glasses of beer into the water for the seals to choke on. Roscoe had seen it before. It was miserable.
But everyone else seemed to be enjoying themselves. Felix looked back at Angel, Betty, and Roscoe and straightened his glasses. Snowball strained at his leash and Felix whispered to the yeti in gentle German, which quieted his pet. “Snowball seems quite keen to explore the various attractions. I must admit, I am as well.”
Angel looked over at Roscoe. “You looking forward to this?”
“Painting a big target on the town?” Roscoe shook his head. “It’s stupid, Angel. Damn stupid.”
“Whole thing is a little stupid, man.” Angel pointed down the pier. A horse, a prize stallion from one of the luxury ranches up in the hills, was coming down the pier dolled up as a dolphin. A little girl was riding it, dressed as a mermaid, tossing sand dollars to the tourists while the horse pooped on the boardwalk.
“Goddamn gringos,” Angel said. “I don’t think I’m ever gonna understand them.”
A car horn honked behind them. Roscoe turned too fast, feeling his dead heart longing to pulse. It was just Wooster Stokes, parking his Packard. Wooster and the Captain stepped out and joined them. Wooster seemed just as wary as Roscoe was. He had his Bowie knife on his belt and took only a couple of steps from his car. The Captain strode toward the others and surveyed the boardwalk. He didn’t bother with a greeting.
“All right,” he said. “Wooster―I want you to stay here with the ordnance. Dissuade any curious tourists from getting too close, and be ready to act in the event of an attack.” He pointed to Angel and Betty. “I’ll need one of you down by the beach and the other on the far end of the pier. Simply look for anything out of the ordinary, and be ready to support Wooster’s position at a moment’s notice. I’ll locate Sheriff Braddock and Mayor Corrigan. Maybe I can talk some sense into them.”
“Got it,” Betty said, and Angel nodded.
Felix stepped gingerly into the conversation. “Captain, sir? I believe I see some of my friends from La Cruz High School. There is Miss Penny Barrow, and there is Stanley Swann and Ace Arkin. May I join them?” Sure enough, the three kids were standing near the edge of the pier. Ace, a lanky fourteen-year-old with curly brown hair and a sheepskin-lined bomber jacket, waved wildly to Felix.
The Captain’s eyes turned to Roscoe. “Accompany him please.” The concern in his voice was clear. “Make sure they’re safe, and look for anything out of the ordinary.” It wasn’t exactly a job Roscoe wanted, but it meant protecting Felix, so it was okay.
Roscoe nodded. “Sure, boss. No problem.” He patted Felix’s shoulder. “Come on, kiddo. Take the monkey with you. Just make sure he doesn’t fall off the side and get eaten by a shark.”
He walked away from his friends, Felix and Snowball at his side. Roscoe waved back to them and Betty and Angel returned the gesture, while Wooster doffed his hat. Then Roscoe headed over to Felix’s three freshman pals, and they a
ll started off down the pier. The Captain stared after them. Roscoe looked into the Captain’s eyes, pale blue as the sea around Crimson Cove. There was longing in those eyes, and a deep sadness.
Felix hurried to catch up to his friends. He dragged Snowball with him, though the yeti seemed determined to sniff at everything and bark at the incoming waves. “I am not sure the seaside agrees with him. Perhaps we should give him some snack to take his mind off his surroundings? I admit, I might enjoy a slight repast as well.”
“How about a corn dog?” Roscoe said. He could always use more grub. Each bite helped straighten out his ear, which was still a little crooked. He pointed to a booth down the dock adjacent to a stage. A marching band was there, pumping away and sweating in the ocean sun. “Don’t worry. I’m buying.”
“Gee, that’s nice of you, M-Mr. Roscoe.” Ace stared in awe at Roscoe. Unlike most of the residents of La Cruz, he saw all the drivers as heroes. Ace always looked at Roscoe like the zombie was some movie star just stepped out of the screen. “Say, how’s your ride doing? The Deuce?”
“It still drives,” Roscoe said. “Maybe needs a little bodywork. But that V8 under the hood? Always works like a charm.” He liked talking about cars. “We’ve got this Model A I’m thinking of working on―stripping it down for speed and maneuverability. You know, a chop top. I make it light, give it a good engine and some fat tires, and it’ll be a beast on wheels.” He smiled at Ace. “How’s your ride doing, Ace?”
“Mine?” Ace’s face went red. “I just got a bike, Mr. Roscoe. It’s a nice bike, though.”
“Well, kid,” Roscoe said. “It’s a start.”
Stanley Swann stepped closer to Roscoe. “Roscoe? My dad, he’s a little worried about today. I guess things at his job, well, haven’t been so good.” He had his father’s pleasant, round face, and a carefully shaved head, and he wore a neat collared shirt and pale blue vest. “You think something’s gonna happen?”
Penny Barrow sagely stared out into the ocean as they approached the hot dog stand. “Something will always happen.” She was a thin waif of a girl, the thirteen-year-old daughter of the undertaker at the La Cruz Municipal Cemetery. Basil Barrow had been an ally of the drivers for a long time, helping them dispose of bodies that didn’t want to stay dead. She had midnight black hair in a long braid behind her pale, elfin face. She wore a shapeless black sweater, and long dress. She held out her hand and Roscoe gave her a corn dog. “That’s how life works. That’s how death works, too.”
“I’ll keep my eyes open,” Roscoe said. He didn’t mention that he didn’t need to blink. He looked at the midway, staring at the various attractions and games. All of them seemed like rip-offs meant to separate tourists from their nickels. “You kids want to try your luck?”
Stanley pointed to a shooting gallery. “How about that one?”
“Sure.” Roscoe walked over and dug out a few more dollars. The overweight booth worker, chili stains glaring orange on his undershirt, handed Roscoe an air rifle and pointed to the gallery. It was an ocean scene, with tin sharks, stingrays, and more nestled amongst crepe-paper seaweed.
“You guys want to give it a try?” Roscoe held out the gun towards the kids.
Ace gingerly accepted the air rifle. He fired a few shots at the display and dispatched a single shark―but nothing else. Stanley tried next, but didn’t do much better. Felix took the gun, and then offered it to Roscoe. “I think you will do a better job with a firearm, sir.” The others nodded.
“Suit yourself, kiddo.” Roscoe braced the gun against his shoulder and took aim.
Something stirred in the back of his mind. He wasn’t shooting at a snarling tin shark. He was shooting a man in a uniform―a Nazi uniform, though a shade darker, with a round steel helmet extending over the ears. Olive groves surrounded him, the gray trees stretching out with the explosions of pale green leaves like odd-colored fireballs dappling a mountain side. Roscoe pulled the trigger. The image vanished as soon as the air rifle bucked. The tin shark went down and collapsed. Roscoe worked the bolt and fired again. He put three more shots into three more targets. They clinked, rattled, collapsed. The scowling booth worker handed him a teddy bear.
“Thanks.” Roscoe handed the bear to Felix. “You want this, kiddo?”
“Um, I rather think Miss Barrow―Penny, that is―might enjoy it more.” Felix reverently presented the stuffed bear to Penny. “Here you are.” His freckled face was going scarlet. “Perhaps it can keep you company and guard you in your room.”
“Thank you, Felix.” Penny gracefully accepted the bear and tucked it under her arm. “I already have a ghoul’s mummified head that serves the same purpose, but this bear will be a fine addition.” She turned back to Roscoe. “Shall we try the Ferris wheel now, sir?”
“That sounds great,” Ace said. Then he pointed to Snowball. “Felix? Is your pet monkey okay?” Snowball was straining at his leash. “It’s like he’s going nuts.” The yeti faced down the pier and pointed to the booth at the far end with both paws. He barked and emitted a seemingly endless series of piercing cries. Passing festival guests stared at the yeti and a few muttered under their breaths as they walked around the little group.
“Snowball, there is nothing to fear.” Felix whispered. He knelt and tried to calm the yeti. But Roscoe was looking down the pier, at what Snowball had been barking at. Another stall stood there, right in the middle of the wharf and in the shadow of the gaudy, revolving Ferris wheel. The sideshow stand had a little stage and a small square booth behind it covered in a rich red cloth embroidered with golden suns and moons. The stage and the booth were unoccupied. The wind stirred the curtains, but did not pierce them. It was like everyone working the stand had just left for lunch and would return soon.
The edges of the stage crackled and sparked. Fireworks emerged from the tips of the stage and blasted off into the clear sky, sending up torrents of blazing white flames. Families scooted away, trying to get away from the sudden heat. The stage curtains split. Roscoe felt hollow in the bottom of his belly, which had nothing to do with being dead. Something terrible was going to happen. Roscoe’s hand tightened on his crowbar.
The curtains split. Snowball whimpered and leapt in Felix’s arms, then swiveled around and began to growl and hiss, like he was about to defend his master. A strange figure slipped through the curtains. It was a skeleton, draped in a long scarlet cloak. The cloak covered the body, leaving only the grinning skull to hover above the fabric―a macabre magic trick. As the audience watched, the skeleton twisted about in a strange dance. The marching band had stopped playing and the skeleton danced to silence.
Penny shuddered. “Mr. Roscoe,” she whispered. “That is the Danse Macabre―the Dance of Death!” The skeleton turned and wheeled, its cloak billowing around it. The cloak lifted, and Roscoe saw only bones inside. It wasn’t a guy in a costume. There was no meat at all on those bones. The skeleton drew a large medieval sword from its cloak and held up the straight blade so that it caught the sun.
“Mein Gott!!” Felix croaked. “Some manner of undead revenant!”
“Yeah,” Roscoe said. “You said it.”
He had drawn his crowbar out and stepped in front of Felix. On the stage, the skeleton continued to turn around with only its sword to accompany him. A bony hand raised the sword. This time, it dragged the tip of the weapon across its throat as the skeleton’s hollow eyes watched the audience. Some small children started to cry. Roscoe didn’t blame them.
The skeleton jabbed its long sword into the sky. The blade hummed and glowed white hot, shining a kind of silver that couldn’t come from sunshine. The heat rippled to the edge and then shot straight into the sky in a glowing bolt. Roscoe’s eyes ached as he looked at it. The line of energy gained altitude, sending a shower of sparks behind it. The sparks struck the water and sent up torrents of steam. The water continued to shift.
More whispers of panic rustled through the audience. The water boiled. Waves rose and crashed together at odd
angles, knocking surfers off their long boards. They struggled back to the shore, floundering in the surf as the tide pulled back. Wind came from the ocean as small whirlpools appeared. The sea was splitting. Roscoe at first thought bits of driftwood were surfacing, as seaweed clung to them―but they were too complex and too pale to be sodden logs. They were bones. The ocean outside of Crimson Cove was full of bones, and they all floated to the surface.
Shapes emerged out of the water. Some of them shot into the air, sending showers of water down as they unfurled long, skeletal wings. Roscoe looked up at the lean, boney bodies which began to circle like vultures through the air. They had long, narrow skulls with pointed beaks. Their boney wings looked like grotesquely oversized fingers. Roscoe recognized them as bird skeletons, each one about the size of a biplane. The giant flying birds made no noise as they circled over the pier, apart from the rush of the wind through their bodies.
“Skeletons of Rocs.” Felix stared at the birds in terror. “The giant fowl from Arab myth.”
True panic reached the crowd. Felix stepped closer to Roscoe and motioned for his friends to do the same. The festival-goers ran for the edge of the wharf and the mainland. They pounded together, pushing their way through stalls and attractions. Sculptures of flowers and sea glass toppled over the wooden planks of the dock. Corn dogs, bags of caramel corn, and cotton candy fell to the ground and were trampled. The horse in the dolphin costume galloped with them, the little girl on top struggling to hold on. The sea continued to boil below the pier. More shapes emerged from the depths, dripping and draped in seaweed, and leapt onto the boardwalk.
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