When Graveyards Yawn by G. Wells Taylor (good books for high schoolers .TXT) 📕

a tall one. His body covered a lot of floor space. I stepped over him. The door he had protected was locked. I knelt. There was a key on a chain at his belt. I pulled it. It was attached by a foot long piece of cable that I wasn’t going to be able to chew through. His belt would have to come off. I grabbed the buckle with my free hand and a heavy fist smashed into my left ear. I said something like, “OOOF!” My gun fired with a spastic squeeze of a finger. I whipped up both arms to block his. The iron mask looked at me. I could see one eye peering out. My shot had been good. I just happened to have a shot a dead man. Black syrupy liquid drooled out of the ruined eye slit. As his heavy cabled muscles came into play, I began to curse my recklessness. Of course, the King of the Dead employs dead men. Willieboy had already told me that. And so far this was the biggest and strongest dead man I had ever seen. He slipped two hard hands around my neck, and stood straight up with me. I started punching and kicking automatically. I grabbed his baby fingers and heard them crack as I turned them back and twisted. I couldn’t sneak my grip under the others. They were as hard and unyielding as steel.

Acting on impulse, I grabbed his elbows, pulled him closer. I could hear him grunt against the strain. I straightened my index finger and jammed it into his left eye. I’m sure I tore the nail off doing it, but it fit. The guard screamed in terror aware that I was about to blind him. He dropped me and clutched at his face. He pulled at his mask. The auto-shotgun had fallen behind him. I had noticed a pair of swords hanging on the wall over my right shoulder. They crossed behind a shield bearing a coat of arms. I leapt up, and ripped one from its scabbard, then brought it swinging around at the guard’s neck. Hands and head flew into the air in a fine black spray. The body lost its balance, then spent a few horrible moments trying to stay upright stabbing the wall with its drooling stumps. It dropped drunkenly. The head had rolled down the hall and under the table that held the begonias. I picked up the auto-shotgun, pointed it at the door’s lock mechanism, and fired—the wood splintered. The door was of heavy oak. Two more shots and the lock fell away. I kicked it open, sword in one hand and auto-shotgun in the other.

The lab was dimly lit, but it appeared exactly as it had in the monitor. Across from me, I saw a silhouette move. I ran over hard tiles, head whipping back and forth—casting around for enemies. My hair was on end. I was painted black with blood. Red swam before my eyes. I realized I was growling. I could still hear gunfire and explosions outside the building. The guards were giving a hell of a fight. But most of them were already dead, had been hired for that reason. That would explain the duration of the battle. I was at the cage. Julie Hawksbridge looked as pretty as her picture. She appeared to be well fed and clean, though her eyes had a hollow shadow of horror under them. I smiled. She looked terrified. I understood why. She had heard gunfire outside her prison, then closer at hand, and then to have the door burst open and a blood-soaked clown run in. I must have been a pretty sight. I broke the ice, before she went mad.

“I’m Wildclown, a detective. Your brother hired me to find you!” My voice had a jagged edge to it.

“Hurry!” was all she said. I noticed that her voice had managed to retain a tone of innocence despite her treatment.

“Stand back,” I ordered, motioning her out of the line of fire with my hand. The lock shattered after four shots. I pulled the door open. “Hurry.” She ran out of the cage. Her lithe figure was covered in gray pajamas and slippers. Her face held a determined look.

“This way,” I hissed, then turned to lead her out of the lab. She screamed when the guard’s body stumbled in front of us. It pawed the air with its leaking stumps. I half-backed him out of the way, and continued along the hall. We got to the top of the stairs. The front doors were under assault, the noise was terrible. They shuddered. Harsh black smoke burst through growing cracks. Sparks leapt from the heavy ironwork. Terrific explosions shook the building. I led Hawksbridge down the first set of stairs and then the second. I shouldered the door open. A damp, low hall awaited. A single light lit its dark length. At the end of this, another set of stairs. The deeper we went, the harsher the concussions from the war outside. I ran ahead of the Hawksbridge girl stabbing the darkness. The shadows were deep.

At the end of the stair another door. Two roars of the auto-shotgun later and we entered a garage. A cylindrical Authority Transport about thirty feet long glowed in dim red light. My boot slipped on grease, I slashed the concrete, and was up again.

“Hurry!” I peered into the darkness, but was still flash-blinded by the action of the auto-shotgun. Long shadows stretched through lurid emergency light. I ran up to the transport. Authority transport vehicles are built strong from front to back. The thick bodies are cast from solid steel. A single loading door opened in the rear. I led Hawksbridge to the back of the transport, and found it unlocked. I twisted the recessed handle, and the door levered open as a ramp. I ran up, wiping more grease from my hand. Inside, there was a low orange light. A muted warning horn insinuated caution. In the back of the transport was an open steel sarcophagus containing a liquid. Strange oily reflections rippled over its surface. Then I gagged on the smell. Formaldehyde—of course, the King’s getaway vehicle. There was still room in back for his guards. I motioned Julie to follow me, then activated the internal lock that raised the ramp and shut us off airtight. When the door boomed shut, I heard the faraway purr of an air exchanger. The formaldehyde fumes began to disperse.

I ran past the sarcophagus and around a steel bulkhead to the driver’s seat. I motioned to the passenger chair, and leapt behind the wheel. Gas, clutch, shift, and an awkward joystick to steer by. I grumbled, looked around. The keys were in the ignition. I started the engine. It kicked over with a powerful roar. Then, I activated the window. A heavy steel plate slid away from a thick shatterproof glass strip that ran around the front of the vehicle. In front of us was a long dim ramp leading upward at about 25 degrees. A light flashed on the console. “Warning: Doors Closed. Activate Over-ride.” I glanced around the console, but could see no over-ride switch.

I turned to Hawksbridge. She had taken the passenger seat. “Don’t worry, we’re almost there.”

“Where are you taking me?” Her blue eyes were round with fright.

“To safety, I hope…” I tried to sound confident, but wasn’t sure we’d live to see the next five minutes. I stepped on the gas, the engine bellowed, and with rapid acceleration we flew up the dark ramp. Two strong screeches warned me when we tagged the wall. I noticed the ramp was capped with a flat panel of steel. It flew toward the windshield. “Hang on!” I yelled more to myself than to anybody.

An explosive crunch of metal and we were through. The doors were hidden flush with the ground about twenty feet past the moat. Our speed tore them out of the way, and then we were airborne. There was a sickening moment when I thought the transport was going to fall back on itself, then impetus took over and landed us jarringly on our wheels. A quick look around, and I saw carnage. An Enforcer with a machine gun opened fire at our window. He disappeared under the headlights. We were about one hundred feet from the main gate. There, I saw the angry flash of Authority lights, and many mangled bodies and machines in their flicker. I saw a pair of Authority Tanks angling their big guns toward us. I veered away from the scene and pointed us at the perimeter wall. It was of heavy gray stone and about twenty feet in height. I tramped on the gas and pulled my shoulder harness over me, buckled it. Julie Hawksbridge followed my lead.

“You might want to grit your teeth.”

“Why?” Her face was white.

“You’ll bite your tongue off if you don’t.” I closed my eyes as the wall came at us flat and impenetrable. We hit. The harness ripped into my shoulders and waist. My head rang with the heavy iron concussion of steel on stone. Then followed a heavy hail of broken rock. The engine caught, choked, the transport rocked and kicked, but our speed, and the weight of the collapsing wall, pushed us through.

I opened my eyes. The windshield was cracked. I saw a car in time to swerve clear of it—then three pines whisked by on my right. I tore off to the south away from the entrance as fast as the transport would take us. It ran roughshod—like one of the wheels had been ripped off and there were deep metallic groans—but I only needed a few miles. I didn’t know who was in charge of the army that was attacking the King’s fortress, but I had no wish to meet them when guns were blazing. I looked at Julie Hawksbridge. She appeared stunned. I reached over and patted her hand.

“We’ll be home soon…” That was all I got out before a cold strong arm dripping formaldehyde slipped around my throat.