Life In The Past Lane: Dazzle Shelton - Alien Invasion Series, #8

By Don Vodka

An alien serial killer, masquerading as a human, is loose in the year 1962, attacking and killing along Historic Route 66. 
Dazzle time-travels into the past to identify, track, and ultimately eliminate the creature, while being careful to not alter important events in the timeline. But destroying the serial killer is not easy, for time itself seems unwilling to be altered.

Welcome to the southwest USA, where Route 66 winds its way through the Mojave Desert toward Los Angeles. Don't forget to keep your gas tank full and stop in at the Road Runner's Retreat for a bite. And whatever you do... don't hitchhike! That's the worst thing you can do. You never know what kind of sicko will pick you up and tear you to shreds. Have a pleasant trip and enjoy the sights.

 

Vegas is just off Route 66, very much worth the side-trip. It's 1962 and gas is cheaper than water. So is Tequila. So top up both. Follow the sun to the west coast, where stars are made. Just keep a lookout for killers on the road. 

 

Get your kicks ... on Route 66. 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Don Vodka
• Release date: Mar 31, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215457511

Don Vodka

Donnalee Vodka began her life in a small town in southern Nevada. She has always been fascinated with Science Fiction, especially movies. Some of her favorites are Independence Day, 12 Monkeys, Black Panther, and of course the Back to the Future trilogy. When she couldn't find an exciting time travel/sci fi movie to watch, she decided to write her own story. So, in 2021, while still in high school, she sat down and began tapping away at the keyboard, writing novels that read like movies. Donnalee has already released ten books in her Dazzle Shelton – Alien Invasion Series, published by Books Under The Stairs. In her own words, ‘if you like Buffy, The Vampire Slayer, and wonder what a mashup between Clueless and War of the Worlds would be like… you’re as whack as I am and I think you’ll like my series. Read the books now, ahead of the streaming series. Periodt.’ Donnalee, or Don as she is known to her friends, writes from the heart. Over a strong margarita. (edit - only when I’m in Canada where I’m legal… DV) If she needs inspiration she need look no further than out the back window of her twenty-foot house trailer. For barely 25 miles away lies Groom Lake, aka Area 51. After a few shots of Tequila , the aliens starting buzzing about overhead. Always. Don wants everyone to know she is NOT Russian, and supports the Ukraine 100%. In fact, she can trace her roots to the city of Odessa, where her great-great-grandparents lived more than a hundred years ago. She has a webpage, donvodka.com, and is hard at work on the next book in the series. This new edition stars Misty and Rikkie, and is set in the year 2068. Don states that this time the aliens are ruthless. But Misty, the metahuman with claws and fangs--and a quick temper--is more than ready. Look for the book to drop in June or perhaps sooner. Depending on the Tequila. And a reminder to everyone… keep watching the skies! Fox Mulder was onto something—and it wasn’t that stuff you can smoke.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Road Runner’s Retreat

ROUTE 66 - 1962

It was often hotter than an oven in the Mojave Desert. Especially in July. Today was no exception. The mercury was already hitting ninety-seven degrees on the Pepsi thermometer hanging outside the Standard service station. And it was only ten in the morning. Plenty of time for it to break the century mark.

Located a mile and a half outside of Chambless, California, the Road Runner’s Retreat was a brand-new diner and service station serving the busy US 66 highway. Easy to spot was the huge thirty-five-foot-tall sign, and at night its bright neon letters were visible for miles down the highway. Stretching from Chicago to Los Angeles, Route 66 was the most direct route to the west coast and all the opportunities that L.A. promised.

Gas and oil were available at the ‘Official’ service station. Inside the diner, one could order the best home-cooked meals between Flagstaff and Barstow. The Road Runner attracted families who were migrating west, and more recently young folks drawn to the promised land of the golden coast.

One such young woman was sitting in the booth closest to the entrance. A typical girl chasing her dreams on the Mother Road. On the seat beside her lay an old bag that looked like something out of the war. She was wearing tie-dyed jeans, a paisley shirt, and a pair of worn-out sneakers. Her red hair was down to her shoulders, held back with a wide headband that allowed her bangs to poke out the front.

Good morning, miss, said the middle-aged waitress. Welcome to the Road Runner’s Retreat. My name’s Doris. Are you ready to order?

The girl didn’t take the menu that was being offered. Instead, she nervously looked past the waitress to the board on the wall. Doris watched as the girl mouthed the prices on the overhead menu board, and counted out totals on her fingers. She stopped doing the finger math, and her shoulders slumped. Everything seemed out of the price range of the girl.

How much is just toast? she asked.

Doris studied the girl for a moment. This wasn’t the first one who had come in hungry and broke. And having a big heart, Doris turned none of them away. At least not until they had a little something sitting in their empty stomachs.

I can get you two slices of toast, with jam, for fifteen cents, said Doris.

Fifteen cents? That’s a lot.

Comes with all the coffee you can drink.

A smile instantly came across her face. Coffee was the primary fuel for hitchhikers. It certainly wasn’t the healthiest choice, but in 1962 it was one of the favorites.

I can drink a lot of coffee, Doris, said the girl.

Be my guest, said Doris. I made a fresh pot a few minutes ago.

Okay, thanks.

When Doris brought out the toast and coffee, the girl was reading a letter. She folded it and put it into her back pocket.

Heading out west? asked Doris.

Yeah, I’m going out to stay with my dad’s army buddy. From the war, she said. In Los Angeles. Near Hollywood.

Like so many before her, this young person had her head in the clouds. Following a rainbow that leads to a pot of gold on the silver screen. Or simply evaporates in the heat, as rainbows often do.

This toast really hit the spot, said the girl. I didn’t realize I was so hungry.

The girl put two spoons of sugar into her coffee, then poured a bit of cream from the small silver creamer.

Where do you come from?

Tulsa, Oklahoma, said the girl, as she stirred her coffee.

You’ve traveled a long way, said Doris.

Yeah, and I’m almost there. I figure one more ride might be all it takes.

And you’re okay with hitchhiking all by yourself?

My friend Sara says not to get in a car or truck unless there’s kids inside, said the girl.

Sara seems wise. Do you always follow her advice?

Most of the time, said the girl. But I really need to get to Hollywood. My dad’s old army buddy works for a movie studio, and he’s gonna get me a screen test.

Wow, that’s exciting, said Doris. What does he do for the studio?

I’m not sure, said the girl. He’s a carpenter, I think. Or a painter. I can’t remember.

Probably making the sets for movies.

I think that’s it, she said. This coffee tastes great. Is this real cream?

Yes, it is.

So good.

Enjoy your breakfast, miss, said Doris.

My name’s Alice, said the girl.

Well, it’s mighty nice to meet you, Alice.

You too.

THE BLACK PICKUP TRUCK rolled onto the lot and pulled up to the pump. The young gas station attendant hurried out of the small office and around to the driver’s side. The cap he was wearing matched perfectly with his brand-new pair of overalls. A clean rag stuffed in his back pocket and his name embroidered on the front breast pocket completed the look.

Fill ‘er up, sir? he asked.

The man looked the attendant in the eye, then turned his eyes down toward the name tag on the man’s uniform.

Yeah, why not, Larry.

Does she take Regular?

Super premium, said the man. That’s what she likes to drink.

Yes, sir! said Larry with a smile. Coming right up!

The man nodded and winked at Larry. He leaned out the window and looked toward the diner. There was only one customer inside. A young girl seated at the first booth inside the door was eating a slice of toast. She glanced over at the man in the truck, and he nodded to her. She smiled, then looked away.

Is this the Styleside? With a V-8? asked the attendant. He was a young fellow, and like so many his age, cars and trucks were his passion.

Yes, it is, said the man. Brand spanking new, Larry. It’s loaded, too. Cruise-O-Matic automatic transmission and everything. It’s nice, isn’t it?

Darn tootin’ it is, said the young man. Can I check the oil for you, sir?

Go ahead, said the man. But don’t leave any greasy handprints on the hood, okay?

No, sir, I won’t! said Larry. He produced the rag and showed it to the man.

The gas station attendant was obviously eager to pop the hood and have a peek at the engine. He couldn’t hide that. It was written all over his face. He checked the dipstick twice. Larry gently closed the hood and buffed the front, making sure he wiped up every hint of grease and oil.

Oil looks fine, sir, said the attendant. That’ll be $4.74 for the gas. You were almost empty, I think.

The needle was down to less than a quarter tank, said the man.

He handed him a five-dollar bill. Then tossed him a silver dollar.

That’s too much—

That’s for the excellent service, Larry, said the man.

He put the truck in drive, pulled onto the highway, and headed east toward town. Larry watched the shiny new truck drive away, the five-dollar bill clutched firmly in his fist.

What a beauty, he said to himself.

ANOTHER CUP OF COFFEE, sweetie? asked Doris.

No, three cups should be enough, said Alice. Is it okay if I use the washroom?

Sure, it’s back there, said Doris, pointing to the end of the counter. Around past the jukebox.

The girl was only gone a few minutes. When she returned, she was wearing an old marine corps cap, dark green with an emblem on the front. She sat at her booth and slid the pack closer. The girl unzipped it and dug in, then produced a handful of coins. With the money spread out on the table, she started counting off the fifteen cents. She caught sight of Doris looking at her cap.

My dad was in the army, she said. He got a Purple Heart in the war.

Did he get wounded? asked Doris. Isn’t that how you get a Purple Heart medal?

He died in Okinawa in 1945, she said. He almost made it through the whole war. But...

I’m sorry, dear, said Doris.

Yeah, me too. I gotta go, said Alice, as she wiped a tear from her cheek.

Doris held out a brown paper bag, neatly folded at the top. Alice hesitated for a second before reaching out and accepting the bag.

What’s this? she asked.

I made you a sandwich, said Doris. Egg salad, so eat it before it gets too hot out.

I don’t have any more money, said the girl.

It’s okay, said Doris. Just be careful out there. Hitchhiking is getting more and more dangerous every year.

It’s 1962, said Alice. Everybody hitches rides. Besides, I have no choice. I could never afford to ride the bus all the way from Tulsa. Never in a million years.

I understand, Alice, said Doris. But maybe remember the advice your friend Sara gave you, because you never know about some people.

Don’t worry about me, because if anyone tries anything, I got a little surprise inside my army pack for them, said Alice with a wink. She showed Doris a rock the size of a baseball, then dropped it back into the pack.

The girl unfolded the paper bag, opened it, and sniffed the contents. She smiled, then folded the top of the bag.

Thanks, Doris. I gotta get going, she said. It’s easier to get rides before lunch.

Bye, Alice, said Doris. And good luck on your screen test.

She grabbed her pack and headed out. Doris watched as the girl slung the pack over one shoulder, then ran across the highway. There was no shade anywhere on that side of the road. The girl waved back at Doris. She stuck out her thumb and pulled the cap down further to keep the blazing sun out of her eyes.

LARRY WAS SITTING ON a chair outside of the service station, captivated by a comic book. The comic was called Amazing Fantasy, and on the cover was a brand-new superhero dressed in a blue and red costume. His name was Spider Man, and Larry was already a huge fan.

He felt the sun threatening to burn his ankle, so he moved the chair a bit to the side, getting farther under the up-swept canopy-style roof. Once again in the shade, he leaned the chair back and continued reading about the exciting webslinger.

The sound of an approaching vehicle got his attention. He sat up straighter and looked down the highway as it got nearer. The new diner and service station combination was proving to be popular with travelers who were heading west. It was a chance for tired folks to pull off the highway, stretch their legs, buy a soft drink, get the oil checked, and top up the tank for the last push to Los Angeles.

He sat back again, for he knew this particular vehicle wouldn’t be pulling in for gas. It was the 1962 Ford F-100 Styleside he had filled up a short while ago. The truck slowed as it passed the hitchhiking girl, then veered off onto the shoulder a few car-lengths past her.

The girl picked up her pack and walked toward the truck. She leaned in the passenger window. A moment later, she tossed the pack into the bed of the truck, opened the door, and climbed in. The shiny F-100 sped away.

Larry leaned way back, tipping the chair onto two legs, and turned the page on his comic book.

THE BLACK PICKUP SPED down the highway, heading west. The driver was pretty silent, which suited Alice fine. She didn’t feel much like chatting. Especially with a man.

Normally, Alice didn’t accept rides with men, especially if the man was alone. But it was daytime, and there were quite a few cars on the road, so she felt kind of safe. And it was a hot day. Nobody likes to stand outside in the scorching desert waiting for the perfect ride.

What the waitress had said about hitchhiking becoming more dangerous was something Alice had heard before. And not only from her friend Sara. Back in Albuquerque, an old couple she rode with said almost the same thing. It didn’t matter now, though, because she was already in the truck and they were headed west.

Until the driver suddenly slowed the truck and took a hard right turn onto a dirt road. And they were headed north.

Why did you turn? she asked.

It’s okay, little lady, he said. I’ve got something I need to take care of down here.

Something like what? she asked. Because I’ve got to get going. My boyfriend is waiting at the next town and if I don’t show up there soon, he’ll—

He’ll what? asked the man. Come looking for you?

Yeah, he will, said the girl. And he’ll bring the police with him.

Now, now. Don’t worry, it’s okay, said the man. We’ll be back on the highway before you know it. I just have to run a quick little errand.

He sniffed a couple of times, then looked down at the bag on her lap.

Is that an egg salad sandwich I smell? he asked.

Yeah, she said. Do you want some?

They both looked at each other. He smiled. She didn’t smile.

Alice saw the smile leave his face.

The back-fist came out of nowhere. It was quicker than the human eye could even see. It was a strong, clean hit. Right between the eyes. And everything faded to black.

Hunting humans is so much fun.

RED LIGHTS WERE FLASHING ahead. Parked on the shoulder of US 66 were three police cars. The location was midway between Amboy and Baghdad, approximately fifteen miles west of the Road Runner’s Retreat diner. Which was where the girl was last seen alive.

The coroner’s station wagon was pulling up as Dazzle came upon the site. She slowed down, then stopped in front of the scene and got out.

What happened? she asked one of the uniformed policemen.

No reporters, miss, he said.

I’m not a reporter, she said.

Then you best be getting in your fancy car and moving along, said the cop.

Dazzle pulled a card out of her back pocket and handed it to the cop. He held it up in front of his flashlight and read it. He tipped his head forward and studied her over his eyeglasses.

Lieutenant Madeiros! he yelled. The feds are here!

Another old officer came over and took the card. He inhaled deeply and handed the card back.

How did the FBI get wind of this so fast? he asked.

She started to answer, but he cut her off.

And since when does the FBI hire females who look like they should still be in high school?

That’s exactly why they hired me, said Dazzle. So that I can infiltrate all the gangs and stuff. In the schools.

The hippies, right? asked the first cop.

You bet, she said. Hippies are my number one priority. And of course, whatever you have happening here. That’s my second number one priority.

That would be number two, said the lieutenant.

She gave a quick smile to the lieutenant, then motioned with her nose toward the ditch.

What have you got over there, lieutenant? she asked.

Another murder, he said. Looking the same as the others. But that piece of paper isn’t enough to get you a gander at the victim or the crime scene.

I’m FBI and—

This is a police matter, said the lieutenant. It doesn’t come under Federal jurisdiction. Sorry.

Frustrated, Dazzle almost considered forcing her way past the officers. But she didn’t. She needed access to evidence and police reports, and becoming confrontational would be the wrong approach.

Can you at least tell me the cause of death?

A knife slash to the throat, said the lieutenant. Broken arms and legs, all bent in the wrong direction.

How old do you think—

Maybe twenty-five or so. Possibly early thirties.

Too young, said Dazzle.

A hippy, for sure, said the first cop.

Who was first on the scene? asked Dazzle.

A long-haul trucker was driving by and spotted something getting dumped out of a dark pickup truck about three hours ago, said the lieutenant. Thrown out at high speed. That might explain the broken arms and legs.

It might, said Dazzle. What time is it now?

The lieutenant looked at his wrist watch, holding it up to the flashlight.

About half-past eleven.

So, at about eight thirty, said Dazzle.

Sounds about right, said the lieutenant.

The coroner might be able to figure out the time of death by checking the temperature of the body and calculating—

No need for that, piped up the first cop. The victim bled to death in front of the long-haul trucker.

The lieutenant smacked the cop on his arm.

Now why do you have to go and blabber everything to the feds, Crandall? he asked.

Bled out? asked Dazzle. What else did the trucker say? Did—

That’s it! said the lieutenant. Case closed. For you, anyway.

Can you tell me one more thing? she asked. What happened to the pickup truck?

The lieutenant was getting flustered, that was obvious.

This is the last thing I’m going to tell you. And only because it won’t help you one iota. The pickup kept going, of course. The witness didn’t get a plate number. I sent a couple of guys back east, looking for anyone who might have seen the truck, but there are so many dark pickups out in this part of the country, it was a waste of time. But don’t you worry your pretty little head, Miss FBI. The San Bernardino Sheriff’s Office will solve this. Mark my words.

Dazzle nodded thanks to the two, then turned and walked away.

Once she was out of normal hearing distance, the first cop spoke quietly to his lieutenant.

Good thing she didn’t find out about the egg salad sandwich we found in the ditch, he said.

Good thing you kept your big mouth shut about that! said the lieutenant.

She looked back toward the east, then got in her car and made a U-turn on the highway. Heading east. Time to search for a diner. She was suddenly craving an egg salad sandwich.

THE RED NEON LETTERS atop the sign were easy to spot from miles away. She turned off the highway and wheeled up to the diner.

Good evening, miss, said the middle-aged waitress.

Hi, said Dazzle. Can I just sit anywhere?

The waitress did a slow turn of her head, scanning the entire diner. There was nobody else in the building.

Well, as you can see, we’re pretty busy, she said. But I think there’s room at the back there. By the jukebox.

What’s a jukebox? asked Dazzle.

That’s funny, said the waitress. You teenagers are too much. What can I get you?

Just a Pepsi, she said.

Coming right up.

Dazzle sat in a booth near the back, beside what she guessed was the jukebox. The waitress returned and set the glass down.

Will you be ordering any food? she asked.

Maybe in a while, said Dazzle. I was wondering if I can ask about a friend of mine that I was supposed to meet here.

Okay, go ahead, said the waitress. And by the way, my name’s Doris.

Hi. Anyway, my friend may have stopped in here. I think she passed through the area this morning. I told her to wait for me, but it looks like she took off and now I’m not sure where she is.

We get lots of folks coming in and out of this diner, said Doris. We only opened a few months ago and already we’re pretty popular.

My friend might have bought an egg salad sandwich, said Dazzle.

Why yes! said Doris. I gave her the sandwich, for free. Is her name Alice?

Dazzle didn’t know the victim’s name, but it had to be Alice if the waitress knew her.

Yeah. Alice. Did you see her?

She was in here for toast and coffee this morning. Is she in trouble or something?

I’m not too sure, said Dazzle. But... maybe.

Doris looked around, as if to make sure nobody was near enough to hear what she was about to say. Even though the place was empty.

They said not to say anything, said Doris. But the police were here an hour ago asking about someone who got an egg salad sandwich. They said there was a murder. Up the highway near Baghdad. That’s the next town west of here.

Oh, no, said Dazzle. A murder.

Oh my, God! said Doris. You don’t think it was your friend, Alice, do you?

It might be, said Dazzle.

Say, didn’t you drive down from that direction? asked Doris. You would have passed right by the cops.

"I saw