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

by Michael Panush

  “Kay… “ Roscoe started.

  “You’re a dead man,” Kay said. “Inside and out.”

  Roscoe turned away. He couldn’t stand it anymore. He headed for the door. She didn’t say another word. Roscoe left the mansion and walked out, into shadowy street. Dawn would arrive soon. Roscoe’s heart was pounding again as he twisted the key in the ignition. Anger had been boiling away in him for a long time, and he’d let it take control. It was a rage against the world, against the cruelty that had murdered Francesca Lupo and left Carmine Vitale to die on the side of the road. Carmine needed that kind of anger. His father had been murdered. His friends were killers who betrayed him at the drop of a hat and his lover was gone. But did Roscoe need that sort of anger? Roscoe didn’t know. He sped away from the mansion, through Hancock Park. It was time to go back to Walt’s apartment, to see what was to be done.

  He arrived just as the sun was rising over Los Angeles. Golden light streamed down, making the palm tree fronds glow. Roscoe parked and headed upstairs to Walt’s second-story apartment. Wooster was slouched against the door, broad-brimmed hat low and bathing his face in shadows to the tips of his sideburns. He chewed tobacco and held his tommy gun under his coat.

  Wooster pushed up the brim of his hat. “Howdy.”

  “How’s the Captain?” Roscoe asked.

  “Still laid up on the couch. Hasn’t regained consciousness, but he’s breathing good and steady. I think the little lady saved his life―though it could still go either way, come to think of it.” Wooster opened the door. “Others have left to go shopping, get some supplies for breakfast, and buy more ammunition. Mayor Corrigan and Sheriff Braddock got themselves a hotel. They’re pretty useless, so we let them go.” He jabbed a thumb to the open door. “You’re welcome to go inside. Others are a little upset at you for leaving. Betty in particular was pissed. Walt didn’t like it either. Angel said you just needed a little time to sort things out. He still trusts you.”

  “Do you?”

  Wooster shrugged. “Trust don’t matter much to me. You can handle yourself in a fight. That’s what matters.”

  “I appreciate your confidence.”

  “Heh.” Wooster let out a torrent of chewing tobacco. “Go on in, Roscoe. See the Captain.”

  Roscoe passed the coffee table and looked at the Captain. His shirt was off and his shoulder was bandaged. An old quilt covered him, providing some warmth. His face was pale. Felix snoozed in the armchair across from the couch. The kid had fallen asleep while watching over his adopted dad. The yeti uncurled himself and watched Roscoe as he walked inside. The Captain stirred.

  It was a slow kind of waking, with his mouth slipping open and sucking in air. Then his eyes flickered to life.

  Roscoe hurried to his side. “Good morning, boss. How you feeling?”

  “Like a demonic snake pumped poison into my arm,” the Captain rasped. He sat up and gingerly touched the bandages. “I’ve rarely been hurt,” he wheezed. “Only shot once in France. A bullet through the leg, actually. Forced me onto my belly, and I had to crawl back to our trench, gunshots in the air above me.” He glanced past Roscoe, at Felix. “Is the boy all right?”

  “He’s fine. Just resting,” Roscoe said. “Poor kid.”

  “If I perish,” the Captain said. “You’ll look after him―you’ll look after all of them, won’t you? Betty, Angel, and Wooster. And La Cruz and all its citizens.” His hand reached out. His fingers intertwined with Roscoe’s. “You can do that for me?”

  “Me?” Roscoe asked. “You’re kidding. I’m no leader.”

  “And yet I’ve seen you take command, countless times.” The Captain closed his pale eyes. “And offer comfort to your friends when they’ve needed it and you’ve seen to their safety. You know, Roscoe, it isn’t the fellow with the stripes on his uniform who becomes the leader. It’s the one who takes charge and makes the right decisions, who has earned the trust of his men. I believe that’s you.” Roscoe stared at the Captain, speechless. “Do you know that I always knew who you were? I always knew about Carmine Vitale.”

  “What?” Roscoe’s dead heart pounded. “How―”

  The Captain smiled weakly. “Fingerprints. After Angel ran you over and we took you back to the garage, I had some taken and sent them to Sheriff Braddock. He sent them to the LAPD and the FBI, and gave me the results without looking at them. I read Carmine Vitale’s file. He was arrested quite a few times, but always bailed out. Never really tied to anything. His friends paid off the right people.” The Captain paused for breath.

  “Well?” Roscoe asked. “What did you think?”

  “I wasn’t sure what to think,” the Captain said. “I hung back, tried to wait and see how much of Carmine Vitale remained. I saw you had some anger in you, some determination―but I don’t see trouble in that. And I saw your kindness, the way you forgave Angel for hitting you and became his friend. He needed a friend―and he certainly wouldn’t find one in Wooster. You were nice to Betty, too. She was nervous and afraid after what had happened to her. That business with vampires. I thought it was good that she had a protector like you.” He shifted under the blanket. “I’ve watched you lead them, Roscoe. There’s no one better.”

  Roscoe stared at the Captain. “You never told me who I was.”

  “Do you think I should have? Look at what the knowledge has done to you.”

  “I don’t know.” Roscoe’s gaze sank to the rug. “I wish I didn’t know sometimes. But I feel it’s important as well. I need to know what I was, where the anger comes from. I suppose I have to know in order to beat that anger for good.”

  “That’s what you want?” the Captain asked.

  Roscoe nodded. “Rage ain’t doing me any good.”

  “I’m glad to hear it―because I want you to lead the assault on La Cruz. I want you to free our city.” The Captain drew a little closer to Roscoe. “I’m getting older. I can feel the age, the weakness in my bones.” There was shame in the Captain’s voice, and sadness too. “And my ideas are old fashioned. I don’t have the kind of coldness that this age has, the willingness to backstab to get ahead. You’re strong enough and you’ve got the tactics we need.” His withered fingers wrapped around Roscoe’s wrist. “You’ve got blind rage in you as well. Don’t let it control you. Force it away. Fight smart, the way I know you can. Don’t forget everything you care for.”

  Before Roscoe could reply, someone rapped on the door. Wooster opened it and let Walt, Angel and Betty inside. Wooster followed them in and closed the door. Felix stirred at the noise and sat up, his eyes blinking behind their spectacles. Snowball hopped into his lap. The Captain leaned back on the couch, closing his eyes and sighing deeply. Talking to Roscoe had taken most of the energy out of him. Roscoe stared at his friends. They looked back at him, unsure of what to say. Betty looked angry, her eyes narrowing and her hands clenching her purse. Angel slowly removed his sunglasses and set them in the pocket of his zoot suit.

  “I’m sorry,” Roscoe said. “I’m very sorry. I was callous to you and you did nothing to deserve it. I am very sorry.”

  Walt set down a bag of groceries. “Not sure if that’s gonna cut it, pal. I don’t like being threatened and I like being threatened in my own house even less.” He pointed to Betty and Angel. “I still think you’re a decent guy―for a zombie―but you can’t treat your friends like dirt and expect them to stay your friends. You got that?”

  Before Roscoe could reply, Betty walked over to him. She slapped him, a stinging blow across his cheek. “You gonna run away again?” she shouted. “Tell me to ‘shut up’ when I’m trying to help? If so, you can go outside and you don’t have to come back. We’ve got enough problems without you getting surly and running off into danger at every opportunity.”

  “I won’t do it again,” Roscoe said. “I’m sorry.”

  “De nada, man,” Angel replied. “But what do you want to do now?”

  “Now?” Roscoe thought. “Now we rescue our friends and tak
e La Cruz back. I think I know how to do it. The first step is finding something powerful enough to take on Roach.” He pointed to Felix. “The entropic engine. That contraption of yours that can absorb death energy and spit it back out. You’ve got it sorted out?”

  “W-well, sir, I believe I, ah…” Felix grabbed at the papers covering the glass coffee table. “Yes.” He nodded rapidly. “Yes, Mr. Roscoe. I’ve been working very hard on the entropic engine. I believe I have made the proper changes to improve it. It can transfer the death energy to almost any other kind of energy, while still maintaining the magic Thanatological qualities. Of course, it must be near death to work. It can absorb the mangled souls of zombies and transfer them to energy―but the death must be present.”

  Roscoe nodded. “Destroying zombies. That would power it?”

  “Yes, Mr. Roscoe,” Felix nodded. “Most vigorously. But I will need time to properly install it, with the new changes that will increase its power.”

  “You can do that in the field,” Roscoe said. “Later.”

  “But, the engine is not currently prepared—”

  “Don’t worry, kiddo. I can take care of myself without an entropic engine for now.” He turned to his friends. “Then we’re gonna need guns, and we’re gonna need men to fire those guns. Taking on the Strickland Securities zombies and Don Lupo’s mobsters, as well as a demon like Roach, isn’t something we can do alone. I thought maybe it was, but I know that’s not true. We need to get them all away from La Cruz and destroy them and we’re gonna need help.”

  Walt snapped his fingers. “Swann’s men. What’s left of them.”

  “Good―but we’ll need more.” Roscoe looked back at his fellow drivers. “I think I know where to find them. It’ll mean going into La Cruz. Back into enemy territory. I can’t do it alone.” He held out his hand to Angel. “Would you like to go with me?”

  Angel reached out. He clasped Roscoe’s hand. “You sure, Roscoe?”

  “There’s no one better.” Roscoe turned to Betty, Walt, Wooster, and Felix. “One of us will come back after a while with the rest of the plan. I need to see if we can gather more allies. It all depends on that. Then, we’ll get Strickland’s undead pals out of the city, kill them, power up the entropic engine and use it to save our friends, La Cruz and the world.” He let himself grin at the grandiosity of it all. “How’s that sound?”

  “You think it will work?” Felix asked quietly. “Will it help the Deadbeat, Mr. Swann, Mr. Barrow, and Penny, and Ace?” He was pleading. He was just a kid, hoping for an adult to tell him things would be all right.

  Roscoe decided to lie to him.

  “Sure.” Roscoe smiled at Felix. “But we’ll need your help. Stay here and perfect the engine. Wait for our message and then move.” He looked outside. It was morning now, with Los Angeles starting to come to a slow and easy life. “Have breakfast now. Get some energy. I don’t need anything. Angel? Take the grub on the road. We’re gone.”

  It took only a few minutes for them to get ready. Angel made a quick sandwich and gobbled it down as he headed for the door. Walt fried up eggs for everyone else while Felix scribbled at his calculations. Roscoe waited by the door as the Captain stirred. He walked over and the Captain took his hand.

  “Thank you,” the old man whispered.

  “I’ve you to thank, boss,” Roscoe said. “For everything.”

  They took the Deuce. Roscoe drove while Angel rode shotgun. He’d brought a few supplies, which he kept in the back seat. The Deuce sped out of Los Angeles, cutting through the midmorning traffic and then reaching the freeway to La Cruz. Roscoe took the first exit, not bothering with the main roads. He cut through open plains and then reached the forests of Redborough. Roscoe sped along the old bootlegger roads, under the shadow of outstretched branches from the tall tunnel of trees. He never let the needle dip below fifty miles per hour, hoping speed would let them slip in unnoticed. However, he and Angel both knew the truth. Strickland’s goons had seen them leave this way just the other day. They would be foolish not to post guards.

  After a few minutes of driving, Roscoe heard a strange sound―the gentle pounding of horse’s hooves. It sounded like a trickling brook, a quiet and pleasant noise that grew with each second. Angel looked over his shoulders. “Bad news, Roscoe,” Angel said. “We got ourselves some pursuers. Monks it looks like. On horseback. They’re keeping up with us, somehow.”

  “Is that so?” Roscoe checked the rear view.

  A small column of horses charged after them, the clattering hooves gaining ground with each second. The riders wore the long, burlap robes of monks, the hoods pulled low and shading their faces. As the horses drew closer, Roscoe noticed something else. The horses were dead and rotting. Their skin had fallen off, giving way to maggot-ridden flesh and stretches of pale bone. The reins disappeared into voluminous sleeves, and the animals seemed to run without any guidance, charging ahead blindly after Roscoe’s automobile as their white eyes or empty sockets lolled.

  Roscoe drew his shotgun and rolled down the window. “This must be what’s left of Sir Roderick’s priesthood.” Roscoe leaned out. “The ones who didn’t get away, like the Captain’s ancestors.” He drew a bead on the nearest monk, waiting as the hooded rider galloped closer. He fingered the trigger.

  The monk raised its sleeve. Several black, squirming scorpions, buzzing insects, a hissing black snake, and a single fat toad burst out. They flew through the air and landed in Roscoe’s lap and face. He cursed as scorpions and beetles dug their pointed legs into his flesh. Angel shouted and rushed to pull the vermin away from Roscoe’s face. The monk rode alongside the car. Roscoe twisted the wheel. He didn’t bother with the shotgun as he had no angle. The car would work better. Roscoe swerved to the side and rammed the rider and horse with the car’s flank and wheels. Rotten flesh and bone went down, under the rolling wheels of the Deuce.

  “Turn, man!” Angel cried. “To the left!”

  Roscoe brushed a scorpion away from his eye and twisted the wheel. The Deuce spun, kicking up torrents of dust. They avoided sideswiping a tree as the road turned. The rest of the monks rode around them. They exposed their empty sleeves. A rain of insects, snakes, scorpions and other foul creatures splattered onto the sides of the Deuce. They bounced on the roof, crawled over the windows, and pummeled the windshield.

  Angel kicked open his door and fired with his automatic. A monk went down, shot off his horse. “Punch it―we gotta get more distance!” Angel slapped a fat spider off Roscoe’s cheek, knocking the bug to the floor of the car and then squashed it with his shoe. “I got a plan that may get them off our back!”

  “Glad to hear it!” Roscoe stomped down on the gas.

  The Deuce rumbled ahead. Angel twisted around to the back seat and started going through the supplies. Roscoe tried to keep the Deuce on the road. It wasn’t easy. The car was bouncing along the dirt road, the wheels rising off the ground in showers of dust. Another monk rode up toward his window to fire another salvo of insects. Roscoe pointed the sawed-off and tracked the rider, seeing the worms and maggots that had poked through the burlap fabric of the robes. The dead monk was like some grotesque puppet, flapping and shaking on its bucking horse. Roscoe fired both barrels, one after another. One ripped into the monk’s belly. Worms and shattered insects sprayed from the wound. Roscoe’s second shot broke one of the horse’s legs and the dead beast came crashing down.

  Angel pulled himself back into his seat and pushed open the door. He stepped out onto the runners of the Deuce, carrying an old square tequila bottle in his hands; one leftover from his own collection. It was full of a strange mix of liquids―yellow oil, red wine and clear water―with a dirty rag shoved halfway down the neck. Angel snapped a lighter open, and lit the rag.

  “Cabrones!” Angel cried. “Ride through this!” He tossed the bottle, just as Roscoe pushed on the gas. The Molotov cocktail arced through the air and struck the ground in the center of the thundering hooves. Fire sprayed across the r
oad, leaping onto the monks and their horses. Their forms drifted through the flickering flames, which devoured their rotting flesh. One after the other, they collapsed. Burning, riderless horses continued for a few seconds before they crumbled into smoldering heaps. The stench of blazing, rotten flesh filled the road.

  Angel sat down and closed the door.

  “One of Betty’s holy Molotov cocktails?” Roscoe asked.

  “Yeah,” Angel said. “A little holy water, some communion wine, and it makes a good weapon against servants of the devil.” He sighed. “We made it last night. I emptied the bottle of tequila and Betty put the rest together. That was the only one we had.”

  “Too bad,” Roscoe said. “We could always use more.”

  “I think we’ll be needing them before tomorrow is through,” Angel said. They had reached the end of the bootlegger road, but Roscoe didn’t head back into La Cruz. He took a side road and cut across to the freeway that wound around the city. Angel cocked his head as Roscoe spin the wheel. “You going where I think you’re going, man?”

  “Where do you think I’m going?”

  La Cruz drifted past, a blur in the distance. They were out in the country now, driving through open fields and rolling hills. Roscoe took an exit, heading down a narrower road.

  Angel pointed to a passing sign. “The Purgatory Roadhouse, man. Speed Fiends territory.”

  The Purgatory Roadhouse was just ahead, the great round building sitting like a fort with the dirt lot sprawling around it. Roscoe scanned the place and was happy to see motorcycles lined up outside. His guess had been correct―the Speed Fiends had been engaged in a late night drinking bout and had yet to go home. He pulled up outside and got out, slipping sunglasses over dead eyes.

  Angel didn’t follow. “You sure about this?”