The Zombie Adventures of Sarah Bellum (15 page)

I hear the scaly scrape
of a reptile tail against aluminium behind me. Before the echo has
even formed, I've never moved so quickly in my life.

I know I don't have a
hope in Hell.

Out-crawl a monitor
lizard in a low passageway? I might as well try turning around and
seeing if I can out-bite it…

But my fear drives me
forwards, even knowing that I'm doomed. And around the next corner,
my heart jumps vertically up into my throat, and makes a desperate
grab for my epiglottis…

A ladder!!

Leading straight up!

Almost crying with
relief, I propel myself forward quickly, using the slippery silk of
the pyjamas to surf the aluminium floor, and clutch at the rungs of
the upward ventilation shaft. No more than six or seven feet up, I
feel the violent vibration as a powerful claw twangs the bottom of
the ladder, and make the mistake of looking down – into those
hungry, poisonous jaws.

God help me
…
I redouble my efforts to climb, the
latticework metal grille at the top a blur as I ascend.

"Help!" I hear
a shriek, and then recognise it as my own, while I batter my knuckles
and palms of my hands on the underside of the grille. "Let me
out! Help me!"

And then I'm punching
nothing. Something clamps around my wrist, and I'm dragged bodily out
of the vent. I scream again, trying to identify the sensation. Do
monitor lizards drag their prey, or bite first? Am I out of the
frying pan into a fire?

Then I find myself
dangling at eye-level with Carvery Slaughter, and realise that yes –
quite possibly I am…

"Why am I always
catching you hanging around me at the moment?" he demands.

"Wishful thinking?"
I suggest, my voice a mouse's peep.

"Not mine, I think
you'll find," he remarks, and deposits me back on my feet,
before kicking the grid back over the hole in the floor.

It's a stonework tunnel
similar to earlier – I must be back on the level of the secret
passageways inside the house. A glance at Carvery does nothing to
settle my stomach. Even worse, he seems to be alone.

"Where are the
others?" I ask. "And what have you been up to?"

He's covered in blood,
for one thing. My hope that it's his own, is quickly dashed.

"Well, Homer won't
have to worry about returning that blonde wig to Mrs. Frittata now,"
Carvery shrugs, and the next thing I note is that he's now in
possession of a shotgun. I glance at it nervously, as it rests on his
shoulder.

"Why is it that you
always pick on the women, and not the men?" I want to know.

"I think that last
one was debatable," he grins. "You didn't see her.
Nightmare."

He takes a step closer,
eyeing me up and down.

"Anyway," he
continues. "What are you hiding behind your back? Been
collecting a few souvenirs of your own?"

"No!" I cry,
holding out my empty hands to show him.

"You're a terrible
liar, Sarah," he says. The muzzle of the shotgun is suddenly
under my chin. "Turn around and face the wall."

My hands now in the air,
petrified, I do as he orders. I let out a whimper, as I feel his own
hand go up the back of the pyjama top.

There is an ominous rip.
I close my eyes, expecting the worst…

"Hmmm," he says
at last. "I put only one hand up there, so why did two come
out?"

"What?!" I
yell, and try to turn, flinching as the shotgun barrel jabs me in the
ear.

The felt rabbit drops on
the floor with a last regretful squeak, dissected beyond playroom
resuscitation.

Carvery is examining
something shiny in the darkness, glinting with polished gemstones.

"This is that
clockwork hand thing he was going on about earlier, isn't it?"
he says. "What are you doing with it?"

"That was given to
me to look after!" I say indignantly. I'm such a dork. It was
the actual
hand
that Mr. Dry Senior was entrusting me with!
Not the toy at all. "Give it back!"

Carvery looks at it a
moment longer, then holds it out.

"Sure," he
says, dismissively. "Take it."

Cautiously, I do so.

Then he changes his grip
on the gun, and aims it back at my head.

"Now YOU give it
back, please," he says, and with a sigh of defeat, I hand it
over. "Well done. Remember – never try to negotiate with
an armed man, unless you have something bigger up your sleeve."

I wonder if the
leather-bound diary counts as something bigger. Knowing my luck, he
would find it only mildly less offensive than the contents of my own
diary.

But I'm glad it has
stayed hidden, in my waistband at the front. Maybe Crispin will still
be able to decipher something useful from it.

"Right,"
Carvery says, as I nod my acquiescence. "Let's go and find the
others."

Phew, I think, as I fall
into step beside him, pausing only to pick up the remains of Higham
Dry's toy rabbit, sentimentally.
I hope that means they're still
alive
…

CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
:

SLIPPED DISCLOSURE

I don't ask how Carvery
got separated from the rest of his group, and likewise, he doesn't
ask me the same question.

My reason for avoiding
curiosity, is he's the one covered in blood, and currently armed with
a shotgun. So I just stay silent, as we head deeper into the
stone-walled tunnel.

For all I know, we could
be the last two left alive in the house… I gulp down my
nausea, as I wonder how long would be a respectable amount of time to
figure out a way to be the very last one left alive. With
sperm-jacking privileges first, obviously…

"Looks like a dead
end," he says, eventually. "Oh, no – look, there is
something here…"

I shine my torch beam
onto the wall. A square sliding panel is set at about waist-height.
It's maybe four foot by four, and next to it is an up-down arrow
keypad, the type for an elevator.

Carvery levers the panel
open, and stale air greets us from the dark, empty shaft. He risks a
quick glance inside. I'm sorry to see that his head emerges again,
still attached.

"I guess we have to
call the dumb waiter," he remarks, letting the panel slide shut,
and presses a button. Unseen gears whir into life, and the distant
squealing of pulleys announce the approach of the lift.

"Ace seemed to think
it was a good party at the University earlier," I venture,
trying to make what sounds like normal small-talk, while also fishing
for information. "Did he, er, have a lot to drink?"

"Oh, he was buzzing
all right," Carvery agrees. "But it's okay, because he told
me to skin any women who tried to take advantage. So we both had a
pretty good night, in all."

Ah… I didn't
realise that sort of social arrangement existed between guys. At
least two-thirds of my fantasies, regarding the outcome of cornering
Ace Bumgang drunk at some point, immediately shuffle right off the
drawing-board.

Damn
…

The dumb waiter lift
arrives, with an electronic 'ping'.

Carvery and I exchange a
look, neither making a move to open the panel first.

"Do you think a
monitor lizard might be able to squeeze in there?" I whisper.

"Or a Frittata
brother?" he suggests. He hefts the shotgun and points it at the
doors. "Or a hungry zombie? You push the button, Sarah."

My breath trapped in my
lungs, I reach out with a shaky hand, and do so.

After a pause, and a
faint click – the door slides back.

Nothing.

Just a smooth, square,
empty box.

"Cool." Carvery
lowers the gun. "Right, get in."

"I'm not going
first," I argue. "We don't know what's at the top."

"You'd rather stay
down here in a dead end on your own?" he asks.

I hear the echo of a hiss
in the tunnel behind us, and I blanch, shaking my head.

"Do you hear
something moving back there?" I squeak. The familiar scraping
sound is followed by a dull metallic clang –
oh, no
–
the ventilation shaft…

Carvery sizes up the dumb
waiter.

"I reckon we can
both fit in," he announces, turns around, and scoots in
backwards. He reaches out towards me. "Come on – spoon
up."

"You've got to be
kidding…"

"Well, take the
alternative. A free ride in the digestive tract of a monitor lizard."

The sound of scuttling
claws clatters along the dark passageway.

"Maybe if you leave
me the gun," I say, willing to take my chances against wildlife,
rather than a ride in a small wooden box, with a certified
psychopath.

"Fuck that." He
leans out and grabs me bodily around the waist, dragging me into the
tiny space with him.

Gasping in shock, I have
to fold in my arms and legs lotus-style as I'm crushed up against
him, my back to his chest. He reaches out once more to punch the
button again, and the door slides closed – just as the reptile
shape appears out of the gloom, drooling jaws open wide.

Carvery shifts slightly
so that I'm trapped between his legs in the tiny lift, which suddenly
feels like a coffin, even as it hums into life, grinding slowly
upwards. God – I'm in a confined space with Carvery Slaughter –
I'm gonna die, I'm gonna die,
I'm gonna die
…

"What the fuck is
that in your hair, Sarah?" he breaks the silence first,
scattering my preconceptions of what he might be likely to say in
this situation.

"Huh?" I
swallow. My throat feels like a ball of nerves is trapped in there.
"Oh… it's egg. I fell down a hole, into the hen-house."

"That explains the
smell too, then," he remarks.

I try not to think about
what Carvery smells like. My hormones are staging a mutiny. His mouth
is right next to my ear, and his breath tickles.

"Charming," I
say instead, fighting thoughts of retaliation, while those gun
barrels are still only four inches away from my head as well. "I
don't know what my housemate Thingy sees in you."

"Well, she's pretty
shallow, so I'm guessing she only sees a wallet, a dick and a
Ferrari," he replies, mildly.

"And what do you see
in her?" I ask. "A punching bag?"

"Why assume that I'm
the one who's violent?" he says. "For all you know, she
could be doing it to herself, for the attention. Girls can be a real
bitch when they don't get their own way. Or if they just want a new
pair of shoes. Chucking themselves down the stairs, and all sorts."

"You don't fool me,"
I retort, although I feel uneasy. Poor Mr. 'domestic incident'
Wheelie-Bin at the Body Farm, with his detached scalp… "She
couldn't bite her own thumb off!"

I feel Carvery shrug,
behind me.

Damn you, traitorous
hormones!

"You never know."

I wonder if he's
grinning, while feeding me all these evil ideas, designed to instil
self-doubt.

"And what about all
of your ex-girlfriends disappearing?" I demand. "Like,
under the building foundations where you work?"

"Some women just
don't understand the meaning of the words 'restraining order',"
he says. "And they're all as kinky as fuck these days. I get
home after a hard day's work, and they want to be strung up from the
ceiling, flogged, beaten, and tickled with a feather duster for eight
hours. What's wrong with you all? Especially when they don't explain
in advance that they didn't mean 'strung up' by the neck. Serves them
right."

"I don't believe
you," I mutter. "I think you're a psycho – who does
it for fun."