When Graveyards Yawn by G. Wells Taylor (good books for high schoolers .TXT) đź“•
I pulled my bottom lip. "Looks like the bastard shot you from behind, too."
Billings made fists of his dead hands and pounded the arms of the chair. "I want him!"
Chapter 3
"All right," I said. "How'd it happen?"
Mr. Billings looked uncomfortable as he squeaked around in his seat. I knew the look; he was about to be fairly dishonest with me.
"You must realize the importance of--confidentiality." His eyes did a conscientious little roll of self-possession until they came to rest on me again, quivering and uncertain like bad actors. They were indefinite and restless on either side of his hatchet nose. Perfectly unconvincing so far.
"You may not believe this, but under all this makeup, I'm a god-damned angel," I sneered. "Besides, there are few people who take my word seriously." I flashed him a quick idiot grin.
"May I ask?" The dead man nervously pulled out a package of ci
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Tommy threw the gun onto the stairs, then looked down at the King’s scrabbling hands. “What have we, what have we? Demons from the pit?” He reached down and grabbed both arms by the wrists. He yanked the King up and out of the formaldehyde. The corpse hung there looking grotesque and fragile. Fluid poured from its orifices. His face was an inch from Tommy’s.
“You can have anything. Anything.” Formaldehyde spattered from the dead King’s lips. Tommy held him higher. The King’s legs had withered and atrophied in the constant bath. They were bowed and twisted like driftwood. I realized in a moment, how ridiculous his notion of a new life was.
“Please,” the King’s said, voice was soft. “Please, I will pay you any sum. I will give you anything.”
“You stink…” Tommy sniffled.
The King smiled, chuckled even. “Oh, yes, oh yes, I do. That’s right I do. Just tell me what you’d like. I’ll do whatever you want. Just let me go, that’s all I ask.”
“I killed your friend.” The clown roughly twisted the King’s head toward Willieboy’s body. The cadaver’s neck clicked audibly.
“Oh, that’s all right. He and I weren’t close. I didn’t even like him. That’s okay, what you did. I’m not angry, Mr. Wildclown.” The King forced a ghastly smile.
“He was your friend,” Tommy said, then with righteous fervor rising. “You’re disgusting!”
Tommy pulled the King’s left arm off. The body was fragile, and the shoulder tore like boiled cabbage. The King shrieked. Tommy took the arm by the wrist and mashed it against the console. The King cried aloud. Tommy tossed the severed arm, wrapped his own around the King’s torso, and then with a loud twisting wrench pulled off the King’s right. He nonchalantly dropped that member into the bath—it bobbed, fingers twitching. Tommy sat on the edge of the tub panting, bewilderment on his features. His right hand held the King’s body by its neck. He bent the King’s rubbery legs and sat him on his right knee. The phone started ringing. Tommy looked at it, sneered.
The King was sobbing. “Oh God. I’ll do anything. I’ll do anything. There’s still time. Don’t do this. Don’t do this. There’s nothing after this. Nothing. Please, I beg of you. I have riches, I’ll give you anything.” His weeping face twisted into a mask of grief.
“Anything?” Tommy asked. He smiled. I noticed now that the formaldehyde had dissolved much of his make-up. Tommy’s face was blotted with black and white. The features streamed away distorted—skull-like. “Anything at all?” He shook the dead king’s corpse.
“Yes, Mr. Wildclown. I will give you riches.”
“So Satan said to Christ.”
The King frowned. “Not riches then. I will give you what you want.”
“Give me death—the death I deserve.” Tommy’s face was close to the King’s now. He slapped behind him, grabbed the gun. They sat poised like lovers. The phone continued to ring. The clown held the gun out to the King, then realized the dead man had nothing to hold it with. “An end to the noise.”
“I-I don’t know what you mean? Death? That’s a trick. You can’t want death!” The King’s face distorted. He glared at the gun offered him. “You don’t want death. You want to trap me.”
Tommy pulled the King’s face closer now. His dead legs thrashed. He screamed incomprehensibly. Tommy set the gun down and said: “Oh, but I can want it. Death is the sleep I am denied. Nothing follows us there. Not money, not love, not guilt.” He stared momentarily into the King’s dead eyes. “I want the old death. The old death that will lead me to Hell. You’re lucky. See, I betray you with a kiss.” And Wildclown pressed his lips against the dead king’s. As he did so, both hands gripped the corpse’s wormy neck. The King’s legs thrashed. I heard a muted scream. As Tommy kissed him, his hands began to tighten on the neck, then pull. The King screamed long and hard. The head twisted. There was a sickening ripping and tearing of cartilage and bone. The body fell away, leaving Tommy standing—lips still intimate with those of the gruesome head in his hands. He pulled the head back then, and smiled at it. “I knew him well…” The King’s hideous head sat in Tommy’s outstretched hand. Its features worked horribly. The eyes rolled; the jaw worked. The tongue lashed. Tommy cocked his arm back, kicked a leg up out of the formaldehyde and muttered to himself. “You’ve gotta watch that Wildclown, Bill. He’s got a hell of a fastball!” Tommy pitched the head at the wall about fifteen feet from him. It struck the stone with a sickening smack, and then fell in a sliding pile of gore and gray matter.
Transition.
The smell of formaldehyde hit me squarely in the face again. I was back in Tommy. I could taste formaldehyde, and the source of that made my guts twist. I gagged—spat. The King’s body thrashed against my leg. I climbed out of the pool. A chill shook me. Why were there no guards? I picked up the gun on the steps. Four shots left in it. I looked over at Willieboy’s body. He would be up soon. I resisted the urge to dismember him. I turned back to the King’s console, reached out over the kicking corpse and flicked on a video screen. Buttons were well marked. “Main Gate.” I turned that on.
The screen showed the main gate under siege. A large Authority Tank was positioning itself on the street outside the wall. Its long barrel was pointed at one of the towers. There were a number of Authority transports parked across the ironwork on the inside. Others were taking up position along the perimeter. I looked at the phone. Its ringing had become a part of the panic that gripped me. I picked up the receiver.
“Yes,” I tried to make my voice old and bitter and worn out. It was easy.
“King, sir. This is the main gate. We’re going to lose it. There’s a strong force out here. We’ve already lost twelve of our men. The others want to run for it.”
“Hold the gate!” I realized how ridiculous that sounded. “Is there transport for the girl?”
There was silence for a moment. “Your private vehicle, sir. In the underground garage. Only way out.”
I hung up. Then flicked a button marked, Laboratory. There, in black in white, was the usual machine and test tube-filled lab. There were tables and utensils—Bunsen burners and things for measuring other things. What interested me most sat at the back of the room on a cot in an eight by eight cage. It looked just like Julie Hawksbridge.
I picked up Willieboy’s gun. Half way through the action I had a sudden creeping fit. His corpse rested in an incredibly lifelike position, legs crossed, head hanging into his bloody lap. I waved a hand in front of his face—nothing—so I knotted his shoes together. I had lost my hat when the Galaxy Tower exploded so I searched the King’s room for something to hide my face—nothing. I pulled the collar of my tattered overcoat up under my nose. My hair was scorched and turned to powder when touched, but enough of it remained to push forward over my brow. I had a gun in each pocket. A quick check put four bullets in the King’s clip and two in Willieboy’s. That left me six between life and death. The way the front gate looked, I would need a bazooka or a tank to get out alive. I yanked the door open, ran past the wooden knights and out into the hall letting my instincts work for me. The King was really into the medieval thing, so where would an evil King keep a captive princess? In a tower or a dungeon. I’d seen Enforcers in the towers affixed to the north and south ends of the mansion, so I wrote them off as part of the King’s elaborate security measures. They probably had sniper rifles and rocket launchers—no princesses. I had a hunch that she’d be kept upstairs, just the same. I could always visit the King’s dungeons in the basement, if my search came up empty. The guard at the gate had hinted that the lab was not far from the underground garage. I couldn’t remember anything resembling a garage attached to the main building, and I suddenly thought of the moat. The King would have planned for that. I raced down the hall.
As I passed the front door, an angry hail of gunfire struck it. There were explosions and rocket sounds—something hit the wall that shook the floor under me. Violence was eating its way through. I gritted my teeth and ran. There were four doors that stood closed on my right. I expected one to fly open and vomit gun-toting King’s men—nothing. At the end of the hall, a set of stairs ran up, and a set led down. I ran up; doors like those opening onto the King’s room awaited. Instead of knights, there were skeletal ladies-in-waiting carved into its panels. They held black lacquered roses. Too easy. I pushed the doors open. Another long hallway. A man stepped out of hiding at the end of it. He carried a long auto-shotgun. He wore a long rubber trench coat, bulletproof vest and Enforcer helmet. The gun blazed in his hands. The door to my left exploded. Stone archways opened every ten feet on both sides of me. I dove into the closest arch on my right. The door inside it was locked. The auto-shotgun roared again, three times. The oak paneling opposite me was blown to pieces. I was showered with splinters. That made four shots. I looked up. A light over the door illuminated the sad dead bridesmaids. I shot it out. The guard’s gun roared twice. The wall came away over my head. Shadow fell with plaster and lath, and with it came enough calm to think.
The guard was wearing a protective Kevlar and plastic mask. Masks had eyeholes. I was a good shot, but only good. Hitting an eyehole at twenty feet would require an excellent aim. I had five bullets left, so I would have to be accurate. Just my luck, both guns were unfamiliar. Further along the hallway were two more lights designed to resemble flickering oil lamps. I used Willieboy’s gun. Two shots later and darkness held half the hall—I tossed the empty gun toward the guard. The auto-shotgun roared three times. The big slugs tore into the wall closer to the guard so I felt a little satisfaction with my plan. His aim was off or he suspected that I was on the move toward him. I pulled out the King’s gun. I had three shots and none of them clear. The guard was about forty feet from me, and I had to shoot through an overgrown plastic begonia. I aimed, and fired.
The first bullet must have gone in the right eye slit, because the second scored a sparking groove over the brow of the nose and ricocheted. The guard fell heavily, and hard. I ran up the hall, gun pointed at the fallen man. He was
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