Detour to Apocalypse: A Rot Rods Serial, Part One (3 page)

Felix raised his hand gingerly. “What will you do with him, sir? He is a good man. He was always friendly to me, and he doesn’t deserve any pain or cruelty.”

“Don’t worry, son,” Major Raskin said. “We’ll get him back in some top secret military base by this time tomorrow. He’ll get some psych evaluations and therapy, and then be put back to work.” He patted Dr. Bolton’s shoulder. “This fellow’s way too valuable to imprison.” He turned to the Captain. “We’ll need a secure place to keep him for the rest of the day and the night. I don’t suppose we can lock the man up in your garage?”

The Captain stood. “I’ve called Sheriff Leland Braddock and explained the situation. He can stay at the Sheriff’s Department. It’s just down Main Street―near the town hall. Sheriff Braddock will let him stay in a cell until tomorrow morning. I’ve already had Mr. Stokes drive Dr. Bolton’s flying machine to the sheriff’s office as well, under a cloth, of course. You can take it with you when you depart.”

Special Agent Pruitt glowered. “I know Sheriff Braddock. He’s a small town cop. He can get cats down from trees and give drunks a place to sleep it off, but that’s about it.”

“Well, you just need a place for Dr. Bolton to stay―don’t you?” Roscoe asked. “So that’ll work. Now I’ll tell you what else to do, Junior G-Man. How about paying us and getting the hell out of here?” He pointed to the pile of food in front of him. “You’re ruining my meal.”

“Yeah,
pendejo
,” Angel added. “Beat it.”

“I will not be insulted by delinquent trash and a Mex―”

Major Raskin put his hand on Pruitt’s shoulder. “I doubt Dr. Bolton will try to escape. The sheriff’s office should be fine.” Major Raskin reached into his pocket and handed the Captain a manila envelope fat with cash. “The second half of the payment, as promised. And sir? I just want to say what an honor it is to meet you and work with you. In Naval Intelligence―Hell, in most intelligence circles―you’re something of a legend. Your courage and bravery in the First World War, the way you smashed the Nazi occult problems in the Second― why, you’ve provided the US Military with the perfect example of how to deal with paranormal powers on the world stage.”

Felix beamed. Wooster laughed and patted the table. Even Angel smiled.

Only the Captain didn’t share their enthusiasm. “Thank you.”

“If you ever wanted to go back,” Major Raskin said. “You know―in a more official capacity… I guarantee we’d love to have you.”

The Captain paused. He walked over to Felix and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I respect your offer, Major, but I’m retired. I’m happy to be retired. I’ve got a family now.” He looked at the table, his eyes darting over each of his drivers. “I defend a small town and help my family. That’s all I want.”

“Well, until we meet again.” Major Raskin shook hands with the Captain and grabbed Dr. Bolton’s arm. “Let’s go, Dr. Bolton. Don’t worry about this. Soon enough, it’ll all be a memory.” He led Dr. Bolton to the door.

The scientist mumbled little whispers of protest.

Special Agent Pruitt remained in the room, watching them. “I didn’t think you degenerates could ever help the U.S. government, but you have, and I thank you for it. I suggest you do your best to stay out of our way from now on.”

Wooster stood from the table. He walked over to Special Agent Pruitt, towering over the G-Man. “Boy.” He made his lips bounce as he drawled the word. “I suggest you be on your way.” He removed the toothpick from the corner of his mouth and wedged it between his fingers, then wiggled the pointy end at Special Agent Pruitt. “Get gone.”

That was all it took. Special Agent Pruitt glared at them and hurried away.

After the door shut, Wooster headed back to the chair. “Well, that was easy―as jobs go. And a big payday to show for it.” Wooster leaned back, letting his alligator boots fall on the table. “So what do we do now?”

The Captain pulled the money out of the envelope, and counted it. “Now, Wooster, I’ll need you to go shopping.” He handed Wooster some of the money. “Shopping list is on the counter. And please, follow it this time. Don’t come back with nothing but alcohol and red meat.” He looked at Felix. “Son, you’ve got school tomorrow―and a history test. Betty can help you study, and then you can help her on her paper about Germanic folklore. I bet she’d appreciate it.” He faced Angel and Roscoe next. “Roscoe, are you feeling better?”

“Well enough,” Roscoe said between bites of a chicken drumstick.

“Good. We’ve got a few cars that need repairs. Angel, you can help him.” The Captain gave them all a perfunctory nod containing all the emotion he cared to share. “And you did an exemplary job today.” That was the most praise they could expect from him. The Captain headed upstairs to his office, and everyone else set to their various tasks.

Angel and Roscoe went outside to get some work done in the garage. Though it was mostly a cover operation, La Cruz’s citizens still brought their automobiles in for repairs. Roscoe, Angel, Betty, and Wooster knew cars well and the cash helped finance Donovan Motors’ other activities. At the moment, they had some housewife’s powder blue Chevy with a leaking radiator. Roscoe relaxed on the lawn chair, by a table in the corner of the garage, while his wounds healed. Angel popped the hood and got to work. Roscoe pulled up his shirt. The rips in his flesh were already fusing shut.

He glanced over at Angel. “Can I do anything to help?”

“Nah, man. I’m good, but maybe you can put on the radio? I think the Deadbeat’s on.”

“Sure.” Roscoe went to the radio in the back. He fiddled with the dials and soon static gave way to strumming guitars on the Deadbeat’s station. The Deadbeat was a DJ, a beatnik with an origin no one could place. His radio show pumped out rockabilly tunes and occult news. Most people thought the occult stuff was a long-running gag, but Roscoe and the drivers of Donovan Motors knew better.

Strumming guitars faded as the Deadbeat spoke. “Good afternoon, boys and ghouls. That was Chris Crypts and the Six-Finger Five. A real gone little number, if I do say so myself. Now, here’s your mid-afternoon La Cruz news update.” He cleared his throat. “Dig this, listeners―seems like our defenders in Donovan Motors had a little clash in the desert outside of town. No word as to what was their quarry, but Old Rayford out by Cowl Canyons reports seeing a flying saucer. Are Martians invading our little town? Well, maybe not. But we do have another visitor related to the red planet. Mars himself―Townsend Mars, to be exact―just showed up at the city limits.”

“Townsend Mars?” Angel asked. “That kook?”

“Nuts,” Roscoe muttered.

“Don’t know about the Marster, cats and kittens? Stand by as the Deadbeat dispenses some education,” the Deadbeat said. “Townsend Mars started life as a traveling salesmen. Hauling around a sample case and trudging up and down LA’s sun-blasted streets might have been fun, until the Depression wrecked Mars’ business for good. Now this is where things get weird, you dig? Mars declared that he was contacted by the spirit of Sir Caleb Craul. For those of you who don’t know your black magic history, Sir Caleb was a British occultist in the Era of Queen Elizabeth. He grooved with John Dee, Edward Kelley, and all those alchemists and sorcerers. Sir Caleb Craul claimed he contacted angels who gave him the secret to eternal life. A little strange, considering he kicked sometime during King James’ reign. But his ghost lived on, and told Townsend Mars about the angels. And if the Craul name sounds familiar, it’s because one of his descendants is none other than Cassius Craul, noted British occultist and Satanist, who became London’s conduit to the demonic in the years between the wars.”

“A whacko supreme,” Angel said, as he slid the hood of the Chevy shut.

The Deadbeat continued. “Under Sir Caleb’s ghostly instruction, Townsend Mars founded an outfit called the Crystalline Church. They worship Sir Caleb’s angels, which Mars called the ‘Crystal Gods,’ who dwell underground. He’s even conducted services in Cowl Canyons once or twice.” The Deadbeat paused to let out a fond laugh. “Crazy as a waltzing mouse, cool cats? Maybe. But one thing’s not up for debate. Townsend Mars has acquired some major power thanks to his Crystalline Church. Some of the Hollywood set have become paid-up members, and the disaffected of LA have joined as well. Mars may be a relative newcomer to the religious scene, but he’s already amassing quite a following. Maybe the Crystal Gods are smiling down on him. Or make that ‘up,’ since they’re supposed to be buried under the earth, eh, cats and kittens?” The radio clicked. “Now, Townsend Mars is coming to La Cruz for a visit. Is he sightseeing? Hitting the beach? Who can say. If he’s listening to this, I hope the Marster enjoys this next tune. It’s Susan Sun and the Subterraneans with ‘Underground, All the Way.’”

Rock and roll boomed from the radio. Angel looked over his handiwork and turned back to Roscoe. “Mars is crazy, man. Crystal Gods? That stuff’s straight out of a comic book.”

“Well, your mother is a practicing shaman,” Roscoe said. “Mixing up Catholic and Indian rituals right across the border. That could be considered a little weird, if you think about it.”

“That’s different,” Angel said. “See, shamans like my mother want to heal the world―to make it better. Mars and his people―cult leaders and so on―they want to transform the world, to make it completely different.” He held out his hands, indicating the street. “See, we know that things are hard enough without trying to craft some crazy utopia. Mars thinks himself up to the challenge. That’s what makes him dangerous.”

“I guess we’d better prepare for the danger, then,” Roscoe said. “Here he comes.”

A sleek, ivory-white limousine rolled down Main Street and straight toward Donovan Motors. It looked like an old-fashioned limo―one of those hulking battleships of the 1920s. Two matching white Buicks followed it, like part of some off-color presidential motorcade. The limousine spun to the side and rolled to a stop right on the curb. The Buicks followed. The doors opened, and members of the Crystalline Church stepped out. They wore white suits and matching ties, making them look like waiters at an upscale restaurant. The cultists stood at attention, hands folded. The broad-shouldered chauffeur, wearing a white uniform, hopped out next. He opened the limousine door and helped Townsend Mars out into the afternoon daylight.

Townsend Mars looked like an Old Testament prophet in a swanky white suit. His beard hung down to his waist, shimmering and silver. He didn’t have much hair on his head, and what he did have framed a wrinkled face that looked stretched over his skull. He walked with a cane―a jagged and thin length of a magenta crystal shard that tapped almost musically against the pavement. Mars hobbled onto the parking lot of the garage. His eyes blazed. He looked around and then his eyes settled on Roscoe and Angel.

Roscoe stood from the table. He pulled his coat closed, hiding his healing wounds. “You got some cars need repairs? Our rates are inside. Just park over here in the garage, then go inside and we’ll talk pricing.”

Mars stared at Roscoe. “Dead man… I do not wish to talk with you.”

“I’m here. So let’s talk.”

“Fetch your master.” Mars squinted. “I would speak with him.”

Angel raised his hands. “Okay, man. Okay, I’ll go get him. He’s just up in his office.” He squeezed Roscoe’s arm. The message was clear―be careful with this guy. Roscoe knew Angel could be cautious at the proper moments, and he appreciated the sentiment. Angel scrambled away and headed back into the apartments toward the Captain’s office.

Mars remained still, resting on his cane. “We have met before, dead man.”

“Yeah. You tried kidnapping local kids. You pinched Negros from Butcher’s Row, because you figured nobody would miss them, and tried to use them to awaken your Crystal Gods. Well, it didn’t work. We trashed your Crystal Creeps and sent you packing. Now you’re back, and I can’t imagine why.” Roscoe cracked his knuckles. “You want a rematch?”

“The Gods meant for my defeat, then. Just as they will grant me a victory now.”

Angel walked down from his office. The Captain followed, and they stood together on the open asphalt. The door to the living quarters creaked open and Felix and Betty peered out as well, watching everything. Snowball sat at Felix’s feet, emitting squeaking growls at Mars and his followers.

The Captain walked over to Mars and held out his hand. Mars didn’t take it. “Good afternoon. I know who you are, Mr. Mars. I know about your religion. I don’t care what you worship, but if it threatens my town, I will care and I will involve myself. Now please explain why you have come to La Cruz.”

“The Crystal Gods whisper to me,” Mars said. “They whisper many things. They speak of bondage and an endless, undying imprisonment. They want to be free.” He jabbed his finger into the Captain’s chest, emphasizing each word. “And they want my dear friend, Dr. Clyde Bolton, to be set free and released into my custody. Do you understand, Captain? I want to leave your town with Dr. Bolton by my side.”

“I can’t allow that,” the Captain said. “He’s not in my custody anymore.”

“You rule this town. You can―”

“No. I merely defend it. That’s all I want to say on the matter. Now kindly go back to your vehicle and leave my garage.” The Captain never raised his voice.

Mars’s eyes went wide and wild. Evidently, the cult leader wasn’t used to people talking to him that way. “You would stand against the will of the Gods?”

“The Gods haven’t done much for me over the years. Now, please―leave.”

“So be it.” Mars walked back to limousine. He hardly seemed to limp. His followers returned their cars as well. Soon, the whole motorcade pulled away and rumbled down Main Street, rounded a corner, and vanished from view. The drivers of Donovan Motors stood on the curb and watched them go.

Once the Crystalline Churchmen were gone, the Captain turned to the others. “You all have work to do. I’ll see you for dinner.”

Silence filled the street and the garage. Roscoe glanced at the Captain heading up the stairs and going back to his office. He seemed so tired, like it took effort to make it up each step. But the Captain had stared down a fanatic, and the fanatic had blinked. Roscoe couldn’t think of a stronger man, and he burned with pride knowing he worked for him. He and Angel headed to the next car in line for repairs, and Roscoe tried to put Townsend Mars and the Crystalline Church out of his mind. He was a kooky cultist, after all, and Roscoe had handled him fine before.