When Graveyards Yawn

by G. Wells Taylor

  Elmo took a corner at about seventy and Tommy slid headfirst across the back seat into the door. He muttered and moaned--snatched at his belt--there was no gun--then at his head. He looked at the hand that came away red. He struggled upright, and for an uncomfortable moment his head entered the space I was occupying.

  "Where the hell am I?" he grunted, leaning forward. "Fuck, what a dream!"

  Silently, he watched the road, forehead wrinkled, mouth moving like a sleep talker's. Elmo answered in his dry-lipped lisp.

  "Took a fall, Mr. Wildclown. Course the fire was already lickin' yer b-boots when you made like the jungleman."

  Tommy's face looked quizzically at Elmo, then he burst out. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

  It was Elmo's turn to stare. His dead eyes were cue balls as he gaped over his shoulder.

  "The Morocco..."

  While these two conversed, the car took the opportunity to drive off the road, crush the fender of a parked truck and bend a street lamp forty-five degrees before Elmo could wrestle it back under control. I was glad Chrysler made big cars.

  "Christ!" scolded Tommy, hands clutching Elmo's headrest. "Would you watch what you're doing?" His fingers dropped to the skipping rope at his waist. "Where's my gun?"

  Elmo related the story of going to the Morocco Building and waiting in the car while Tommy looked over the murder scene for clues to Van Reydner's whereabouts. Tommy listened blankly; giving no impression that he heard anything at all. Elmo ended the tale with an enthusiastic narration of Tommy's escape from the fire--his incredible jerking, jarring descent as the old minaret fell with him. A thick power cord bolted up the front of the building slowed its fall. I tried to imagine the ridiculous thing lit up like some Islamic casino...but was cut off by Tommy.

  "Great Elmo, great, but this Van Reydner chick what was I gonna do, fuck her or what?"

  Elmo started to retell the story from the beginning. This time Tommy became excited.

  "Right, right--we were having a drink right!" He sat back, rubbed his chin--then blurted. "My gun!"

  "Here Boss," Elmo handed the .44 over the seat. "I g-grabbed it off the sidewalk after I pulled you out of that wrecked Arab thing."

  Tommy snatched the gun and slid it through his belt. He pressed its cold black length against his groin with a satisfied sigh, but the reassuring steel could not chase all the doubt from his dark eyes. Tommy spent the rest of the trip to the office silent smiling weakly as he stroked his gun. I continued to float overhead. I wanted to talk to Mr. Willieboy.

  Chapter 8

  The phone was ringing as Tommy shouldered open the door marked Wildclown Investigations. He muscled through the next to the inner office and snatched the receiver from its cradle.

  "Yeah," he started in monosyllabic glory as he targeted the office chair and fell into it.

  I contented myself with floating overhead. That's what happened when Tommy moved around, I got dragged along about a foot from the ceiling like a disgruntled balloon. Possessing Tommy was the only action I could initiate in my vaporous form. It was galling, voyeuristic and frustrating, but such was the down side of our relationship. It could also be downright unsettling as I got pulled from place to place without apparent regard for doorframes and low ceilings. Whatever my story was, what remained of me passed through solid matter like it wasn't there.

  Before I could overhear what the caller was saying Elmo distracted me by entering and sliding onto the business chair in a riot of springs. He was wiping his lips on a handkerchief. The dark skin on his forehead and cheeks had a lustrous, oily sheen to it. He must have re-hydrated in the outer office. Elmo kept a mixture of cod and mineral oils in a carafe beside the water cooler for just such a purpose. He applied it to himself internally and externally--a process I had witnessed and didn't want to see again.

  It was just one of the problems with being dead in the New Age. They had to keep well oiled and cool if they wanted to stave off those desiccating effects that remained after the Change. That's what most people called it. There were other terms for the strange new circumstance the world found itself in, the rapture, happening or Armageddon but as the years passed people just got used to calling it the Change. I read how it happened in back issues of the Greasetown Gazette. Fifty years ago a strange contiguous weather pattern of cloud and rain blotted out the skies of earth. The resulting disastrous downpour soon melted what remained of the ice caps and raised the sea levels enough to threaten if not drown every coastal city. Before that happened, about two months after the rains began, the dead rose from their graves. Some inexplicable force animated all dead flesh. I once watched a pork chop twitch its way completely off its plate--which was an unsettling thing to see, and a warning against undercooking pig.

  The scientists were caught between primitive wonderment and scientific horror because they couldn't explain it. Most of them were still stumped by the global rainstorm when the first corpse walked into an unemployment office. Science soon determined that there had been a mass extinction of the majority of bacterial species on the planet. The cause was unknown, but it was soon understood that extinction had occurred on a scale that dwarfed the one that got the dinosaurs. It didn't get them all, yeast remained and certain cousins--which drew celebratory yelps from boozehounds the world over. But everything else died off. The leap was taken from there to the fact that dead flesh no longer rotted--or if it did, it did slowly. There were certain bacteria and lichens remaining that fed on minerals and proteins in the flesh, and there were molds that could cause a slow break down and raise a stink. Dead flesh was still subject to physical injury and dehydration but with careful cleaning and maintenance, and if they avoided flies, the dead could preserve what they had indefinitely.

  And it seemed to go for the spirit too. Anyone lucky enough to die with his or her brain intact, retained all or most of the mind. It further frightened the scientists to discover that even individuals whose brains had been sloppily replaced after an autopsy retained much of their awareness. Research finally determined in quite unscientific fashion that a dead individual retained his personality if he had something like a pinch of medulla oblongata and a tablespoon of cerebellum or cerebral cortex.

  "Yeah." Tommy's hand signal for drinking brought me from my reverie. Elmo pointed to the desk.

  "Yeah, oh yeah. Really?" Tommy breathed into the phone as he pulled a near-empty office bottle from the desk. After draining it he flung it angrily into the wastebasket and scowled at Elmo.

  The dead man pointed to the chair Tommy was sitting in and mouthed, "emergency bottle."

  "Yeah, uh…" Frowning Tommy dropped the receiver into its cradle. I could just make out a quiet babble as the caller was cut off mid-sentence.

  "What emergency bottle?" Tommy glared. Elmo pointed a nervous finger at the chair.

  "Th-the one you keep in the back of your chair."

  Elmo was talking about my emergency bottle. I had hoped to keep it a secret from Tommy, and had managed to; except for the time he lucked on it one dark night, but had been too drunk to retain the memory. He now dug into the space between the arm and the seat cushion. The mickey was half full in his hand when he pulled it out. The clown uncapped it and pressed it to his lips smiling. He gulped a couple of times before setting it down quarter-full. He gestured to Elmo.

  "Got a smoke, guy?"

  "No," said Elmo. "We smoked the l-last on the way here…" He stammered, agitated. "Who was on da--th-the phone?" He gently cracked his knuckles, then rolled his eyes, embarrassed by the slip of his dead tongue.

  Tommy's features raged, incredulous. "Some Willieboy-bastard--no cigarettes, Elmo! Shit what kind of organization is this? I mean we can speak all the way around the world on wires, but we don't have any smokes! " He shook his head, rose and circled the desk until he stood in front of his partner. "Just another layer in the conspiracy, my friend. But, they won't get me. No." He leaned forward whispering, "They can take away my privacy with mini-cameras and micropho
nes. They can take my office chair, my desk and my light. But when they come for my drink and my cigarettes--then it's personal!" Tommy straightened and smiled, lighter now from the eruption of paranoia. "Let's go get some. I've got this wild feeling to pile them high tonight."

  "But Boss--the c-case?" The dead man was shocked.

  "Excellent thought, Elmo. A case of beer or two would add just the right amount of grease to the old chatter box." He stabbed his temple with a finger. "I got to do some thinking."

  "But we should f-follow up that call?" Elmo was wide-eyed. He looked like he was about to quote from the Pinkerton book on Detective do's and don'ts.

  "All in good time, my dear Elmo! All in good time." Tommy drew close to him, and rubbed condescension into the dead man's shoulders. "We have to fight back the only way we know how."

  Elmo seemed to pale, if that was possible, before standing and moving reluctantly to the door. He knew the score. Whenever Tommy started talking conspiracies, he usually sank into a drunken depression that lasted days. I knew I had to take some of the blame. Tommy's mind was unbalanced in the first place. When I started a series of possessions his link to reality deteriorated rapidly. But I had no choice. Acting quickly I began imagining the most revolting sexual images I could come up with. I imagined them with close-ups and all. Tommy froze, his hyperactive mind suddenly sizzling with neurotransmitters. A firestorm of nervous activity flickered across my field of vision. He was receptive but not entirely sold as my psyche crashed into his. The transition was not simple; the clown struggled feebly. There were a few awkward seconds of overlap. I saw chains and padded rooms. I felt plastic bristles scrub my cheeks. Anger surged through me, and pain lanced my--Tommy's--heart. I staggered and fell to one knee. Embarrassment and outrage howled through every nerve. Pain jolted my skull. I doubled over. I'm not sure if it was Tommy or me who sobbed.

  Suddenly, the world clarified. I lurched up onto unsteady legs and turned to Elmo, saw two of him, then the double vision passed. The only thing that registered on his face was open-mouthed, but vague surprise. His boss had had a strange seizure that was all.

  I could feel a dull throbbing from the gash on my temple. It was cold and raw to the touch. The palms of my hands were scored with fire, the knuckles swollen. I rubbed my shoulders. They were stiff and achy, overextended and fatigued. My back was strained and bruised. My guts felt smashed and broken. No wonder Tommy wanted a drink.

  "Elmo, you go get some whiskey and cigarettes." I could feel my face whiten beneath the paint as I experienced my injuries. The world spun--I staggered against the desk.

  "I have to follow up that call," I mumbled, and dropped into my chair.

  Chapter 9

  Pain had moved in and replaced the muscle stiffness. As the injuries revealed themselves to me I had seriously considered vacating the premises for healthier days. The act of touching up my makeup had been a chore, but it focused my mind on things other than bruises and retreat. I had cleaned the gash on my temple and bandaged it. Half an hour had passed since I had taken over. I had twice tried to find Willieboy's number in the phonebook. The operator wasn't any help. Elmo had resumed his seat across from me looking around, relaxed in his own fidgety way. His boss was back to normal; he would get by. The phone rang. I pushed the receiver to my ear and welcomed the familiar cool circle against my skin. I immediately recognized Willieboy's voice.

  "What the fuck do you think yer doin', man? Hanging up on me--damn!" His voice had a humorless, tired edge to it.

  "Sorry," I drawled to the best of my abilities. "It's this crazy thing I do sometimes--keeps it spontaneous. But I'm glad you called back."

  "Oh shit!" he growled. "I should'a turned you into Authority. Fuck, I'm out of a job and jobs ain't easy to find in the Downings. What'd you have to burn down the whole fuckin' hotel for?"

  "I didn't." It was my turn to flash ire. "Your goddamned friends nearly killed me!"

  "My friends?" His voice registered genuine surprise. He paused, and then continued. "Look, like I said, I got something you might be interested in."

  "Something like giving your friends another chance," I snarled.

  "What the hell?" Again surprise. "I don't know what's rolling around in that bleached peanut you call a head, but if you're curious come to my place and bring fifty bucks."

  "Let's have the address." I wrote it down, hung up the phone and glanced into Elmo's steady gaze. I lit a cigarette and stared blankly out the window. The half-open blinds divided the scene into long thin strips.

  The sky was a muddy gray, ghoulishly lit by the city's inconsistent light; but I knew that the sun would soon be coming up, somewhere out there behind the perpetual cloud. Greasetown lumbered away from me like a dying elephant. Buildings long past their prime sagged and yawed in a pathetic ballet of decrepitude. In the distance, I could see the fuzzy glow of fires burning down to coals. The streets were a hazy gray wash of fog. Vaguely, I counted the days and realized that I was looking out at a Sunday morning. I looked at the clock on my desk. Four a.m.

  Sunday. Prayer books and hymns, spiritual eunuchs telling people about the way to live life. Hypocrisy out for a walk on a long leash. Endless lazy afternoons. A depression began to descend upon me in a steady drizzle and for a moment I let despair wash over me like a grim, black tide. Sundays were the worst, the end of one dead week and harbinger of the next. But I reveled in it. When the water gets deep--dive. Depression is a virtue. Only the holy find reasons to climb out of it. Looking out the window, I could see no finger of doom, but I had the feeling one was not far off.

  I fumbled for, and dragged the phone to my ear.

  "Hungry Elmo?" I asked before dialing. "Oh, sorry."

  "That's okay, Boss. I f-forget I'm dead myself sometimes." The dead took liquids to keep themselves fresh, but they had no need for food.

  I had a brief moment of realization. I was a dead detective possessing a lunatic's body and having an early Sunday conversation with my dead sidekick. I forced the ideas from my mind and concentrated on the hot dogs and coffee I was ordering. It was an expensive way to eat junk food, but an all night diner down the street delivered anytime.

  The only way to survive in Greasetown was to take certain things for granted. All my reason told me I was dead and that I possessed another man's body. For some insane reason he dressed like a clown. My companion, Fat Elmo, was dead as well, and a lot less fat. Desiccation had taken the smooth round shape of his belly and limbs. I could see how the stretched skin hung from him like sheets of thin black rubber. He was dead, but he was across from me smoking a cigarette. Something terrible had happened to the world that had driven reality insane. Since I had no way of finding out what had happened, I tried not to dwell on it. That way laid madness. All I needed to know was this: I was a detective, I tried to catch bad guys--I was on a case. Murder is still murder in Greasetown.

  "Four hot dogs are on the way, Mr. Wildclown. Hot coffee too, sir! Boy will be right over."

  I cleaned and reloaded my gun as I waited.

  Chapter 10

  The hotdogs were still fighting when we pulled up in front of an ancient rooming house. Commanding the front lawn was a crude fountain that had been formed of bleak gray cement. Constructed, no doubt, to help justify the exorbitant rent people would have to pay to live behind it. Water trickled out of the top, adding to a sick brown pool clotted with leaves and smelling of dead rats. The whole thing looked lovely in the weak light of morning.

  I belched ground hotdog, whiskey, onions, and coffee. I was tired and hung over. Nausea rippled through my system from epiglottis to the unseeing eye. I had the distinct feeling I had swallowed a sick python.

  A chill raised the hair on my neck. I looked over into Elmo's eyes. "Christ Elmo, remember to blink would you," I muttered and lurched out of the car. I leaned in the window. "I'll be back in a couple of minutes."

  As Elmo lit a cigarette, I turned toward the house. Chavis Street was balanced on the edge of the Downings Dist
rict and Gritburg. Gritburg was about an inch above the filth of Downings and about nine miles below most of the Authority controlled sections.

  Downings was becoming overcrowded with the dead. They didn't have anywhere else to go. Right after the Change, the dead had been embraced as a welcome if somewhat unpleasant novelty. Since they retained their personalities, they were people that living people knew, and so there was a festive aspect of reunion to things. But they kept coming. And the longer the living had to think about it, the more unsettled they became. It's one thing to have to look after an aged parent, quite another to have to oil up a dead one and live with its sleepless pacing. The dead didn't eat so they were relatively inexpensive to keep but their expressionless faces raised primitive hackles amongst their survivors.

  The dead claimed to experience varied levels of sensation from pain to pleasure; but each case was different. Everything was different. Psychologically, at least, they seemed to act on similar impulses to the living. There were dead dancers, romantics, rapists and thieves. But the more lifelike the dead behaved, the more the tension grew between the groups. Life was tough enough without having to compete for jobs with people who did not tire or sleep.

  So most municipalities passed bylaws restricting the actions of the dead that would have contravened the rights of the living. The dead represented a large gray area that public opinion could exploit. And so, as the dead were oppressed, they began to strike back. There were incidents and riots; people were killed. The dead were burned and dismembered. Unofficial Regulators were brought in to suppress the uprisings, and then disbanded for excesses and abuse. Eventually Authority stepped in and forced a truce between the groups. Dead people were free to travel in living sections of town if they were gainfully employed. So even in death the poor got poorer. The others were forced into derelict sections of town like Downings where the resident living people were already downtrodden enough not to care. In Gritburg it was slightly different. A dead man could walk down the street but he could not live there.