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

I toyed with the idea of overpowering Douglas Willieboy, and going from there to taking control of the transport. But an arm like a sack of grain, and ears that rang every time I turned my head, convinced me to sit out for a round. Since our last conversation, Willieboy’s manner toward me had changed noticeably. He had become distant, formidable—his good-old-boy demeanor was gone. His actions began to more resemble his behavior during our first encounter. For the remainder of our ride, the movements he allowed himself were hard and muscular—violence lurked beneath his features. There was something terrible in his gaze. His whole persona had altered, eyes awful, menacing; they thinly disguised the terror of survival. The stakes were high indeed. It was clear; Willieboy would do anything to live through this and he had no guarantees.

Despite this, I still managed to retain reserves of optimism. I was feeling hot to trot, injured but high on adrenaline. My hunches had played out well. I wasn’t happy with the way the last act was shaping up; but it didn’t really matter that people knew justice was done—so long as justice was done. Of course, I knew a lot of people would go unpunished, officially, for their crimes; and I was likely to suffer severely for my involvement. Times like this I had to be philosophical. There was no point to getting upset about how nice it would be to put someone behind bars. Perhaps Greasetown had evolved away from that type of justice or devolved toward the primitive law of the jungle. Certainly, the crimes that had been committed were capitol offenses. Since there were no judges or juries that I could trust, perhaps in rather democratic fashion, justice had returned to the individual. One vote. Life or death. Right or wrong. Did we need a committee for everything? If I could, I would see that someone paid for the murders. Likable or not, Conrad Billings was an innocent. He certainly didn’t deserve to die. Then there was Julie Hawksbridge; she had the right to live her own life. No one should be able to turn her into a baby-making machine. Then there was the baby if it really existed. I got the creeping fits just imagining the process the King of the Dead intended to inflict upon it.

There was still the possibility that evil existed. There was a chance, however small, that it wasn’t simply a poor innocent driven by social or familial turmoil to act out against his fellows. Perhaps evil could still be done. Were our social compacts our downfall? The scientists had sold our souls, objectified us. Not that the soul was an angel without wings or a devil minus horns, but the spiritual unknown inherent in religion gave us something. It allowed for justice; there was the possibility for balance. Science would not allow evil, nor would it good. It pushed us into a gray area of vulnerability. People locked their doors because of their compassion. The odd farm family sacrificed a daughter to rape and dismemberment in the hope that one day a criminal would get help. It was just a mistake. Choices, good or evil had nothing to do with the immortal soul. They were just factors in a sociologist’s equation. I had to think. I had to get rid of my emotion. There was too much chance of screwing up, slowing down, if my feelings got involved. Justice was justice. It was a cold thing like the barrel of a gun. I knew what justice was. I had to see that it was done.

My optimism came from the fact that already the wheels had begun to turn. Adrian had paid horribly for his crime. Cane died for his abuses. Was that the best justice? Let the criminals devour each other. I had to believe there was another way, especially when I gauged my own position. When criminals consumed one another, they did so with violence that ravaged the innocent as well. I had to sharpen my edge. The emotion had to go. I had to hug justice to my breast, and force it into my flesh. Things were going to happen fast.

The transport screeched to a halt. Its heavy iron walls were hot, and they groaned against the speed of the rapid deceleration. The impetus forced me hard into one of the uprights. Luckily, it was my right shoulder. My left, and the arm attached to it, was still numb—throbbing intermittently. They seemed to be coming around a little, but behaved like broken radio-controlled toys. Willieboy growled at me. “Come on.”

He walked half-crouched to the rear of the transport, and then twisted a handle set in the steel. A light flashed, a horn droned quietly. The door levered open forming a ramp. Outside, night was falling fast. A heavy fog hugged the walled-in courtyard. A wave of exhaust hit me, made me nauseous. Suddenly a pair of Enforcers appeared outside the door. They carried auto-shotguns. Both were strangely at home in the darkness that enveloped the world. Their facemasks glinted demonically. Willieboy stepped out of the transport to relay some orders. “Take the hamburger to the lab.” He gestured to Adrian’s remains. “Then fortify the gate. Trouble’s coming.” They disappeared with Adrian into the gloom. Willieboy turned to me.

“Come on. Let’s get this over with.” He reached in and grabbed my left arm. It almost came off. He should have just shot me. I winced and let out an angry hiss of air. “God damn it. Last time I take a drive with you…” I mumbled against the pain.

The King of the Dead lived in a castle—it was a three-storied mansion about two hundred feet wide built of large brown stones. Copper-roofed towers rose into darkness on the north and south ends of the structure. I spotted movement in the shadow of their open windows. We had come to a stop well inside the tall stone wall that circled the perimeter of the castle courtyard and grounds. I could remember rumors