When Graveyards Yawn by G. Wells Taylor (popular books to read txt) đ
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WHEN GRAVEYARDS YAWN
The Apocalypse Trilogy
G. Wells Taylor
Copyright 2002 by G. Wells Taylor
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This digital book MAY NOT be modified without the express written consent of the author. Any and all parts of this digital book MAY be reproduced or transmitted in any form and by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, provided that the original content is not modified in any way from the original work and that no compensation is received for any method of reproduction.
Second Printing: 2008
ISBN: 978-1-4357-1391-8
WILDCLOWN MYSTERIES
Email: books@wildclown.com
Website: www.wildclown.com
Cover Design by G. Wells Taylor
For Mary Cushnie
Other Titles by G. Wells Taylor
The Apocalypse Trilogy
WHEN GRAVEYARDS YAWN â A Wildclown Novel
THE FORSAKEN
THE FIFTH HORSEMAN
Wildclown Mysteries
MENAGERIE â A Wildclown Novel
WILDCLOWN HIJACKED
WILDCLOWN HARD-BOILED
THE CORPSE â HARBINGER
Gene Spiral Stories
6 â PORTRAIT OF A 21ST CENTURY SNUFF FIGHTER
1 â HISTORY OF THE MOONCALF
Horror Fiction
MEMORY LANE
BENT STEEPLE
THE LAST CAMPING TRIP
Check wildclown.com for publishing updates.
The dead man looked at the clown and smiled. The clown was draped over a chair and desk across from him in a semi-intoxicated state of contemplative repose and was too busy studying his reflection in a hand mirror to notice the nervous gesture. The clownâs small black eyes studied the image in the mirror with something like the concentrated discipline of an astronomer. They squeezed into tight whirls of flesh and pondered, peering at the silvery surface from cavernous sockets in a right then left canted head as though such contortions could help him fathom what the eyes saw. A hazy border of greasy fingerprints obscured the issue more giving the reflection a dream-like quality. The clown could easily make out the dark spiky hair that grew to his shoulder and the tip of his nose painted black. By lifting his chin he revealed a wide grin scrawled across his white-powdered cheeks, by dropping it he showed scripted eyebrows swooping up and over the tall forehead in exclamation or terror. They wrinkled, gleaming with sweat. Perhaps they posed a question.
An ill-fitting coverall hung on the big manâs frame with all the sophistication of an oily tarp thrown over discarded car parts. The apparel was decorated with faded colored spots that vied equally for notice with stains of various sorts. His boots were black and heavy, better suited to combat than office work. They were crossed on the desk, and threatened to upset the telephone where it had been pushed with a pile of papers and overflowing ashtrays.
âWhat?â The clown drifted from his reverie. His gaze fell evenly on the corpse that sat across from him. âWhat?â
âWe was talking,â said Elmo, always reluctant to prompt his boss, âabout the Change.â
âOh.â The clownâs eyes did an inward turn, pupils flashing for memory. He dropped the mirror in a desk drawer, slammed it. âYou remember the earthquakes, Elmo!â He leaned back in his chair with an air of authority, but a thin quaver in his voice denounced it. âAirplanes fell from the sky. There were riots and civil strife! And that millennium bugâŠâ
âTrue,â rasped the dead man, exhibiting a rare display of assertiveness. âBut couldâa been coincidence, couldâa been anythinâ.â He gingerly nibbled a yellowed fingernail. âCouldâa been the ozone, or the greenhouse gases!â
âRumors of warânation rising up against nation! And all that cloningâŠoh that was bad!â The clown suddenly animate lurched forward, pounding the desk. âItâs not coincidence! Itâs all there in the book, that Bible! John saw it didnât he? And it wasnât any hothouse effect!â
âBut the Bible talked about seals and lambs and such. I ainât seen no lambs nor seals.â Elmoâs hands shook, almost overwhelmed by his own bravado. âI seen hardly any animals at all.â
âThatâs where we let ourselves down. Itâs not going to happen like a TV show. The world wonât end after the closing credits or following a commercial break.â The clown swept his legs back onto the desk as he tapped his forehead with index finger. âWeâre going to have to think about this one, Elmo. Think about it! A lamb might not be a lamb, so to speak. Could be a man or a thing. Could be a lamb.â
A stream of derisive air shot from between Fat Elmoâs pursed lips. âStill ainât convinced,â he hissed. âNations is always rising up against nations. And a lamb is always a lamb where I come from! And seals, I ainât driving to the coast just to see them.â He drew a curtain of silence as he crossed his arms.
The clown silently studied the dead man. His partnerâs head was round and the black skin on it was drawn tight over the exposed crown. What remained of his hair was fair, almost a strawberry blonde, and long and lanky. Elmo had pressed or ironed the kinks out of it. It could have been the bleach he used that pacified the ancestral convolutions. Large dark eyes sat in a very thin face with a broad broken nose splayed across it. A long skinny moustache trailed over thick lips. As always, his clothing was impeccable. Even with the frayed cuffs his dark wool suit was head and shoulders above the clownâs ensemble. He even had matching silver tiepin and cufflinks. The slack sag of skin against cheekbone hinted at Elmoâs need for re-hydration.
Suddenly, the clownâs eyes burned with revelation. Leaning forward on his elbows he barked, âFor Christâs sake, Elmo. Youâre dead!â
Fat Elmo shifted nervously in his chair then rolled his eyes at the ceiling as though a suitable rebuttal might be written there.
âCourse I am!â His eyes dropped beneath loose lids. âStill donât prove it. Just âcause Iâm deadâŠâ
âThe dead rose up from their gravesâŠâ the clown started, but Elmo was saved from this difficult position by the annoying rattle of the telephone. Glaring, the clown scooped the receiver up and wedged it between his chin and collarbone. âYeah.â His inky black eyes darted back and forth. He wrinkled his eyebrows then picked at something under a thumbnail.
âThis is Wildclown Investigations,â the clown whispered, as the dead man across from him strained his leathery ears toward the squeaky chipmunk voice on the phone. Elmoâs eyes were otherworldly in the extreme shadow of the office, bordered as they were by sooty black skin. The inconsistent lighting from the street was sending flashing bars of lightning through the blindsâthe lamp on the desk flickered as another blackout loomed. Madness nibbled at the edges of the scene.
âYeah, Iâm him. Iâm Tommy Wildclown,â the clown repeated, drilling a bony finger into his nose. He made a flicking motion, then gestured for a cigarette. With creaky deliberate movements, Elmo produced a pack and tossed one to Tommy, who lit it with a match.
âYeah,â he said as Elmo noisily slurped water from a glass.
Tommy continued like this for some time, chanting his approving mantra. âYeah.â
The dead man passed the time lifting and flexing his thin legs where he sat. He hoisted a foot up to chest level by gripping an argyle-covered ankle and held it there a few seconds before repeating the process with the other leg. The post-mortem aerobics produced creaks, snaps and rubbery thrumming sounds from the dead muscle and connective tissues. Irritated, the clown pressed a petulant finger to his puckered lips. Elmo stopped stretching, cowed, but continued to shift uneasily in his chair. All dead people had Elmoâs problem. The joints froze up with extended inactivity.
âAll right!â Tommy growled as he crashed the receiver into its cradle. Elmoâs eyes snapped wide. âGoddamned, son-of-a-bitchinâ Christ!â The clown leapt to his feet. âDamned if Iâm not going to have to work.â
Elmoâs face made crackling sounds as he worked up a grin. âGot a case?â
âYeah,â said Tommy pouring two four-finger whiskies. âSeems some lawyer got himself whacked, and heâs pissed right off. Shit.â He raised his glass and smiled. âHeâs coming over which means money, Elmo. No more of this sitting around, this senseless fucking arguing.â
Elmo declined the drink offered opting instead to fidget noisily in his chair.
Tommy drank. He sauntered to the window, made scissors of his fingers, cut a hole in the blind and peered out at the flickering lights. A big Packard sizzled by on the rain slick streetâits retro-fenders glistening like wet blisters. It was a dark afternoon. The sun hadnât broken the cloud in years.
The clownâs teeth clinked against his glass. He wiped whiskey from the corner of his mouth. Quivers ran from his shoulders to his hands as he downed the rest of the drink at suicidal speed. He glanced back at Elmo creases of fear marking his painted cheeks. The dead man watched him calmly.
I watched the scene from where I floated near the ceiling. Tommyâs nervousness had nothing to do with the fact that Elmo was dead or the impending mayhem inherent in any criminal investigation. It was me. I was about to possess him and he didnât like it. Every time he got a case, I stepped into his head and like Pavlovâs slobbering dogs; the clown was conditioned to expect it. Not that I was a goblin or a devil. I had no interest in making him vomit, levitating his bed or forcing him to speak in tongues. When I took over I worked. He didnât like it because he couldnât remember anything that happened when I was in charge. That bothered him. And so his reluctance to enjoy the work on the rare occasion that it came. I guess it would bother me too.
I was in no rush to take over just then. It had been a while since our last case and I spent the time between them in my invisible, odorless state. The longer I did that, the more complicated my love-hate relationship with corporeality became. I enjoyed my time in Tommy Wildclownâs body, but I had a habit of getting hurt when cases came up and I was no fan of pain. Neither was the clown and he was the one stuck with the bruises at the end of the day. But understanding it didnât make me stop.
I walked to the desk, set the empty glass down and refilled it. Elmo fidgeted across from me. His eyes were fixed in a slack-lidded stare unaware that anything had happened to his boss. I pushed the glass against my lipsâran its cold pucker over them for a momentâthen drained it. A good drunk was always tempting in the first giddy moments of possession. There is nothing like drinking as deep as a fish and feeling it when you spend most of your days hanging around ceiling fans with cigarette smoke for company. But as usual, Tommy was running at a fair intoxicated clip already and I had to be sober enough to handle the interview with the lawyer. I had an impulse to knock another one back anyway, resisted it for a second and then gave in. Thatâs the way of it. Iâm not back in a body for five minutes and Iâm all impulses. I could argue that the booze kept my host sedated wherever he lurked at the back of his mind. But the truth was: I
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