When Graveyards Yawn by G. Wells Taylor (popular books to read txt) đ
![](/uploads/posts/books/2/7/2/7/7/when-graveyards-yawn.jpg)
- Author: G. Wells Taylor
- Performer: -
Book online «When Graveyards Yawn by G. Wells Taylor (popular books to read txt) đ». Author G. Wells Taylor
âNo,â Adrian said, his quick recovery almost hiding the trace of fear in his voice. âOf course not! Thatâs ridiculous. Everyone knows there are no such things as babies. Not since the Change.â He drew in a deep breath, set his glass down. âI believe this interview is over.â
âThatâs okay,â I said. I could feel Tommy clamoring for release. âThat was just a test question. What I wanted to say wasâŠask youâŠâ I paused for a second to recapture my hold on Tommy. Sweat burst out and slid through my greasepaint. My heart pounded. âI wanted to ask if you know a woman named Jan Van Reydner.â My hand shook as I brought the glass to my lips. I saw the name register something in his eyes.
When he started speaking his manner was granite.
âMr. Wildclown, I have already given you enough of my valuable time. I donât know who this person is, and if I did, I certainly wouldnât feel obliged to tell you.â
âGet off it!â I snarled. âYouâve already admitted as much. Why else would you allow a fictitious, dead mime to see you? Am I a fool or did you get all this wealth from being sloppy? You knew I knew something about something youâre involved in and you wanted to know what I knewâknow.â I paused to check my syntax. âYou know what I mean. Grow up, Mr. Adrian, the only reason you let me in is because I mentioned those magic names. I know youâre Simon and that you hired Jan Van Reydner to kill Mr. Conrad Billings. I understand heâs a new client of yours.â Adrian was motionless. âAnd whereâs Van Reydner? Getting more business, or did you decide she wasnât useful to you any more?â
âI donât know where Ms. Van Reydner is.â Adrian dropped his gaze, picked up his drink and drank off the last of it. A childish slurp escaped him; he smirked, then leaned forward and ground his cigar flat. âShe disappeared. Jan should have been in touch by now. I do hope sheâs well. Weâve been doing a booming business, she and I. She hasnât even been paid yet.â
I suddenly got a cold chill. If someone starts to confessâŠ
âIâm sorry, Mr. Wildclown, but Iâm afraid Iâm quite above any law, if in fact you represent anything resembling that. Mr. Billings is a new customer of ours, yes; and I assure you he is adjusting well to his situation,â he said and paused. âOh, have you had any luck finding Ms. Van Reydner?â He nodded and I was suckered. I actually disregarded his nod and started answering. I donât know how I could have missed it.
An elephant sat on the back of my head. Tremendous pressureâjust as my skull was about to explode a wave of black covered me.
We were in the Chrysler. Tommyâs head lolled drunkenly; spittle hung in a slender strand from his lip. It swung and bobbed like a rookie surveyorâs plumb. He was jammed in between two big thugs in cheap suits. They looked like poorly trained apes doing gangster impressions.
The Chrysler rocked and banged along an old road. The pavement was cracked and wrinkled like a bad tan-job. While the gangsters did their ugly best in the back seat, a round-gutted, pig-eyed dead man drove. He had a chest so deep it looked borrowed. A black leather cap with snap-up brim sat forward on his round head exposing a sweaty bald spot in back. Stubble, just short of a beard, colored his cheeks. He steered the Chrysler with skinny arms like stretched rubber bands.
âDonât worry, you chicken shits!â He sneered through rat teeth. âWe just give him enough shots in the head, he donât come back like, âsidesâŠâ He paused a moment to steer over rocks that protruded from the road. âWe got the chainsaw.â
One of the soldiers in the back seat nudged Tommy and grunted. âYer fuckinâ landfill now buddy.â His friend seemed to enjoy the humor because he laughed around wide teeth in Paleolithic glee.
I was busy playing the friendly little cloud again, blowing in and around their fuzzy scalps. My attempts to regain control of Tommy had been frustrated. When I was ambushed in Adrianâs office, I experienced a few awkward moments of transition as I was ejected from Tommyâs body. But from my new vantage point, I first saw the gangsters who now sat on either side of Tommy like Darwinian bookends. They had been lurking in the shadows during my interview and had stepped forward and nailed me on the back of the head with a sap. The big mug that hit me raised his arm to finish the job but was halted by Adrian, who seemed agitated by the thought of having brains on his carpet. He ordered them to drop Mr. Wildclown piece by piece in the Landfill. Regardless of his refinement, I didnât like Mr. Adrian.
They carried Tommy to a service elevator, then down and along a winding poorly lit passageway. This finally opened into an underground parking garage that exited a hundred feet from where I had parked the Chrysler. They dragged Tommy to the car with me floating along overhead attached to the unconscious clown by invisible threads. The little pig-faced corpse had been waiting for them, all spit and menace. They frisked Tommy for keys, and then took the car south along the highway toward the nearest Authority Internment Facility turn off. When they reached the gate there was a slight argument as to how to open it. Pigface solved it with a few blasts of his auto-shotgun.
I tried to possess Tommy throughout the ride without luck. When we pulled to a stop, I noticed that the clouds were fast turning a deep gray in color. Somewhere up there the sun was sliding out of the greasy brown sky. Night was falling. For a moment I mused over the last time I had seen stars. It was at Tommyâs sanctuaryâa patch of grass and moss that grew on the rooftop of a building in a cleft formed by two abandoned skyscrapers. Three short cedar trees had somehow managed to root themselves in the gravel and refuse, and it was among them that I spotted stars one night peeking out between the clouds like naughty children at the cracks of bedroom doors.
The gangsters rubbed thick elbows in Tommyâs guts bringing a groan from him. I tried once again to take himâbut failed. He must have been hit worse than I thought. My sex pictures were not working. I couldnât get them over a jagged wall of pain.
âWe better be quick,â grumbled the driver. âI donât want to use more light than we have to. The Landfillers come for lights.â
He looked at his accomplicesâ crestfallen faces. âYou bitches arenât afraid of a few creepy crawlies are you? Just remember to use your sticks!â He gestured with a stout wooden cane. âWhack the fuckers!â The gangsters sat silent and grim until the driver rolled his eyes. âShit, howâd I get stuck with you pansies? Call yourselves muscle? Bring him!â He shook his head and climbed from the Chrysler, his auto-shotgun tucked under one arm.
The ape on Tommyâs left grunted something in opposition, but opened his door and dragged the clown after him. His partner followed, eyes flashing with terror. I had to agree with them. I was not somewhere I ever wanted to feel comfortable. Strange twitching, rustling noises filled the dry brush that grew around the road. A mist-shrouded mountain of refuse and death rose darkly ten yards from the car. The gangsters dragged Tommy through the grass to the left of the road. I suddenly caught a whiff of his nerves firing. The clown quickly pulled his feet under him, then kicked the legs out from under the gangster on the rightâwho dropped immediately. Tommy collapsed with the other on top of him. He growled and spat. His teeth gnashed.
The auto-shotgun roared and the head blew off the gangster on top of Tommyâthen his chest exploded. Pigface had decided to resolve the dispute by dispatching everything within his range of fire. The gun butt was pressed against his dead hip. Evil malice shone in his lifeless face.
Tommy got his feet against the other gangsterâs torso and strained against the embrace. Just in time, because the auto-shotgun roared, and his dancing partnerâs face turned to pulp. Tommy rolled out of the carnage. Pigface fired again. A good chunk of the Chryslerâs rear left fender blew off as Tommy leapt for cover. He crouched momentarily by the right rear tire, his head snapping from left to right. I floated impotently over him. There was little chance of possession now. His heart was beating madly, his system flushed with adrenaline.
The gun roared three times in succession, eating chunks out of the roof and door. The front window imploded in a shower. Pigface laughed like a machine gun. Saliva poured over his rotten teeth.
My gun was in the glove compartment, but I was the only one who knew it. I saw something limp and pale move near Tommyâs right hip. A severed hand, a womanâs danced about in the confusion of flying glass. Tommy grabbed it and threw it over the car. The action was answered by a startled squawk. The clown felt around for another missile. From my position I watched Pigface moving slowly around the car. I tried another frantic possession, but was dunked in a smothering wash of white-hot panic. Tommyâs breath came in gasps. He threw a rock into nearby brush. A tree was blasted to twigs.
Suddenly, Tommy froze. He looked up. His eyes seemed unfocused, as though he were moving his attention from cloud to cloud. He stared directly into the space I occupied. Then he moved. He yanked open the passenger door. A quarter of it disappeared with a rattling roar. Pigface rounded the right front fender. Tommy dove into the car. In a motion, the glove compartment was open and the .44 automatic was in his hand.
Slowly, Pigfaceâs footsteps approached. Rubber and grass met with a terrifying rustle. He hissed. âOkay, fuck up, câmon out for Uncle Death. Itâs Blacktime!â His face appeared pinched and oily in the fractured remains of the windshield. âGood night, sleep tight. Donât let the maggotsâŠâ Tommy fired. The automatic clattered, eating Pigfaceâs head and one shoulder. Dark gobbets spattered against the Chrysler and rained on the grass. Pigfaceâs auto-shotgun dropped useless in one hand. The body took a couple of hesitant steps backwardâalmost fell. Tommy leapt from the car and ripped the gun from its lifeless grasp. He kicked the corpse over with a boot to the chest. It scrabbled and clawed feebly in the dirt.
Tommy returned to the car, tossed the auto-shotgun inside then circled the vehicle. The gangsters were both dead, deep in the sleep of Blacktime. Tommy took their guns, .9mm automatics, and checked their wallets. As an afterthought, he walked to where Pigface crawled in the grass. He kicked the grisly torso down and with a knee on its chest, frisked its pockets. This produced a wallet and a .357 magnum. More for the collection. Tommy pocketed both then let Pigfaceâs body continue its crawl into oblivion.
He walked over to the Chrysler and hopped behind the wheel with a crunch of shattered safety glass. He began laughing. âSo, here I am in the fuckinâ Landfill. What in the Christ?â He laughed until tears started from his eyes then he dug around under the seat like a cat after a ball of wool. His efforts procured him the remainder of my bottle. He drank desperately, then lit a cigarette.
âWhereâs that fucking Elmo?â He glared absently
Comments (0)