WHEN GRAVEYARDS YAWN
The Apocalypse Trilogy
G. Wells Taylor
Copyright 2002 by G. Wells Taylor
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This digital book MAY NOT be modified without the express written consent of the author. Any and all parts of this digital book MAY be reproduced or transmitted in any form and by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, provided that the original content is not modified in any way from the original work and that no compensation is received for any method of reproduction.
Second Printing: 2008
Cover Design by G. Wells Taylor
Other Titles by G. Wells Taylor
The Apocalypse Trilogy
WHEN GRAVEYARDS YAWN - A Wildclown Novel
THE FIFTH HORSEMAN
MENAGERIE - A Wildclown Novel
THE CORPSE - HARBINGER
Gene Spiral Stories
6 - PORTRAIT OF A 21ST CENTURY SNUFF FIGHTER
1 - HISTORY OF THE MOONCALF
THE LAST CAMPING TRIP
Check wildclown.com for publishing updates.
Part One: Changeling
The dead man looked at the clown and smiled. The clown was draped over a chair and desk across from him in a semi-intoxicated state of contemplative repose and was too busy studying his reflection in a hand mirror to notice the nervous gesture. The clown's small black eyes studied the image in the mirror with something like the concentrated discipline of an astronomer. They squeezed into tight whirls of flesh and pondered, peering at the silvery surface from cavernous sockets in a right then left canted head as though such contortions could help him fathom what the eyes saw. A hazy border of greasy fingerprints obscured the issue more giving the reflection a dream-like quality. The clown could easily make out the dark spiky hair that grew to his shoulder and the tip of his nose painted black. By lifting his chin he revealed a wide grin scrawled across his white-powdered cheeks, by dropping it he showed scripted eyebrows swooping up and over the tall forehead in exclamation or terror. They wrinkled, gleaming with sweat. Perhaps they posed a question.
An ill-fitting coverall hung on the big man's frame with all the sophistication of an oily tarp thrown over discarded car parts. The apparel was decorated with faded colored spots that vied equally for notice with stains of various sorts. His boots were black and heavy, better suited to combat than office work. They were crossed on the desk, and threatened to upset the telephone where it had been pushed with a pile of papers and overflowing ashtrays.