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

They all knew it. Wooster stopped walking, his boots pausing on the tiled floor. Angel and Roscoe waited. They couldn’t hang out in the hall forever. Roscoe checked his watch. His heart pounded, a single beat that sounded like cannon shot. Betty should have made her appearance a minute ago. Roscoe stared at Angel and pointed to his watch. Angel nodded. There wasn’t a thing they could do. Roscoe looked into his satchel, where his sawed-off rested. If they went loud now, it might summon more guards, and they wouldn’t be able to leave.

The far door opened and Betty emerged. She’d dolled herself up for the role she had to play, now sporting a lime green cocktail dress with chiffon edges and extra lipstick. The guards stared at her. Betty pushed up her glasses and smiled as she approached. “Excuse me, fellows. I think I’m lost.” She rested a hand on her purse strap and walked down the hall. Her high-heeled shoes on the tile sounded like a metronome. “This doesn’t look like the way to the casino to me.”

The guards stood. The largest, a fellow who looked like a football player mixed with a grizzly bear, held out his hands and spread his thick fingers. “That’s right, ma’am. This ain’t a place you should ought to be. You should turn around.”

“Ma’am?” Betty asked. “I think ‘miss’ is more appropriate, buddy.”

“All right, miss.” The one with the pencil moustache stood up. His cigarette moved up and down in his lips. “You say you’re lost? What are you looking for?”

Betty walked over to them. She had their complete attention. “Well, I was thinking of going to the buffet. Grab a little bite to eat for breakfast. But maybe I ought to watch my figure more.” She folded her hands. “You guys seem to do a good job of that. You’re in great shape.” She smiled a debutante’s smile. A single bead of sweat glistened on her pale forehead. He knew she must be as scared as he was― she couldn’t keep this up.

The guy with the pencil moustache tugged at his tie. “I don’t know. I like a dame with meat on her bones.”

“Is that so?” Betty asked. “How interesting.”

While Betty kept the guards distracted, Roscoe, Angel, and Wooster snuck down the hall. When they got closer, Wooster raised his Thompson. Nobody looked at him―until Wooster slammed the butt of his gun between the biggest guy’s shoulder blades. The guard let out a croak and fell. Wooster raised his weapon. The other two turned and stared at it, their eyes going straight to the muzzle of the machine gun.

Wooster spoke quietly, with an edge to his voice. “Drop your goddamn heaters. You go for them, you die. I swear to Christ, I will paint these walls with your guts if you give me a reason. Now drop your guns.”

They didn’t listen. The guard in the middle, a portly fellow with a porkpie hat, tried to raise his shotgun. Angel and Roscoe reached him first. Roscoe grabbed the gun and tugged at it, wrenching it away from the guard’s fingers. Angel whacked him with the butt of his pistol, planting the automatic right between the gunman’s eyes. They rolled back and he drooped. The fellow with the pencil moustache reached for his rifle, but Betty pulled her snub-nosed revolver from her purse and pressed the gun to his nose. He kept the rifle up for a second and then let it fall.

“Please,” he said. “I didn’t―”

“I told you not to go for your guns,” Wooster said. “You ought to know better.”

He stepped next to the guy, grabbed his throat, and rammed his skull into the wall. The goon let out a slight, whistling moan and collapsed―out cold. Roscoe pushed aside their guns while Wooster rolled them over and put on the cuffs. Betty and Angel kept them covered with their pistols while Wooster and Roscoe worked.

Roscoe glanced up at Betty. Her knuckles were white around the grip of her pistol and another bead of sweat had appeared. “It’s okay. You did good. The blonde ditz gag―it’s a good act.”

“Thanks,” Betty said. “I’ve seen it often enough.”

“Well, you pulled it off swell.” Roscoe stood. Now it was time for them to split up. “Everything copacetic for your job?”

Angel pulled an electrician’s tool belt from his satchel and tugged it on. He was going to ask for directions to the casino’s power station, bluff his way in while pretending to be a maintenance worker, and pull his pistols on anyone there and cut the alarms. “It’s cool, man.” He let his automatic rest in his satchel. “The men they have here, they think they’re in some sort of gangster paradise, where they ain’t gotta worry about the law or rival crews or anything. It makes them complacent. I put a pistol in their face and they become real cooperative.”

“Don’t take chances.” Roscoe patted Angel’s shoulder. “You’ve got ten minutes to do your job. That’s all we can spare.”

“I’ll be quick.” Angel paused and looked over at his friends. “Good luck to you guys too.”

“Thank you kindly,” Wooster said.

“See you in a bit,” Betty added.

Angel hurried down the hallway. Roscoe waited until he left, and led the group down the stairwell. They walked to the basement level, headed through the little corridor, and reached the vault door. It loomed over Roscoe, seeming even bigger than when he had seen it with his disembodied eye. Roscoe and Betty stared at the complex locks and spiked iron wheels, like the workings of some strange engine spread across a wall. It didn’t seem possible to remove.

Wooster set down his satchel and got to work.

“You can handle this?” Roscoe asked.

“I surely can.” Wooster removed a pair of dynamite sticks and fuses. He went back to the door and set them up, and moved back for two more. He worked quickly, and soon had the entire door wired. “That’s what folks like Fink don’t understand. You can spend all the dough you want on a fancy security system, a big old expensive vault door, and plenty of guards. But a couple explosions in the right places and the whole thing goes tumbling down.” He grinned at Betty. Wooster was enjoying himself. “Ya’ll stand back now.”

Betty took a few halting steps back. Roscoe joined her as Wooster unspooled a length of cord connected to the dynamite. He moved to join his friends at the end of the hall and snapped open the detonator.

Roscoe checked his watch. “It’s been ten minutes. Angel should be done. Blow it now.”

“You don’t want to wait longer?” Wooster asked. “What if he got delayed or something?”

“The longer we wait, the greater the chance someone will discover one of the guards.” Roscoe pointed to the door. “Blow it now.”

“Okay.” Wooster glanced at Betty. “Care to do the honors, little lady?”

“Why not?” Betty leaned down and pressed the detonator.

The sticks of dynamite blasted to life. Wooster always kept a little dynamite on him and he had primed them carefully the night before, after Roscoe did his best to describe the vault door to him. The explosions rippled across the surface, shattering a length of metal at one point, dislodging a cog in another, and blasting a chunk of metal in the center. The vault door creaked and groaned. Wooster stood and carefully approached it. No one said a word. They were waiting for the alarm to go off. They waited and waited. Roscoe’s heart beat again, but no alarm sang out. Angel must have done his job. Betty let out a slight sigh of relief. Wooster walked to the door and faced to his friends. Betty pulled her pistol, and Roscoe drew his sawed-off.

Wooster grabbed the door and pushed it open. It swung wide on its hinges, making a slight creaking noise as it revealed the counting room. Wooster swept the room with his Thompson and Roscoe and Betty aimed their guns. About half-a-dozen guys in shirtsleeves sat at felt tables, counting money, smoking cigarettes, and drinking coffee. All of them looked up in silent amazement. Angel was right. These guys weren’t expecting them. Roscoe could have been Santa Claus waltzing in―a creature out of a children’s story showing up in their normal place of business.

Roscoe kept the sawed-off pointed at his target and walked inside. At the far end, sat the wooden door leading to the living quarters. “Stay where you are. Don’t move at all. Stay completely still and I promise you won’t be hurt.”

The counters stayed still. They were glorified accountants; they weren’t hired for their muscle. They didn’t know what to do and so they stayed still, but their boss stood. He had a protruding gut and thinning hair, a cigar wedged between his fingers. He wore his vest unbuttoned, his tie a ragged flag drooping over his chest. He stepped in front of Roscoe. “You know who you’re stealing from? Do you know? You must know who owns this joint. It’s Frankie Fink, pal. You won’t make it out of the state. You won’t make it out of town. Take all the dough you want. You won’t get a chance to spend it.”

“We’re not here for dough,” Roscoe said.

“Doesn’t matter. This is the Fink’s casino, and you’re knocking it over.” This guy, maybe a pit boss doubling as the manager in the counting room, wouldn’t back down. He stepped closer to Roscoe, ignoring the sawed-off aimed at his chest. “The Fink’s got plenty of friends. He’s got armies at his command. He’ll get you and you’ll get it slow. You got me, pal? You’ll get it nice and slow.” His finger jabbed out, aiming for Roscoe. “Trust me, pal. You’re already dead.”

“Got that right.” Roscoe slugged the guy, ramming a fist into his gut and tossing him back. He crashed into one of the tables. Money flew everywhere, thick clumps of green dollars wafting through the still, smoky air. Roscoe pointed to Wooster. “He’ll watch you while we get what we came for. He’s not patient and he’s part wolf. Don’t give him an excuse.” He glanced at Wooster. “You good?”

“Yes, sir.” Wooster knelt, grabbed a clump of money, and tucked it into the pocket of his coveralls. “Just for the hell of it.” He flashed a savage smile.

Now Roscoe
knew
he was enjoying himself.

“Don’t have too much fun.” Roscoe nodded to Betty. “Let’s go.”

They hurried to the door at the far end, leaving Wooster to keep the accountants covered with his tommy gun. Roscoe and Betty sprinted past the room with the wire service and the chalkboards, to the living quarters. Roscoe kicked open the door and stepped inside the first chamber, keeping his sawed-off ready. Betty stood next to him, holding her pistol. Roscoe scanned the room, but didn’t see anybody. The air still stank of incense from Townsend Mars’s ritual. Betty walked onto the carpet and knelt. The crystal and candle remained, along with strange letters written in wax and blood.

Betty looked it over. “A communication spell, I think. He was talking to something.”

Roscoe edged into the room. The door at the other end creaked and slammed open. Mars rushed out, swinging his crystal cane high. He raced across the room, robes flying behind him like a pair of scraggly vulture’s wings. Roscoe faced him. He grabbed Mars’s thin, weathered wrist, halting his stabbing attack, and rammed his forehead into Mars’s face. The cult leader tumbled back and plopped onto the couch.

He looked up at Roscoe, his eyes ablaze. “Heretic! Fiend! Dead man!”

“Tell me something I don’t know.” Roscoe pointed his sawed-off at Mars. “Now shut up and keep quiet.”

“I do not fear death! I welcome it. I will join the Crystal Gods and we will bring forth a new world, where fear and hatred and greed do not exist!” His eyes darted to the door. “Clyde! Brother! Come forth and destroy my enemies!”

Too late, Roscoe saw Dr. Bolton standing in the doorway. He looked like a mess, his unbuttoned shirt hanging over his trousers and stubble framing his wild and tired eyes. He carried a Mauser pistol and he pointed the gun straight at Roscoe. “D-don’t―” he started, stammering as he struggled to hold the pistol. “Don’t make me―”

“You don’t have to,” Roscoe said. “Put the gun down, Dr. Bolton. There’s no need for this.”

Dr. Bolton fired. The bullet drilled between Roscoe’s ribs―a glancing shot that took some meat and not much else. It made Roscoe stumble. Dr. Bolton raised the pistol to fire again, but Betty reached him and clobbered him with the handle of her revolver. Dr. Bolton dropped with a gurgle, but the damage had been done.

“Mr. Finkelstein’s men will have heard the gunshot,” Mars said. “They’ll investigate. They’ll tell Mr. Finkelstein himself, and he will trap you within this casino like the rats you are.” He bared his teeth at Roscoe. “This will happen to all enemies of the true Gods and―”

“Shut up.” Roscoe slugged him, bashing his nose and knocking him back. He looked up at Betty. “The alien’s past that door. Go and get him.”

“But the gunshot―” Betty started.

“I know. We’ll get the alien and we’ll leave.” He looked at Dr. Bolton, who lay on a heap in the ground. “We can’t carry him out. We’ll leave him with Mars. Maybe the government can rescue him later―he doesn’t seem to be in any pain.”

“And the alien is?” Betty asked.

“Open that door,” Roscoe said. “And see for yourself.”

Betty strode over to the far door and kicked it open. The alien was in the same spot Roscoe remember, still wearing the ragged pair of boxers, its bulbous, teardrop-shaped head bowed with pain. Betty looked at the alien for a few seconds. It looked at her, its dark eyes vague and impenetrable.

“Oh… Poor thing.” Betty hurried to the bedroom and tore a sheet off the bed, then dashed back and swept up the alien. She untied the ropes, helped it out of the chair, wrapped it in the cloth and held it in her arms. “My god,” Betty whispered. “He’s so light! Well, if it is a ‘he,’ I guess. We don’t really know.”

“We can ask him about it later,” Roscoe said. “Right now, we gotta go.”

They hurried to the door, heading back to the bank vault past the couch.

Mars watched them, his eyes glued to the alien. “Walk with demons, if you will. It will not save you. The Crystal Gods gather. The angels prepare to cleanse this world. All the power of the demons will not stop them.”

Roscoe didn’t answer. He held the door for Betty and she went through, carrying the swaddled alien. They stepped into the counting room, where Wooster leaned against the wall and chewed tobacco. Wooster let out a salvo, spitting on to the table and staining green money red. He looked at the alien in Betty’s arm and shook his head.

“Damn,” he said. “That’s one ugly critter.”

“He fits right in with you,” Roscoe said. “Now let’s get out of here.”