Detour to Apocalypse: A Rot Rods Serial, Part One (6 page)

They left the parking lot, walked over the thin tufts of yellow grass, and reached the edge of the set. Doc Schlock had his crew set in a semi-circle around the rocket ship. The hero, a square-jawed Hollywood leading man in a shining tinfoil space suit, swiveled around with a tin ray gun while the cameras rolled. Doc Schlock himself stood behind the camera. He looked like a pimple with arms and legs: round, red, and draped in a Mexican wedding shirt with an open collar, revealing a fat golden necklace around his throat. He had thinning hair that wafted back and forth as he shook his head.

“Play it cool, Rock,” he said. “You’re supposed to be a tough guy―an all-American astronaut popping down to Earth after the communist Martians conquered the place. Yeah, that’s good. Grit those teeth!” He turned to the edge of the set. “Okay. Send in the zombies.”

Roscoe sighed. There was nothing he hated more than seeing other zombies―even fake ones in a sci-fi B-movie. These zombies seemed even worse than usual. They were hired winos in tattered clothes and green face paint, and they shambled out in a state of complete drunkenness. They stumbled across the set together, a dozen of them all having trouble walking straight. They made it to Rock Peckham and then the first drunk keeled over. The next tripped over him, and then the whole line went down in a row of dominos that smelled like a liquor store.

Doc Schlock sprang out of his cloth-backed chair. “Goddamn it! Just because I pay you boozehounds in malt liquor don’t mean you can go guzzling it before we film the scene!” He sighed and shook his head. “All right. Take five. We’ll come back and try it again.” A drunk with a month’s worth of stubble heaved up and puked in the direction of Rock Peckham. The movie star yelped and scrambled back. “And can someone clean that up?” Doc Schlock asked. He turned around and spotted Walt and Roscoe for the first time. “Ah―visitors on the set!”

They headed over to join him. Angel held out his hand. “How’s it going, man?”

“Eh―I can’t complain.” Doc Schlock shrugged. “
Attack of the Martian Murderess
is gonna make a mint. If I can get the damn picture filmed, that is. My script writer, god bless his soul, has yet to write the final pages and he is currently under investigation by a Senate subcommittee because of his Fellow Traveler status, and he has a heroin habit he’s struggling with. My leading lady absconded halfway through because she got a better offer performing for tourists in Tijuana. And my extras? Well, Rock’s gotta take out a zombie and I need a shot of him shooting one, but these souses won’t wake up. But none of that matters, because this film is still gonna rake in the dough.”

Roscoe looked at the cheesy set and costumes. “How do you figure?”

“I’m telling you, kid, this atomic sci-fi business is what the audience wants these days. Everyone likes aliens and nuclear bombs and mutants and all that crap. It packs theaters―and it ain’t hard to see why.” Doc Schlock grasped Roscoe’s shoulder and waved his hand across the city. “We’ve got nuclear bombs. The Ruskies got nuclear bombs. If they launch, there’ll be mushroom clouds sprouting everywhere and then we all roast together. It’s what people care about. I put some talk about nuclear war in my flick and every headline turns into a free advertisement. I’m telling you, fear is the only way to sell movies.”

“Well, we got some fears of our own,” Angel said. “The Captain tell you what we wanted?”

“Sure. Oh―and someone else dropped by too.” Doc Schlock pointed to the chairs surrounding the cameras. “Walt―it’s Roscoe and Angel! Get over here and say hello.” He grinned back at his guests. “I keep on asking Walt Weaver to come in as a technical adviser for one of my detective pictures, let me film some of his cases. He keeps saying that his cases are too strange for the silver screen. I don’t know what to believe.”

Walt Weaver, an occult private eye, ambled over and nodded to Roscoe and Walt. He had deep, sunken eyes that seemed permanently half-closed and tired. His trench coat hung in a rumpled bundle over his arm and his suit sagged, his tie drooping below his Adam’s Apple and coming apart. A cigarette rested in the corner of his mouth, and he removed it as he eyeballed Roscoe and Angel. “Hello there, boys,” he said. “The Captain called me. Said you could use some help.”

“Advice, really,” Roscoe said. “We’re looking for anything related to Townsend Mars and Dr. Clyde Bolton. Whereabouts or associates would be nice, if you know anything.” He watched as Walt and Doc Schlock thought for a few seconds.

“I could tell you stories about Mars that’d curl your hair,” Walt said. “Well, Roscoe, I guess your hair doesn’t curl much anymore. Anyway, Mars ain’t in LA. He’s dangled and I don’t know where he ended up. As for Dr. Bolton, I know even less. He ran in certain circles that I try to stay out of.” Walt turned to Doc Schlock. “What’ve you got?”

Doc Schlock beamed. “Tell me, Roscoe―you ever considered a career in film?”

“I can’t say that I have,” Roscoe muttered. “Now what about Dr. Bolton?”

“Well, a while back I did a picture with a nice up-and-coming blonde named Vanna Latreuse. A nice girl, but superstitious. She’s dead now, unfortunately. Hurled herself off the Hollywoodland sign because she believed it would get her closer to Heaven and the angels. Anyway, before she kicked, she used to run with the mystic crowd. Artists, actors, writers, and so on who loved the idea of contacting ghosts. And I remember her telling me about this rocket scientist, a Manhattan Project, Los Alamos egghead, who had a fortune teller for a girlfriend.”

The grift was obvious. “What was the fortune teller’s name?” Roscoe asked.

“Uh-uh. I don’t remember.” Doc Schlock pointed to the camera. “You do one stunt, well, two stunts for me, and then maybe my memory improves. What do you say? I guarantee it’ll be small potatoes for a guy like you. And you can certainly take the pain.”

“Jesus.” Walt puffed smoke through his nostrils. “And I thought dope-pushing gangsters were bad.”

“No way, man,” Angel asked. “We won’t be strong-armed,
pendejo
.”

“Angel,” Roscoe said. “It’s for the job. I’ll swallow my pride.” He glared at Doc Schlock. “What do you want me to do?”

Doc Schlock grinned. He pulled up his shirt, revealing the handle of a long-barreled revolver poking up from his waistline. “Just wait and see,” he said. “And get ready for cinematic gold.”

A couple minutes later, Roscoe was ready. He sat behind the wheel of a rusted-out Studebaker, some pre-war jalopy with broken headlights, waiting for the signal. The car rested a bit behind the set, parked right on the grass. Roscoe started the engine and stared ahead. Doc Schlock counted down and gave the signal for the cameras to start rolling. Rock Peckham stood in front of the cardboard rocket ship, ray gun in hand. Doc Schlock pointed to Roscoe and nodded vigorously. Roscoe groaned. He hit the motor and the Studebaker rocked its way through the park. Its engine coughed and rumbled, shaking the seat beneath him. He bounced across the grass as he rolled toward the rocket ship.

His teeth chattered. One wheel went over an exposed root and the car slid to the side. Roscoe gripped the wheel with both hands and wrenched it back on course. It was like arm-wrestling a gorilla, but he forced the Studebaker toward its target. The rocket ship drew closer and closer and Roscoe slammed straight into the set piece. Plywood and cardboard ripped and shattered. It rained down over the Studebaker, bouncing off the hood of the car, spilling past the windshield and falling onto Roscoe. Splinters flew past him and cheap painted wood bounced off his forehead. He slammed on the brakes, killing the engine and the Studebaker skidded―then gravity did the rest.

Roscoe lurched out of his seat, slammed open the door, and hopped out. The grassy ground came up and met him. He rolled and bashed against it, spinning over and over with his arms and legs splayed out. It hurt like hell. Finally, he came to a stop―landing right at the feet of Rock Peckham. Roscoe ignored the pain and looked up.

Peckham leveled his toy ray gun at Roscoe. “Great Scott!” he cried. “The Martian Murderess’ atomic zombie virus has turned this poor average citizen into a flesh-crazed member of the mutant undead!” Roscoe sat up, waiting for what came next. “I don’t want to hurt anyone―apart from communists, of course―but I must destroy this mindless zombie monster if I am to survive and rescue my innocent and beautiful girlfriend.”

Now came the worst part. Peckham pointed his ray gun at Roscoe―just as Doc Schlock leveled his revolver from behind the camera. Peckham waved the gun in an exaggerated impression of recoil. They’d add in some Theremin music as a sound effect later. But Doc Schlock’s revolver thundered for real, planting a real bullet straight in Roscoe’s shoulder.

The force of the shot knocked Roscoe over, sending him straight into the grass. He let out a low gasp at the pain, feeling the bullet stop somewhere near his collarbone. He’d have to get a knife and cut it out when he got back to La Cruz. Peckham stared at him in real terror, dropped the toy ray gun, and darted away. Roscoe grunted and rolled over as Doc Schlock applauded. At least the goddamn scene was finished.

“That’s a rap―and good job, Roscoe!” Doc Schlock cried. “You took that shot like a pro!”

Angel hurried out from behind the camera and ran to Roscoe’s side. “You okay, man?” he asked. “That bullet looked like it hurt.”

“Not as much as the dialogue.” Roscoe grinned and clutched his shoulder. “We’ll have to stop for burgers after this.” He squinted to Doc Schlock as he stumbled to his feet. “Okay,” he said. “Now let’s talk about Dr. Bolton.”

“Right.” Doc Schlock’s confidence seemed to fade. He stumbled back and slumped into his cloth-backed director’s chair. “Of course. No problem.”

“Spill it,” Roscoe said.

Doc Schlock nodded quickly. “Her name’s Strang. Maxine Strang.” He snapped his fingers, trying to remember. “She runs a fortune teller’s over in, oh, what’s that place? I think it’s―”

“Santa Monica.” Walt answered for him. He reached into his trench coat and withdrew a wrinkled black address book. He flipped through the pages. “Here we are. Madam Strang’s Far Sight and Fortunes. A joint over in Santa Monica. Caters to the beach crowd.” He tore out the page and handed it to Roscoe. “I got the address right there.”

“You know her?” Angel asked.

“By reputation. I make it my business to know every fortune teller and psychic in town.” Walt grinned. “Never know when it’s gonna come in handy.”

Roscoe tucked the address into the pocket of his black leather jacket. “Thanks. We’ll check it out.”

“Sounds swell,” Doc Schlock replied. “Any chance for another stunt, Mr. Roscoe? I can help you score some major profits off of
Attack of the Martian Murderess
.” He pointed to the set. “Come on. You take a few more pratfalls, a couple crashes, and I think we’re in Academy Award territory. Better start composing your speech, Roscoe. Who are you gonna thank?”

“Not you,” Roscoe replied. He waved to Angel. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Fine by me,” Angel replied. “I’ll just catch the movie when it’s on TV.”

They headed back to the Cadillac, giving Doc Schlock and Walt Weaver a parting wave. Angel hopped in behind the wheel and Roscoe winced a little as he sat, his ribs and shoulder still feeling tender. He set his sunglasses on his nose and glanced back behind the Caddy, at Wooster’s Packard. Wooster had been sitting in his car, spitting out streams of chewing tobacco at passing couples while country tunes featuring warbling banjos blared from his radio. Roscoe gave Wooster a quick nod. Angel pulled out and the Packard followed, running backup just like they had planned.

Angel looked over at Roscoe as they pulled out. “That zombie crap on camera―that didn’t bother you?” They headed down the broad lanes of Griffith Park, back onto the traffic-jammed main thoroughfares of LA.

“It did,” Roscoe said. “But I didn’t mind so much. It’s for the job. It’ll help us win. That’s what matters.”

“So that’s what would hurt your pride? Losing?”

“Ain’t about pride,” Roscoe said. “It’s about protecting the Captain and Donovan Motors and everyone who works for it. It’s about protecting our family.”

“I heard the same thing from plenty of
pachuco
types during the war. They liked to strut around, you know, wearing zoot suits, snapping switchblades open, and throwing up Heil Hitler salutes to show how much they hated America. They had good reason to hate America, you know? But they talked about defending our people from sailors and cops, and I bet a lot did. We needed defending. But I got the feeling that a lot of them just liked fighting. If the sailors weren’t there, they would have picked fights with someone else.”

Roscoe stared at Angel. “You looked up to them.”

“I was a kid, man. Of course I looked up to them. They were heroes. But now I’m older. Wiser. And I think that maybe heroes are people who get into fights that maybe they should avoid.” He stared down at his red zoot suit and sighed. “I’m getting to think I fall into that category too.”

The Cadillac sped on. Roscoe wasn’t sure what to say, so he didn’t say anything. Next stop was Santa Monica, and Madam Strang’s Far Sight and Fortunes. They were closing in on Dr. Bolton, Townsend Mars, and the end of the case. It was easy so far, but that was usually when their fortunes changed. All Roscoe could do was prepare.