Detour to Apocalypse: A Rot Rods Serial, Part Two by Michael Panush Read Free Book Online Page B

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.