Detour to Apocalypse: A Rot Rods Serial, Part One

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© 2015
Michael Panush
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Cover Art by Eugene Teplitsky
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he engine of the custom Nash-Healey two-seater didn’t roar―it purred. Roscoe shoved the pedal down, feeling the rumble of the engine as the auto raced across the open desert. He’d built the Nash-Healey himself, transforming it from a busted hulk into the sleek machine he now drove. Its curved sides and black paint job made it look like a smooth shadow rolling across the desert plains. In the distance, the curling red rock and twisted walls of Cowl Canyons, burnished by the high sun, reached into the cloudless sky. Beyond it lay the small Southern California town of La Cruz, and farther the distance, big, blazing Los Angeles gleamed like a string of glowing jewelry. Roscoe turned his attention back to the road. Another car sat parked on the barren desert sands up ahead, with three figures next to it. He hit the brakes and spun the wheel. A cloak of dust rose behind the turning auto, hanging in the air before fading. Roscoe liked to make an entrance.

He killed the engine and stepped out. With his pure, black hair shaped in a careful spit curl and dressed in a white t-shirt, black leather jacket and jeans, Roscoe had the look of a greaser. A crowbar swung from his belt. There was something else unique about Roscoe―he was dead. From his lean face to his thick knuckles, every inch of his skin bore the green tinge of a corpse. His eyes hung open, pale and unblinking. He walked okay and managed to avoid shambling as he approached the silver Rolls Royce and his three friends, who waited for him in the desert heat.

His employer, the Captain, stood looking out at the desert through a pair of binoculars. He wore a simple silver trench coat, a fedora shading his wrinkled face, and carefully combed beard and goatee. The sun caught the lenses, making the Captain’s steely eyes glow. He lowered the binoculars and nodded to Roscoe. “Any sign of the target?” His voice had a clipped, military politeness.

The Captain once had a whole career in the army, serving in both World Wars before his retirement. Now, he ran Donovan Motors and led the drivers to protect La Cruz from outside evil. He was used to strange things like Roscoe.

“Not a one,” Roscoe said. “Could be he split, Captain.”

“I don’t think so, Roscoe.” Betty Bright leaned against the Rolls. She was the youngest of the drivers, a college girl who split her time between battling the occult and defending La Cruz. Her short-cut blonde hair and sunglasses made her look like a typical Southern California girl on her way to a Sock Hop. She wore a light sweater, blouse, and trousers. She gave him a smile. “He’s supposed to have friends nearby, and this is the fastest route. According to our benefactor at the FBI, he wants to move quickly.” She looked to the dust in front of the Rolls―and to the fourteen-year-old boy crouching there. “Felix, honey, why don’t you come back over here. Stay close when Dr. Bolton comes by.”

Felix Tannenbaum, the Captain’s adopted son, leapt to his feet. A pale, slight kid with dark, straight hair and freckles, he looked like a scrawny, miniature scientist in his white coat, vest, dark tie, and square, black-rimmed spectacles. “I am sorry, Miss Bright.” He stepped back, hands in his pockets. “But there appears to be some rising dust coming toward Cowl Canyons. Perhaps it is Dr. Bolton and the stolen vehicle? He is moving extraordinarily fast.” He offered a nervous smile to Roscoe. “I am not certain you will be able to catch him, Mr. Roscoe.”

Felix was a child genius―captured and orphaned by the Nazis. After the war, the American government had swept up Felix and put him to work in their own labs, their greatest scientists tutoring him in the hopes of training him as an expert on the intersection of technology and the occult. Thankfully, the Captain had rescued the boy and pulled some strings with his government contacts to officially adopt him. Felix’s pet, a Yeti pup named Snowball, scampered out of the Rolls Royce’s open door and crawled along next to the kid’s polished shoes like a mobile pile of white fur. He gave Roscoe a slight yawn.

Roscoe knelt down. He patted Snowball, and the little simian rolled over to reveal his belly. Then he stood and patted Felix’s head. “Don’t sweat it, kiddo. Ain’t nothing can outrun me.” He turned to the desert. A single line of dust cut across the horizon, like a great invisible knife scoring the Earth, stirring up a wound. “So.” Roscoe glanced at the boy. “You knew Dr. Bolton when you worked in the American labs?”

“Oh yes. He is a decent fellow―not exactly friendly, but he did not treat me like some caged creature on display, as many of the scientists did.” He put his hands in the pockets of his coat. “Try not to hurt him, Mr. Roscoe.”

“He’s stolen a top secret, experimental vehicle from the government, Felix. He’s a criminal. We’ll deal with him the best we can.” The Captain folded his hands. “Don’t take chances. Don’t let him get away.”

“I can handle him and his experimental jalopy.” Roscoe started back to his Nash-Healey. “Betty―keep an eye on the Captain and the kid.” He winked at the Captain. Nobody needed to keep an eye on the old man.

“You got it, Roscoe,” Betty said.

Roscoe started for the Nash-Healey, but glanced over his shoulder at the sound of a timid voice behind him. “Mr. Roscoe?” Felix had lost his earlier confidence. Most of the time, the kid tried his best to sound like an adult. Now he was a child―a frightened kid. “Please be careful.”

“I will.” Roscoe slipped behind the wheel of the Nash-Healey.

He gunned the engine, letting it purr for a moment before he set off into the open desert. The Nash-Healey zoomed along, dust rising from the wheels as he roared across the ground. The earth, flat and dry, seemed perfect beneath the new tires he’d installed for this job. The wind tore at his face while the sun blazed overhead. Roscoe fumbled around the glove compartment, reaching past the sawed-off shotgun to grab his sunglasses. With a confident grin, he snapped them open and set them on his nose before scanning the road. Another dust cloud billowed ahead of him, Dr. Bolton and the experimental vehicle at the head of it. Roscoe turned from the wind. He pulled up next to the stream of dust, an arrow heading toward its target, and glanced at his speedometer. The needle ticked higher with each passing second.The motor roared. Roscoe glanced back to his quarry.

Dr. Bolton shot across the desert. Once Roscoe spotted the vehicle, all he could do was stare. It resembled a flying saucer―a UFO right out of a cheesy sci-fi flick. It was about twice the size of a large van, an oversized chrome pie plate topped with a dome of dark glass. The sides gleamed in the sunlight, making it look as if the saucer had caught fire. A golden cloud of light shone down from the bottom, oozing across the ground and illuminating the dust. The strange vehicle hung close to the earth, hovering about a foot or two off the desert. It didn’t drive―it flew. It sped toward Cowl Canyons, humming along with effortless ease. Maybe Felix had been right and Roscoe couldn’t handle this. He gritted his teeth at the thought. He could handle anything.

He popped the glove compartment and pulled out his sawed-off shotgun. Roscoe leaned over the side and aimed the sawed-off with one hand, gripping the wheel with the other. Roscoe closed the gap between his car and the flying saucer. His lips fluttered in the wind pelting his dead skin with dust. He didn’t care. “Bolton! Dr. Bolton! You pull that thing over right now! Stop and we’ll talk about it!” He shouted over the roar of the engines and waved the gun, doing everything he could to make himself understood.

The flying saucer didn’t stop. Roscoe felt a sense of déjà vu. He was going to have to do this the hard way after all.