When Graveyards Yawn - G. Wells Taylor (robert munsch read aloud .TXT) 📗

We were in the Chrysler. Tommy’s head lolled drunkenly; spittle hung in a slender strand from his lip. It swung and bobbed like a rookie surveyor’s 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.

“Don’t worry, you chicken shits!” He sneered through rat teeth. “We just give him enough shots in the head, he don’t come back like, ‘sides…” He paused a moment to steer over rocks that protruded from the road. “We got the chainsaw.”

One of the soldiers in the back seat nudged Tommy and grunted. “Yer fuckin’ landfill now buddy.” 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 Adrian’s office, I experienced a few awkward moments of transition as I was ejected from Tommy’s 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 didn’t 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 Tommy’s sanctuary—a 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 Tommy’s guts bringing a groan from him. I tried once again to take him—but failed. He must have been hit worse than I thought. My sex pictures were not working. I couldn’t get them over a jagged wall of pain.

“We better be quick,” grumbled the driver. “I don’t want to use more light than we have to. The Landfillers come for lights.”

He looked at his accomplices’ crestfallen faces. “You bitches aren’t afraid of a few creepy crawlies are you? Just remember to use your sticks!” He gestured with a stout wooden cane. “Whack the fuckers!” The gangsters sat silent and grim until the driver rolled his eyes. “Shit, how’d I get stuck with you pansies? Call yourselves muscle? Bring him!” He shook his head and climbed from the Chrysler, his auto-shotgun tucked under one arm.

The ape on Tommy’s 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 right—who 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 Tommy—then 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 gangster’s torso and strained against the embrace. Just in time, because the auto-shotgun roared, and his dancing partner’s face turned to pulp. Tommy rolled out of the carnage. Pigface fired again. A good chunk of the Chrysler’s 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 Tommy’s right hip. A severed hand, a woman’s 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. Tommy’s 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, Pigface’s footsteps approached. Rubber and grass met with a terrifying rustle. He hissed. “Okay, fuck up, c’mon out for Uncle Death. It’s Blacktime!” His face appeared pinched and oily in the fractured remains of the windshield. “Good night, sleep tight. Don’t let the maggots…” Tommy fired. The automatic clattered, eating Pigface’s head and one shoulder. Dark gobbets spattered against the Chrysler and rained on the grass. Pigface’s auto-shotgun dropped useless in one hand. The body took a couple of hesitant steps backward—almost 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 Pigface’s 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. “So, here I am in the fuckin’ Landfill. What in the Christ?” 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.

“Where’s that fucking Elmo?” He glared absently