Free Detour to Apocalypse: A Rot Rods Serial, Part One by Michael Panush Page A

galloped around the room, waving its horned head and knocking over tables and chairs as guests scrambled to get away. Roscoe didn’t see the devil fleeing with the others. He could probably turn into a cloud of smoke and float out the chimney. Roscoe and Angel ran as well.
    They reached the door, pushing their way through the crowd as they struggled out. A portly guy in a rubber gorilla mask elbowed Roscoe, trying to push him out of the way. Angel grabbed his shoulder and tossed him back, hurling him into the drinks cabinet. They sprinted through the door and out onto the lawn. The gargoyles glared at them, still snarling, as they joined the crowd scrambling toward their cars. A thin line of maybe half-a-dozen uniformed cops tried to intercept the guests and handcuff them, but they weren’t having much luck. One guest sporting a giant deer’s head had managed to get his mask switched the wrong away around, and he stumbled straight into the wall and crashed into a flowerbed. The cops sprang on him, but he reared up and pushed them back with his antlers. It was a mess―with enough chaos for Roscoe and Angel to escape.
    They didn’t bother with the sidewalk. Instead, Roscoe and Angel headed straight down the open street. Their shoes clattered on the pavement, clicking in unison. Roscoe looked over his shoulder.
    “Goddamn,” he whispered. “It’s Dodd. He can’t take a hint.”
    Agent Dodd sat behind the wheel of his black Lincoln. He revved the car to life and it shot into the road, speeding after Angel and Roscoe. He didn’t slow as he drew closer. Roscoe knew what he was going to do―ram into them, run them down, and then pop out and detain them, or just shoot them each twice in the head and be done with it. Judging by the way his face shifted in a cold scowl behind his sunglasses, it would have to be the latter.
    Roscoe and Angel ran. Roscoe’s legs ached from the crash he had taken earlier, but he still scrambled down the street. Angel panted and gasped, but didn’t slow. The Lincoln rolled closer and closer, gaining speed. Its yellow headlights painted the street before them gold. The engine roared. Roscoe could hardly believe it. He’d called Dodd’s bluff and the government man seemed perfectly willing to play for blood. Up ahead, Angel’s Cadillac rested on the curb. A couple more steps and they’d reach it―but the Lincoln’s bumper would reach them first, and there wasn’t time to dash to the lawns or the curb.
    Wooster’s Packard came speeding down the street. It swiveled around and rammed into the side of the Lincoln. Steel crunched on steel. Agent Dodd fell back against the window as his Lincoln shifted to the side. Wooster leaned out of the window. “Roscoe!” he cried. “Angel! Run and follow me! We’ll get out of here damn quick!”
    Wooster didn’t have to tell them twice. Roscoe and Angel raced to the Caddy. Angel got there first and hopped the side, leaping behind the wheel and jamming the key into the ignition in one fluid movement. Roscoe dove into the passenger seat as the engine roared. Wooster’s Packard rumbled back, leaving Dodd’s Lincoln with a crumpled side and a busted headlight.
    Agent Dodd stepped out of the car, not saying a word as he reached into his coat. The fading sunlight glinted on steel as he withdrew the silenced pistol, taking aim with both hands and sighting on the Cadillac.
    “Drive into the lawn, not the street,” Roscoe ordered. “Get as much space as you can from Dodd and kick up some dirt.”
    “Why not just zoom ahead of him?” Angel asked as the Cadillac shot forward.
    “Because he’s smart enough to know how to cripple a car by shooting out our tires.” Roscoe reached for his seatbelt. “Now go.”
    The Caddy roared onto the lawns of the neighboring houses. Its fat wheels churned the earth, sending up torrents of dirt and flowers that provided some cover. A gun flashed behind them. The bullet plinked against the rear bumper of the Cadillac,