" A bang pounded through the air. Lex jumped, a fresh batch of goose bumps breaking out across her skin as she considered the possibilities of what could have made that noise. Seconds later it rang out again, followed by a series of slightly quieter staccato bursts of sound, like a machine gun. Then, oddly, a dry, wheezing noise, as if the machine gun were having an asthma attack.
Lex squinted across the dark field and finally saw it—a tall puff of smoke slowly coming toward them. The worried line of Uncle Mort’s mouth crinkled into a smirk. “That crafty old bag.”
“Crafty old what now?” Lex watched the slow-moving cloud, which was now weaving back and forth in wide, erratic curves. “What is that? A car?”
“No,” said Uncle Mort, standing up. “That, my friend, is far too fine a contraption to be called a mere car.”
“What then, a truck? A tank?”
“Is it—” Driggs stopped himself, looking embarrassed.
Lex looked at him. “Were you going to say Batmobile?”
“I was maybe going to say Batmobile. What of it?”
The townspeople didn’t seem to know what to make of the phenomenon either. They scrambled to get out of its way as it plowed toward them, some of them diving into the snow. Yet as the smoke picked up speed, something arose out of the murkiness—a glint of metal, a reflective glass surface—all the pieces eventually coming together to form something that was decidedly not even close to a Batmobile: a giant black hearse.
Uncle Mort grinned. “The Stiff "

― Gina Damico , Rogue (Croak, #3)