When Graveyards Yawn by G. Wells Taylor (popular books to read txt) 📖

I entered the clown’s body while he was still groggy with sleep. It was the easiest time to do so because his mind was full of naked pictures from an active dream life. Yesterday’s injuries made the body unpleasant to put on at first, like a tight suit, but a few stretches and yawns loosened it up enough to wear. The sleep had done it a world of good. There was even a bit of bounce in its step as I wandered down the hall to the washroom to perform my morning ablutions and again as I returned to the office. I made Soya-eggs, plankton-sausage and a pot of coffee on the hot plate I kept in the filing cabinet and ate it at a small table and chairs I kept in the outer office for that purpose. It was spectacular. Breakfast can be like a wet kiss from God to the disembodied. There was simply nothing like having a tongue to taste food with. Even if the exigencies of the Change had made the meat parts of the meal synthetic.

The Change had been far reaching in its effects when it started all those fifty years ago. The same force that animated dead flesh gave life to luncheon meats as well. Ham, sausage, chicken and steak when undercooked went through the motions of being alive. The muscle tissue contracted and expanded, often despite the various methods of preparation. Meat could be eaten if properly cooked. It was possible to avoid the embarrassment of the Thanksgiving turkey flapping its wings. The problem was, the amount of cooking involved usually spoiled the texture and flavor and made it hard to justify the expense.

After the appearance of the walking dead, earth experienced the Great Stillbirth. Every pregnant mammal spontaneously aborted and seemed to be unable to conceive again. The same process was later found to affect birds, most fish and reptiles. Their eggs or offspring were not viable. Meat was expensive now; it was worth its weight in gold. And so, none but the rich could afford to eat irreplaceable cows—not even cloning would work—and the price skyrocketed. Eating real meat had become a fond memory to the average Joe. There were always rumors of a calf being born, or a lamb; but science discounted this as obvious hoaxes or mass hallucinations created by the remnants of a meat eating culture. As a result meat had been replaced in the diet with a vitamin-enriched paste of seaweed and plankton that could be spiced, formed and colored to order. When I ordered hotdogs I was really ordering plankton and seaweed dogs. They weren’t bad with mustard and onions—let’s say they weren’t worse.

Also driving the price of meat and farm produce was the change in the temperament of animals. It became apparent that they were not going to tolerate associating with human beings anymore. The first hint that I had found was a news story written six months into the Change of a Chilean farmer and his family being eaten by pigs. This was followed by other reports. In Wisconsin a family dog killed its owners while they slept. An old woman in Brooklyn had her eyes torn out by her fifteen-year-old cat. A flock of ravens ripped a Brazilian postman to shreds. Then the big one, Lazy Lodge, a retirement village in Florida catering to Canadian retirees fell silent one Saturday evening. Alerted by panicking relatives, police investigated the following day and were ambushed by over one hundred alligators. It was so bad the army was eventually called in to mop things up. Investigators determined that the slaughter occurred the previous evening when the sixty-two victims had congregated in the recreation room for a dinner dance. The evidence was plain: the animals had acted together.

As the reports escalated, so did the governmental response. Initial recommendations concerning pet and livestock control soon became orders for all out extermination. Since animals were also affected by the animate death, this was a difficult process. Many animal lovers, often missing fingers and hands by the end of their action, whisked the creatures away and freed them in the countryside. This practice when linked with the wild animal populations already out of control soon made the countryside unsafe, and there began a general exodus to the cities.

I finished my breakfast then good-morninged Elmo where I found him sitting motionless in my office. He was entranced by his umpteenth sunrise. Odd, because the eternal cloud cover allowed only a gradual lightening of the constant gray.

“Tell me, Elmo,” I asked, skirting the desk and flopping into my chair. “Don’t you ever get bored?”

He shifted uneasily for a few moments, with embarrassment. While he rummaged through his opinion box, I busied myself with makeup and mirror. Wasn’t I the prettiest little clown?

“Well, Boss, it’s strange being d-dead. Least ways it’s sometimes strange.” He searched for a cigarette, found one, lit it. “There are days when it’s almost fun, you feel like you cheated death—like you’re n-never gonna have to take the big step over—I used to be religious…and some ideas is—are—hard to shake. Then there’s other times being dead is like being in line at a bank in the summer. The air conditioning’s broke down, there’s a hundred people in front of you and someone’s slit your wrists. Times like that you know that death has cheated you.” He fell silent.

I paused in the middle of drawing on my right eye. “Jesus, Elmo, that doesn’t sound any different from being alive.”

He nodded. “I said it’s s-strange.” Elmo’s head dropped, as though saddened. “Most days I’d like to r-ride a roller coaster.”

“That explains your driving,” I laughed and smudged my left eye. “One day, we’ll drive down the coast to Vicetown—see what we can see. You know, Elmo that’s what we need: a vacation.”

Elmo pointed a lifeless finger. “That’s what it’s like being dead.”

I grinned, pulled out the office bottle. “How about we pickle ourselves instead.”

Elmo laughed with a sound like crumpling cellophane. I poured two drinks and Elmo took one. He said it sometimes made him feel numb, and it kept his guts clean. I kicked my feet up then grabbed the phone and started dialing the number that was closed on Sunday.

“Time, Elmo?”

He looked at his watch. “Nine-thirty.”

Over the line, I heard a tiny rattling sound like a tin cup full of stones at the bottom of a well—another bad connection.

Mrs. Caffeine answered in person this time. “Hello, Mr. Adrian’s office, Lori speaking,” she said this in one syllable.

“Hi Lori,” I said. “I was killed recently and would be interested in seeing what services you have to offer.”

“Well, sir, you should phone the business office. Mr. Adrian is far too busy to handle clients personally. One of our New Life Hosts would be pleased to speak to you if you would call…”

“It’s rather urgent.” I cut her off. “I was given this number by a friend. I’m Gingold the Sublime. You might have heard of me, a mime. You see my death involved a corrosive substance, and I’m afraid of what a delay might do to my remains.” I tried to introduce an artsy trill to my voice since I tended to talk out the back of my head.

“I understand, sir,” the receptionist said after a pause. “But this is not the business office. For appointments…”

I cut her off. “I was told by my friend, Jan Van Reydner, to ask for Simon. She said I’d get a little better treatment.”

There was an eerie pause. “Just a moment.” She was gone. In her place was a recording of some joker on a panpipe. She was back before I became suicidal. “Mr. Gingold, you may come in at five o’clock. A New Life Host will be here to greet you. Do you know where we’re located?”

“I’ve got your card,” I said, thanked her for her help and hung up. I turned to Elmo.

“You’re not gonna be happy about this…”