When Graveyards Yawn

by G. Wells Taylor

  "I-I don't know what you mean? Death? That's a trick. You can't want death!" The King's face distorted. He glared at the gun offered him. "You don't want death. You want to trap me."

  Tommy pulled the King's face closer now. His dead legs thrashed. He screamed incomprehensibly. Tommy set the gun down and said: "Oh, but I can want it. Death is the sleep I am denied. Nothing follows us there. Not money, not love, not guilt." He stared momentarily into the King's dead eyes. "I want the old death. The old death that will lead me to Hell. You're lucky. See, I betray you with a kiss." And Wildclown pressed his lips against the dead king's. As he did so, both hands gripped the corpse's wormy neck. The King's legs thrashed. I heard a muted scream. As Tommy kissed him, his hands began to tighten on the neck, then pull. The King screamed long and hard. The head twisted. There was a sickening ripping and tearing of cartilage and bone. The body fell away, leaving Tommy standing--lips still intimate with those of the gruesome head in his hands. He pulled the head back then, and smiled at it. "I knew him well..." The King's hideous head sat in Tommy's outstretched hand. Its features worked horribly. The eyes rolled; the jaw worked. The tongue lashed. Tommy cocked his arm back, kicked a leg up out of the formaldehyde and muttered to himself. "You've gotta watch that Wildclown, Bill. He's got a hell of a fastball!" Tommy pitched the head at the wall about fifteen feet from him. It struck the stone with a sickening smack, and then fell in a sliding pile of gore and gray matter.

  Transition.

  The smell of formaldehyde hit me squarely in the face again. I was back in Tommy. I could taste formaldehyde, and the source of that made my guts twist. I gagged--spat. The King's body thrashed against my leg. I climbed out of the pool. A chill shook me. Why were there no guards? I picked up the gun on the steps. Four shots left in it. I looked over at Willieboy's body. He would be up soon. I resisted the urge to dismember him. I turned back to the King's console, reached out over the kicking corpse and flicked on a video screen. Buttons were well marked. "Main Gate." I turned that on.

  The screen showed the main gate under siege. A large Authority Tank was positioning itself on the street outside the wall. Its long barrel was pointed at one of the towers. There were a number of Authority transports parked across the ironwork on the inside. Others were taking up position along the perimeter. I looked at the phone. Its ringing had become a part of the panic that gripped me. I picked up the receiver.

  "Yes," I tried to make my voice old and bitter and worn out. It was easy.

  "King, sir. This is the main gate. We're going to lose it. There's a strong force out here. We've already lost twelve of our men. The others want to run for it."

  "Hold the gate!" I realized how ridiculous that sounded. "Is there transport for the girl?"

  There was silence for a moment. "Your private vehicle, sir. In the underground garage. Only way out."

  I hung up. Then flicked a button marked, Laboratory. There, in black in white, was the usual machine and test tube-filled lab. There were tables and utensils--Bunsen burners and things for measuring other things. What interested me most sat at the back of the room on a cot in an eight by eight cage. It looked just like Julie Hawksbridge.

  Chapter 62

  I picked up Willieboy's gun. Half way through the action I had a sudden creeping fit. His corpse rested in an incredibly lifelike position, legs crossed, head hanging into his bloody lap. I waved a hand in front of his face--nothing--so I knotted his shoes together. I had lost my hat when the Galaxy Tower exploded so I searched the King's room for something to hide my face--nothing. I pulled the collar of my tattered overcoat up under my nose. My hair was scorched and turned to powder when touched, but enough of it remained to push forward over my brow. I had a gun in each pocket. A quick check put four bullets in the King's clip and two in Willieboy's. That left me six between life and death. The way the front gate looked, I would need a bazooka or a tank to get out alive. I yanked the door open, ran past the wooden knights and out into the hall letting my instincts work for me. The King was really into the medieval thing, so where would an evil King keep a captive princess? In a tower or a dungeon. I'd seen Enforcers in the towers affixed to the north and south ends of the mansion, so I wrote them off as part of the King's elaborate security measures. They probably had sniper rifles and rocket launchers--no princesses. I had a hunch that she'd be kept upstairs, just the same. I could always visit the King's dungeons in the basement, if my search came up empty. The guard at the gate had hinted that the lab was not far from the underground garage. I couldn't remember anything resembling a garage attached to the main building, and I suddenly thought of the moat. The King would have planned for that. I raced down the hall.

  As I passed the front door, an angry hail of gunfire struck it. There were explosions and rocket sounds--something hit the wall that shook the floor under me. Violence was eating its way through. I gritted my teeth and ran. There were four doors that stood closed on my right. I expected one to fly open and vomit gun-toting King's men--nothing. At the end of the hall, a set of stairs ran up, and a set led down. I ran up; doors like those opening onto the King's room awaited. Instead of knights, there were skeletal ladies-in-waiting carved into its panels. They held black lacquered roses. Too easy. I pushed the doors open. Another long hallway. A man stepped out of hiding at the end of it. He carried a long auto-shotgun. He wore a long rubber trench coat, bulletproof vest and Enforcer helmet. The gun blazed in his hands. The door to my left exploded. Stone archways opened every ten feet on both sides of me. I dove into the closest arch on my right. The door inside it was locked. The auto-shotgun roared again, three times. The oak paneling opposite me was blown to pieces. I was showered with splinters. That made four shots. I looked up. A light over the door illuminated the sad dead bridesmaids. I shot it out. The guard's gun roared twice. The wall came away over my head. Shadow fell with plaster and lath, and with it came enough calm to think.

  The guard was wearing a protective Kevlar and plastic mask. Masks had eyeholes. I was a good shot, but only good. Hitting an eyehole at twenty feet would require an excellent aim. I had five bullets left, so I would have to be accurate. Just my luck, both guns were unfamiliar. Further along the hallway were two more lights designed to resemble flickering oil lamps. I used Willieboy's gun. Two shots later and darkness held half the hall--I tossed the empty gun toward the guard. The auto-shotgun roared three times. The big slugs tore into the wall closer to the guard so I felt a little satisfaction with my plan. His aim was off or he suspected that I was on the move toward him. I pulled out the King's gun. I had three shots and none of them clear. The guard was about forty feet from me, and I had to shoot through an overgrown plastic begonia. I aimed, and fired.

  The first bullet must have gone in the right eye slit, because the second scored a sparking groove over the brow of the nose and ricocheted. The guard fell heavily, and hard. I ran up the hall, gun pointed at the fallen man. He was 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.

  Chapter 63

  I jumped on the brakes. This is an extremely effective way of dealing with an attack from behind in a moving vehicle--more so, if you're not traveling at eighty miles an hour. Eighty's probably pushing it. I was flung forward. My neck folded, drove my chin down--as the momentum forced my assailant on top of me. Something wet spilled into my ears. The long body of the transport did not travel well with its wheels locked up. It began to careen wildly. I dragged my foot off the brake and the transport popped out of its skid. It lurched forward again then up and over a pair of parked
cars. The steel body sparked and crashed as it struck a building, its armored side tight to the brick screeching. I took a second to unfasten my harness--the canvas straps pulled away as my attacker fell back with the bucking change in direction. I twisted and kicked off the dashboard and fell grappling. I was fighting an unidentifiable silhouette. I sprawled on top of him. The floor of the compartment was slick with formaldehyde. In the darkness, I could feel the cold clamminess of my attacker's hands, and the sour damp of his clothing. The transport lurched again, dowsing us both with a wave of preserving fluid. My eyes burned. We lurched again, and then sped up. I had to guess Julie was taking a crash course in transport driving.

  Two hard fists struck my face. The blows landed like steel on bone. My head rang; my bruised face was as fragile as broken crockery. I whimpered as we wrestled in the cramped space beside the sarcophagus. Waves of formaldehyde sloshed over its rim as Julie wrestled for control of the vehicle. I tried to rise to let a few punches fly. My elbow struck the bench behind me--went buzzing numb. I shifted. I put a hand on, and into a chest. Wrestling frantically, my hand passed through shattered bone, and into something that felt like a wicker basket full of macaroni and raw liver. A strong hand choked off my gasp. My shadow moved off, I recognized the smile.

  "Not yet, clusterfuck!" Willieboy laughed, and then punched me repetitively on the chin. Three good solid punches--my ears hummed. He slammed me into the bulkhead--teeth rattling. I tasted blood; my eyes were swelling. But, it didn't matter any more. I was an angry sore ready to burst. Pain was all I could feel. I was so badly bruised only a bullet would stop me now. I flew back at him.

  "Soon!" I yelled, smashing my fists into his face. I kicked him in the chest as he tried to rise.

  He rolled with unexpected agility toward the rear door, leapt to his feet. He wiped old blood and drool from his shattered teeth. "Then do it!"