A silver teardrop rolled west, down Route 77, the last leg of the notorious Slingshot Highway. An angry desert sun paused in its descent, sitting on the horizon ahead, then sank from view. The air turned noticeably cooler, and the birds of twilight took wing, crying, flitting here now, then there.
Only a few more miles to Dustbarrel Springs, where the two men in the car could stop and rest, stretch their legs, start their work.
RadioRama Salsa jangled from all seven speakers in the Luxo. The insistent rumble of "Disco Cucaracha Mambo" had the driver twitching from his toes to his tiny sombrero.
The man in the passenger seat shuffled a handful of pictures, eight by ten glossies, the unbelievable visual records of an invasion robbery at the AM-PM Minimart in Pottstown, now two thousand miles behind them. The photos were grainy security camera black and whites, but they were astonishing.
Detective Ted Krumpnik threw down the pictures and picked up the two day old Bergen Bugle, rereading the story that screamed its bold headlines from the front page, "BROBOTS ATTACK!". The accompanying photo was bone-chilling, a ten foot tall sinuous armed robot crowned with the largest ‘fro ever seen, was gently strangling Ted’s uncle, old Karl Mannfredrickson, the owner of the Pottstown AM-PM.
Evidence found at the scene suggested that the metal robbers had been brought in from elsewhere, here in Nevada, to be exact. Ted had found one of the rented delivery trucks that had transported the Brobots, and in the seat was a signed rental agreement from the Dustbarrel Springs Steal This Wreck franchise. He recognized the crazy cramped handwriting immediately. It was the signature of Professor Hanover Klingst.
Within hours of the invasion, Mayor Tony Crandall had contacted Krumpnik and Reynoso, going over Chief Dove’s head, assigning them the duty of solving this case. Klingst had been wanted for several months, and this looked like the perfect opportunity for Ted. Bring in Klingst and these Brobots and his future was secure. He could already see that Chief’s badge on his chest. He already had one major case under his belt, the Cookies and a Nine-Millimeter caper. Those brats were doing hard time in juvie, thanks to him, and he proudly displayed the citation over his office desk. So far, so good.
El Pinche was worried. Chimps with enhanced intelligience was one thing, giant robots was an unknown factor. Lesmerelda was beside herself when she saw the photos.
"Sweetie, please don’t go." She had spoken softly, eyes downcast.
"My love....", El Pinche began, but he couldn’t quite get the words out. The pain in his face told Lesmerelda what she already knew.
"I know." She kissed him hard and then helped him prepare.
Dustbarrel Springs, Nevada, had become an epicenter of alien and UFO sightings in recent months, so it wasn’t any surprise to El Pinche and Ted when they discovered where the Brobots were from. Darkness was settling when they saw the lights of the town, half a mile ahead, spread out over the desert valley. A blanket of brilliant pinpoints stretched overhead, cold, bright, unfamiliar, deep. By the time the men parked the car in the LoBall Inn’s gravel lot, the full moon was peeking above the mountains, overpowering the stars that surrounded it.
"Room for two, please."
The hard faced woman behind the counter put down her cigar and pulled a key off the wall, tossed it on the counter. Room 101.
"That’ll be fifty bucks." Her voice sounded like claws on a hard wooden floor.
El Pinche handed her his Whipmaster Credit Union Visa. "Receipt please."
She looked at him through suddenly interested eyes, checked out his small sombrero and the Revenger X slapping his right leg.
"I know you." She shuffled through her desk, handed El Pinche a magazine. "Have your autograph?"
"Si."
He signed the cover picture on the Whipmaster issue number two, and handed it back to her.
"Who’s yer compadre?" She addressed El Pinche, barely looking at Ted.
"I’m Detective Krumpnik, ma’am. We’ll be here for a few days." Ted turned and headed out of the office.
"My name’s Raybelle, let me know if you need anything, Mr. Pinche, anything at all." Her face cracked into a smile, she fussed with her hair.
"Thank you ma’am, I’ll keep that in mind."
The dry canyon road was barely visible, running a couple of miles between treacherous cliffs that shed their rock sides regularly, obliterating the truck trail below. Black-eyed men in white uniforms would come then with bulldozers and remove the fallen boulders, keeping the path clear and open to what lay at the road’s end.
The rented Studebaker pickup chugged down the trail, exhuming a cloud of sandy dust and exhaust smoke. Ted wrestled with the steering wheel, guiding the heavy vehicle along the twisting switchbacks. Merciless sun beat down, the ground radiated visible heat upward.
"How much farther?" Ted was uncomfortable, impatient, scalp sweaty. His shirt was soaked, holster strap bit into his shoulder.
"The map says we are almost there." El Pinche checked and double checked his Revenger X. The hi-impact exploding unidirectional tips were loaded, batteries for the aggression scanner were fully charged. He tried to relax, but this place really wouldn’t let you. Best to be on alert anyway.
Rising ten feet above the flat sand at the abrupt end of the road was a concrete dome. An opening was cut into its smooth front, revealing steps that descended to a heavy steel door. Behind the door, hidden in cool darkness, lay an army of silent metal creatures, waiting for the electronic satellite signal that would activate them.
Dim ruby crystals pulsed, hard drives hummed, white noise crackled from hidden speakers. A command center at one end of the vast room stood empty. Maps of the USA were mounted overhead, green flags pinpointed North Bergen, Las Vegas, and Cleveland.
The locked metal door was going to be a challenge. No visible handle, only a pinpad.
