Dead Man's Drive: A Rot Rods Novel (Rot Rods #1)

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Dead Man's Drive: A Rot Rods Novel (Rot Rods #1) Page 8

by Michael Panush


  “A run-in with trouble.” Roscoe glanced at his car. New wires ran from the steel innards of the engine. They snaked out and connected under a pale skull, which sat atop the Deuce like an odd, oversized hood ornament. Roscoe shook his head. All that clutter will cut down on his speed. “You think this’ll work?”

  “Just drive close enough to the source of the hostile magic, Mr. Roscoe.” Felix climbed out of the Ford. He nodded to the motor. “The entropic engine should do the rest. Well, I hope it will.”

  “And it won’t suck up Roscoe?” Angel asked.

  Felix grinned weakly. “I have configured it so that dead flesh animated by an autonomous will shall not be affected.” He gulped. “I suppose we’ll see if I succeeded.”

  “Yeah. I suppose we will.” Roscoe slipped inside. He rubbed the familiar leather interior and gripped the wheel. “Now, step aside, kiddo. Let me ride.” He stomped on the gas. The Deuce rumbled forward, skidding past the other drivers, wings of water shooting out from its wheels. Roscoe lay his sawed-off on his lap and headed onto the boardwalk.

  The Deuce zoomed over the boardwalk, rattling on the planks and keeping to the middle of the pier. Roscoe placed one hand on the wheel and the gas pedal fully depressed. The engine began to glow. Odd lights crackled down the wires and shimmered in the steel of the motor. The skull the tip of the exposed engine started glowing as well. Roscoe stared ahead, trying to see through the rain. He sped past ruined booths and decorations. A caramel corn bag slapped his windshield until a gust tore it away. Roscoe scanned the darkness, and saw what he’d been afraid of―another row of skeletal knights charging for the Deuce. There was no time to avoid them or hit the brakes.

  He crashed straight into the center of their line. The skeletons flew into his car, as if drawn by magnets. One bashed into the grille and went under the wheels. Bones clattered against the windshield. His runners swiped another. Roscoe grabbed his sawed-off and leaned out of the car. He fired twice, striking down two skeletal knights who rode too close. Fragments of rusted armor sprayed into the cold rain. He looked up into the windy, fog-shrouded sky. Another roc swooped down. He snapped open the sawed-off and reloaded. He leaned out of the driver’s seat, stepping on the runner to take aim. Wind tore at his face, scratching his dead skin like a set of claws. Roscoe bit his tongue and waited. The roc descended. He raised the sawed-off and tracked it. When the bird came close enough, he fired. The roc swerved to the side. Roscoe fired again and the bird struck the planks just before the Deuce, and got a wheel over its ribs and skull.

  Roscoe ducked back behind the wheel. He looked back at the boardwalk and saw it―the Crimson Cove Ferris wheel, its electric lights making it look like a ghostly fallen moon in the driving rain. Roscoe pulled up to the bottom of the wheel. The booth stood before him, along with the skeleton in the red cloak. Roscoe hit the brakes. The Deuce bumped and slid. Water sprayed from the car’s wheels. The car rolled to the edge of the stage and nudged the wood. The skeleton in red stopped dancing. He and Roscoe stared at each other.

  The skeleton pointed with his sword, an accusing finger of rain-soaked steel. “That’s right, buddy,” Roscoe said. “I’m ruining your party.” He put the car in park and revved the engine.

  The Deuce’s motor hummed. The entropic engine glowed even more. The skeleton moved toward it, wind stirring his cloak and rain pelting against his skull and bones. The crackling bands of lightning leapt away from the engine and licked out onto the boardwalk. Sparks flew up where the glowing bolts of energy struck down. Roscoe kept the motor revving.

  Lightning tore out of the skeleton. It rippled over his bones and made his cloak dance. Roscoe kept the gas pedal down and gritted his teeth. The energy jolted back into the motor. Roscoe could feel it, racing through the air and making the whole vehicle hum. Even his seat seemed to shiver. The wind stirred the skeleton’s cloak, revealing his bones. Roscoe stared inside. He could see shriveled organs, trapped like prisoners beneath the bars of the skeleton’s rib cage. The skeleton’s jaw fell open, like it was screaming in pain or shouting in rage. A massive burst of light tore out of the skeleton’s open mouth and struck the motor. It blinded even Roscoe, and he forced his dead eyes closed.

  He kept them closed and heard himself breathing―an involuntary and pointless exercise. Roscoe listened to the odd raspy sound. He heard nothing else. There was no rain. His eyes peeled open. Sure enough, the downpour had ended and the clouds were slipping away. He opened the door and got out onto the soggy pier. The puddles of water shone as the sun returned. The Ferris wheel remained, still glowing and towering over everything. The booth with the cloaked skeleton had gone, and so had all the knights and Rocs. Only bones remained.

  Curiously, Roscoe looked back at his dashboard. He checked the fuel gauge. His tank hadn’t been full. Now it was. Felix’s invention had worked, turning the dark magic into energy for his ride. Roscoe grinned and wiped rainwater from his forehead. “Well,” he said to himself. “Hallelujah for that.” The entropic engine then released a burst of thick black steam. Roscoe shuddered as sparks burst from the engine and rained down. Evidently, the entropic engine had taken all the energy it could handle.

  It took only a couple minutes to drive back to the main road. By the time he arrived, some of the locals had popped out of cover like prairie dogs out of holes, and were creeping back to the boardwalk to survey the damage. Roscoe parked near his friends. Felix was beaming at him, his happiness mixed with just a hint of disbelief. Dried blood stained his white coat now, like a spray of brownish rust. Betty was next to him and was already patching up Angel, who sat on the curb. Wooster walked over to join Roscoe as the undead gearhead left the Deuce.

  Wooster shook Roscoe’s hand. “Nice work, boy. Real nice. And I guess the little kraut came through, didn’t he? Gotta say, I weren’t exactly expecting it.”

  Felix examined the entropic engine. “It seems to have overloaded.”

  “So it won’t work again?” Roscoe asked.

  “No. I will need to install new components, recite different runes…” Felix wrinkled his forehead as he thought. “Though, perhaps, it could be improved.”

  “Later, kiddo.” Roscoe patted his head. “For now, enjoy your victory.”

  “Some victory.” Wooster gestured to the boardwalk. The shining sun revealed the totality of the destruction. It looked like a hurricane had struck the Sand and Surf Festival. “Strickland’s gonna pay for this. Best believe it.”

  “Got that right.” Roscoe turned to the Captain, raising his voice. “Boss, I drove it right into the big skeleton in red, the punk who was leading all these other boney boys. He stared me down. He didn’t want to go without a fight.”

  “I wouldn’t expect him to,” the Captain said.

  “You know him?” Roscoe asked.

  Sheriff Braddock and Mayor Corrigan reached the boardwalk, along with a few more cops and a larger crowd of La Cruz citizens.

  “Later.” The Captain faced the sheriff and the mayor. “I’m happy to say the threat is contained. But, it might not be vanquished. We need to act fast to―”

  A fanatical bellow, resounding with hate, echoed over the docks. “Damnation, my friends!” It was the Reverend Everett Grubb. He stormed down the street, accompanied by his plump, matronly wife Mabel. “Damnation has come to our god-fearing little town. We have seen demons ride down the streets of La Cruz! And who brought this doom to our city? Who lords their unholy nature over everyone, flouting the law and acting like motorized thugs?” He pointed at the drivers. Every one of the drenched, terrified townsfolk followed his finger. “The godless freak show at Donovan Motors!” Reverend Grubb cried. “Mark my words―they brought this to La Cruz!”

  The Captain turned to face Reverend Grubb. Redness crept into his cheeks, mixing with the white of his moustache to create an odd contrast. “Unacceptable,” he whispered.

  Reverend Grubb didn’t show any sign of shutting up.

  He approached the drivers, with his crowd
behind him. “Tell me you had nothing to do with what went on today, Captain. Proclaim your innocence. Tell me your soul is not stained.” His eyes narrowed. “But remember, Captain―and the same to all the abominations in your service―God hates nothing more than a liar.”

  Felix leapt between the Captain and Reverend Grubb. “Y-you’re the liar, s-sir,” he stammered. “The Captain and Mr. Roscoe, Miss Bright, Mr. Rey, and Mr. Stokes are all good, kind and honorable people. They took me in when I had nowhere to go and they have tirelessly defended La Cruz. They deserve only your respect―even if they are a little different.”

  “Someone like you would say that,” Reverend Grubb replied.

  “Someone like me, sir?” Felix asked, his eyes wide.

  Reverend Grubb’s eyes narrowed. “A pipsqueak Jew. Playing the Captain for your own ends.”

  His words were harsh, and their effect on Felix was obvious. The boy stumbled back and hung his head as his cheeks went pale. It was like someone had struck him, deep in his gut, and brought all his inner shame and guilt bubbling to the surface.

  The Captain stepped past Felix and lunged, grabbing Reverend Grubb’s throat. “You can call me whatever names you want,” he snarled as his fingers tightened around the withered neck. Reverend Grubb gasped and sank. “But you will not insult my son.” The Captain put his face closer. His eyes flashed. Mabel screamed. “You insult him again and I’ll kill you. That’s a promise, sir. I will kill you. Do you understand?” Roscoe stared at the Captain. The rest of the La Cruz citizens, including the mayor and the sheriff, stared as well. “Do you understand?” the Captain repeated.

  A weak nod was all Reverend Grubb could manage. The Captain let go and Grubb sank to the ground. Mabel swept him up in her arms. The Captain glared back at his drivers. “We’re leaving. Back to the garage.”

  Sheriff Braddock and Mayor Corrigan approached him.

  “Captain―” Mayor Corrigan began.

  “Not now.” The Captain didn’t slow his pace as he went to Wooster’s Packard. Roscoe returned to the Deuce, Angel, Betty and Felix with him. Roscoe looked through his window, over at the Packard. The Captain sat in the passenger seat, his chin resting on his fist and his eyes glaring forward like he was staring down the barrel of a loaded gun. Roscoe didn’t like the look. Wooster sped his car around and went back to the street. Roscoe hit the ignition and followed him. They drove back to Donovan Motors in grim silence.

  The drivers returned to the garage a bit before sundown. Everything was quiet at Donovan Motors, as the drivers reloaded and cleaned their weapons and did their best to heal their wounds. Roscoe went to his room and started sewing up the hole in his belly. It took quite a few stitches, but he managed to get it closed. He went to the kitchen and heated up a pair of TV dinners. He gobbled them down, spooning the gooey, multi-colored mush straight off the tray and into his open mouth. Roscoe was still munching on the food when the Captain walked inside. Roscoe looked up at him. He held up a TV dinner tray. The Captain shook his head.

  “I just received a phone call from Strickland.”

  Roscoe nearly choked on his butter-drenched spinach. “What the hell does he want?”

  “He says he wants to talk. He’s asked me to meet him at the Shady Links Golf Course, by the little cafe they have there.” The Captain paused. “I’d like you go with me. You’ll be my driver and, in case anything goes wrong, my protection. It doesn’t need to be said that I want you to come armed.” The Captain stepped closer to Roscoe. “And I’d rather not tell the others, or they’ll insist on coming as well. The day’s been hard enough for them already.”

  “Yeah,” Roscoe said. “I guess it has.” He downed the last of the food and stood up. “You don’t think it’s a trap?”

  “Strickland wouldn’t make it so obvious,” the Captain replied. “But be ready.”

  “I always am.”

  They took the Rolls. The town was quiet, stunned by the violence at the Sand and Surf Festival. Even the neon lights on Main Street were dim. Roscoe fiddled with the radio and soon it filled the car. “Good evening, boys and ghouls,” the Deadbeat crooned. “Heard a bit of a freak storm interrupted the yearly seaside shindig. Or at least, that’s what the government types are saying. Of course, I’m sure all you lovely listeners are hip to the truth. There was a storm, all right―but there was a horde of skeletons to match the bad weather. I guess they wanted to crash the party. And they ain’t the only thing crashing. Word was, the drivers of Donovan Motors were sighted taking on the skeletal―”

  The Captain hacked the air with his hand. “Turn it off.”

  Roscoe switched off the radio. Clearly, the Captain didn’t want to hear about what had already happened. Roscoe kept on watching him as they drove out of town and to the coastal road that wound past Playa Rojo. The Captain held himself straight and rigid, a soldier on the parade ground. But his eyes were shifting and afraid. He was nervous, in a way Roscoe had never seen before.

  The Shady Links Golf Club was deserted. The parking lot was empty. Roscoe brought the Rolls to a halt in the center of the lot and exited the car. The Captain followed him. Roy Roach stood by the entrance to the little lounge, hands in his pockets. Roscoe felt the sawed-off shotgun, secreted into his leather jacket and pressing against his skin. It would be a small thing to pull the gun out and fire both barrels, point blank, into Roach’s face. As though he knew what Roscoe was thinking, the Captain met his gaze and shook his head.

  With a mocking bow, Roach led them through the glass doors, a small bar, and to an outside eating area. Round wicker tables lined a wooden deck overlooking the green, manicured hills of the golf course. The links stood empty in the darkness, a strange landscape that had been designed for perfection and never settled by man. Strickland enjoyed a tall glass of lemonade at a table at the far end of the deck. Kay Winters was next to him.

  Roach beckoned. “Right this way. We’re very glad you arrived.”

  Kay glanced at Roscoe, and their eyes met. Roscoe glared at her.

  He stepped past the Captain and approached the table, next to her. “Your boss has a lot to answer for.” Roscoe spoke low so Strickland wouldn’t hear. “And so do you.”

  “That’s a laugh,” Kay said. “Coming from a zombie who killed two of his fellows just last night a few feet from where we’re standing.” She rested an arm on her hip. “Spying on my boss, Roscoe, isn’t exactly gentlemanly.”

  “Baby, I never said I was a gentleman.”

  Strickland cleared his throat. He motioned for the Captain to sit down, but the owner of Donovan Motors shook his head. Strickland shrugged. “Very well. You can stand if you want. I don’t know how long this will last.”

  “Not long,” the Captain said. “I don’t have much to say to you.” He pointed to Strickland. “I want to know what you have over Reverend Grubb. He’s aligned with you. That’s for certain. I also want to know about your relationship with the crusader. Clearly, he’s on your side as well.” The Captain lowered his voice, making it almost pleading. “He’s using you, Strickland. He’s used hundreds of others.”

  “It’s a business partnership,” Strickland said. “A mutually beneficial relationship.” He knocked back his lemonade and let it bubble into his mouth. He licked his lips and continued. “So… You saw what I can do. You know this is just the tip of a very large and very dangerous iceberg. I’m coming to La Cruz, Captain. Nothing you can do will stop me.”

  “What the hell do you want?”

  Strickland pursed his lips in mock thought. “I’m a man of vision, and I have a vision of a perfect world. Suburban houses in ordered, identical rows. A milkman who comes every day. Children who go to school while father works in a factory or an office and mother keeps house. Families go to church every Sunday. Hard-working, honest Americans, without a trace of sin or chaos.” He leaned back and stared at the inky sky. “If there’s vice, it’s kept in the colored or Mexican areas. If there’s sin, everyone knows well enough to keep it behind clos
ed doors.” Then he pointed at Roscoe and the Captain. “But there’s no place for you in this perfect world of mine. You just don’t fit in.” He tapped the table. “So you can come and work for me, like Mr. Roach here.”

  “It’s a fine job,” Roach said.

  “Or you can leave. Or you can resist and be crushed.” Strickland shrugged. “I don’t care which.”

  The Captain looked down at Strickland. “Are you finished?”

  “I believe I am.”

  “Good. Because I’m going to make you understand that all your money and power and connections aren’t going to be worth a damn if you try and take La Cruz.” The Captain spoke without a trace of emotion in his cold words. “We are strong and we are determined. We have the support of the citizens. If you persist in this course of action, I guarantee that you will not leave La Cruz alive.” The Captain folded his hands. “You understand?”

  “You’re threatening me?” Strickland asked.

  “I’m promising your destruction.”

  “Hmm.” Strickland looked up at Roach. “Well. I always think that actions speak louder than words. I don’t think I’ll be talking to you, Captain. Not for a while at any rate. But I would like to provide a little demonstration, if you don’t mind. Now, Mr. Roach, is our other guest here?” Roach had walked over to the glass doors. “Show him in, if you don’t mind.”

  Roach pulled open the door. Terry Torrance, wearing his Speed Fiends leather jacket, stepped onto the deck and spotted Roscoe. “Son of a―” Terry reached into his coat.

  Roach grabbed his arm and clenched. Torrance drew an automatic, but Roach’s grip was firm, and the pistol dropped. Roach shifted his hold and applied pressure. He slammed Torrance over a nearby table, and leaned closer with his mouth open. His straight, square, and shining white teeth gleamed in the moonlight.

  Roach hovered over Torrance’s face. Torrance screamed. Blood spurted onto white tablecloths. Roach stood straight and a red line trickled down his chin. He opened his mouth. Torrance’s eye was between his teeth. Roach bit down and chewed. He seemed to relish the taste, and then he swallowed. The lump of the eye traveled down his throat. Torrance tumbled down to the deck and clutched his bloody socket. He shrieked and thrashed.

 

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