G Wells Taylor - [The Apocalypse Trilogy 01] - When Graveyards Yawn ()(1), Angielskie [EN](1)
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WHEN
GRAVEYARDS
YAWN
The Apocalypse Trilogy
Book One
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
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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
ISBN: 978-1-4357-1391-8
WILDCLOWN MYSTERIES
Email: books@wildclown.com
Website: www.wildclown.com
Cover Design by G. Wells Taylor
For
Mary Cushnie
Other Titles by G. Wells Taylor
The Apocalypse Trilogy
WHEN GRAVEYARDS YAWN – A Wildclown Novel
THE FORSAKEN
THE FIFTH HORSEMAN
Wildclown Mysteries
MENAGERIE – A Wildclown Novel
WILDCLOWN HIJACKED
WILDCLOWN HARD-BOILED
THE CORPSE – HARBINGER
Gene Spiral Stories
6
– PORTRAIT OF A 21
ST
CENTURY SNUFF FIGHTER
1
– HISTORY OF THE MOONCALF
Horror Fiction
MEMORY LANE
BENT STEEPLE
THE LAST CAMPING TRIP
Check wildclown.com for publishing updates.
Part One: Changeling
Chapter 1
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.
1
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