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

it was gray, even the pigeons that fluttered on a rooftop beside it were gray. And now I was Grey. I had the urge to see no more gray. Who was getting haunted here? But there were no answers forthcoming, no release. All I could do was console myself with the money I had been paid. Perhaps a vacation. I could give Elmo his back pay and the two of us could go to Vicetown, ride a roller coaster. Hell, we could go south of the border. I had heard rumors that the sun still shone there sometimes. The door opened behind me. I turned expecting Elmo.

The corpse was the right height, but that was all that was recognizable about it. Tattered pieces of scorched fabric hung about its shoulders and neck, the wire frame of its glasses had melted to the bridge of its nose—the lenses were cracked. It was black all over and gave off an overpowering burnt hamburger stench—hot and oily. And a sickly sweet smell that hung on and kept coming. The corpse’s right foot still had flesh on it. Its skin was pearly white. The toes were chubby and looked clean like they had just stepped out of the shower. There was a gun in the corpse’s hand pointed at my heart. The brass toothpick was welded to the thing’s dental work.

“Bastard!” it hissed, cheeks ripping with the strain.

“Inspector Cane, you don’t look well.” I had nothing to lose but gray. “You’re probably upset.”

“Where’s the baby?” The eyes in its face were swollen blisters. Cane must have been almost blind.

“Where it belongs.”

“It is the son. I must have it.” His hand jerked the gun. “The fifth horseman.”

“Horseman? This kid hasn’t even had his first pony ride.” I turned away from him, disgusted. “It is the son of a young woman, who by all rights shouldn’t have had him in the first place. The baby is a miracle. But it doesn’t deserve the damnation of reverence. Let it be, Cane.”

“I’ll shoot you in the back, then I’ll do the same thing to you that you did to me.”

“No, you won’t,” I sighed. A gun roared, roared again. I turned slowly. Cane’s head was gone. His corpse dropped, it made a feeble attempt to rise, and then lay still. It was in such bad condition, I was surprised that it had made it this far. Elmo walked in holding the auto-shotgun. It was pointed at the corpse.

“You all right, Boss?” He kicked the gun away from the body.

“Yes, Elmo, and thanks.” I looked at what was left of Cane and then at the mess that covered my desk. “I’m not much in the mood for those fishdogs though.” I had seen Elmo drive up while I was looking out through the blinds. “I’ll tell you what. Why don’t we go down to the bank, cash some checks and have some fun?” I walked over to Elmo, set a hand on his shoulder. “I owe you what friend, a couple of hundred?”

“Twenty-four hundred,” he said, stony-faced.

“Twenty-four hundred, then. First we’ll go to Dr. Forrester’s place. I’ll get some stitches, maybe a few painkillers. Yes, we’ll cash our checks and take a trip to Vicetown. Maybe go south of the border. I need a rest. I don’t know about you.” Elmo started smiling and nodding his head. “I have to get out of here.”

Elmo gestured to the corpse. “What about the mess?”

We dropped Cane’s feebly twitching remains in the Dumpster beside the building. I kept walking with Elmo until we got to the Chrysler. We drove to Forrester’s. I collapsed again, and awoke a couple of hours later, stitched and numb. It was still dark. Oddly enough I was still inside Tommy. I waited for his presence, but it was strangely absent. Forrester fed me breakfast. We thanked him and left. Elmo drove us to the bank. I left the majority of my money there, wrote a check for my partner, and withdrew enough to take us to Vicetown and farther if we wanted.

As we headed down the coast, morning was coming on. I was tired and could have used some rest, but for some reason was reluctant to give up possession of Tommy. The little baby’s Buddha face kept returning to my mind as the ocean sped past. I wasn’t certain, but somewhere out under the angry black clouds, at the edge of it all; I thought I caught a flash of sun.

The story continues in The Forsaken by G. Wells Taylor Book Two of the Apocalypse Trilogy

COMING SUMMER 2008

Assassin

An Angel was going to die. The idea caused the man on the road to smile—a rare smile cruelly cut into hard, pitiless features. The Angel would die quickly. It was a pity that it had to be so fast. But surprise was necessary. It was essential. He knew he was lucky to have that much of an edge and speed was the only way to maintain it. Their supernatural abilities allowed no margin for error. But the idea of killing one slowly appealed to him—to kill an Angel and take his time doing it. He smiled again thinking about what it would be like to get a knife and take one apart. See what all the fuss was about.

Miles to the west, his car was parked permanently on the soft shoulder. The Pontiac’s twenty-year-old engine had cracked in two. He had taken one look under the hood and grabbed his packs to start the long walk to the City. There was nothing he could do about it. He was not that kind of mechanic.

But an Angel was going to die. That was something. Two hours had passed, and the idea had kept him focused on the march. Fuck the car. It was common for people to drive them into the ground only to purchase another rebuilt junker when it was necessary. He’d done it more times than he could remember. Automotive parts designed to last in the old counting could not keep up to people who did not age in a time of endless rain and decay.

Money wasn’t a problem. He carried enough in pocket to buy a new vehicle right off the lot. By why bother? They all fell apart eventually. It didn’t matter how much money you spent. Time got them in the end, like it got everything.

But he wouldn’t buy another vehicle just yet. There were too many variables to justify the expense. He had only trusted his abandoned car because it drew little attention. But this was now and the future was then. He was close enough to the City of Light to walk, so he’d walk. And once there, who knew? Cars were more common than strangers buying them. Until he completed his contract anonymity was his greatest ally.

Don’t let them see you coming. That was the first rule of the business he was in. The second was to have a backup plan and backup plans cost money. Beneath his Kevlar vest was a nylon money belt containing $40,000 in cash and about the same in gems for special purchases. Printed money wouldn’t always buy you what you wanted in the circles he traveled. And it seemed that people with apparently ageless bodies identified with the permanence of diamonds and gems—he did.

The belt held enough for bribes, transport and emergencies. He had plenty more, but with the chaos that yawned around what was left of humanity, the traveler knew that a place you left might not be there when you returned. The remains of civilization were on the verge of riot and dissolution. Occasionally fear would manifest and burn one of the dying cities or towns that remained. The man on the road didn’t care about the social costs; he just understood that his many money stashes could be consumed by the madness; so carrying a small fortune had become a habit. And he was the safest bank he knew.

He snarled up at the rumbling overcast as he marched along the road—then stumbled. The broken pavement beneath his boots had heaved in places torn by cycles of frost, and undercut by incessant rain. Scowling, he dropped back into his steady, rhythmic pace. The black canvas bags were heavy hanging across his muscular shoulders, but they did not impede him. The mild annoyance of the gun barrels and ammunition thudding against his kidneys did more to reassure than irritate.

The City was not far off. He’d get there by sundown. The last hill he crested had given him a bleak view of its monolithic skyline and the Eastern Sea beyond. The distance did not concern him, since he welcomed any sort of physical challenge. In his Spartan philosophy he could never be hard or strong enough. Besides, if he grew bored with the walk, he could flag down a passing motorist and either hitch a ride or buy the vehicle outright with a bullet—there were still travelers despite the rigors of the road. In fact, the latter mode of transportation would allow him to enter the slow tempest of the City without making a ripple. And he wouldn’t have to make conversation.

But the walk would do for now. It allowed him to step outside his life for a time and do something simple—it was the closest he ever got to carefree, and he could never be carefree. There was no rush. Again the distant thunder made him look up at the clouds. He shrugged knowing he’d packed an overcoat in the smaller of the two bags.

Rattle! His boots scuffed against the pavement, almost muffled the sound. And then: Click!

The traveler threw his bags and dropped to a knee. A .9 mm automatic jumped lightly in his sinewy hand; its muzzle scanned the dark brush at the side of the road. Dim light from the overcast showed ugly gray weeds—the brittle shafts quivering, rattling sporadically as the gun ran over their varied surfaces searching a target.

Then the traveler hissed with disgust, turned the pistol up and slipped it away. A woman’s hand twitched and convulsed its way out of the dead brush. The skin was torn off it from the severed wrist all the way up the broken thumb—worms or beetles crawled in the swollen red meat on its palm. The knuckles clicked hollowly as it moved.

The man walked to his bags, hefted them, and resumed his trek without another glance at the hideous thing that scuttled farther onto the road behind him. The traveler let his mind move onto more prosaic concerns. He could reach the City inside two hours—if he didn’t buy a car first.

And an Angel would die soon after.