The Zombie Adventures of Sarah Bellum (23 page)

"Not mine."
Crispin shakes his head, and then glances a little sheepishly over at
our Nigerian cab-driver, Luke. "But ancestors of one of our
party, most definitely. The original engineers of the pyramids, you
could say…"

"You mean slaves?"
I gasp. Both Carvery and Ace thump me, on either arm. "Ow…"

"I could try and
talk to them," Luke suggests.

Crispin looks even more
uncomfortable.

"I think you'll find
the, er…
introduction protocols
are a little different
to what you may have experienced, Mr. Lukan," he says. "Kneeling
down and touching your forehead to the ground might be considered
inadvisable, for example – unless you want it cemented there
permanently."

"Obvious, in the
building trade," Carvery agrees. "Any opportunity for the
competition to make off with your tools, when you're not looking."

"Well, what would
YOU recommend we do?" I ask him, irritably. "Seeing as
you're the expert on the –
stone slab
side of things."

He gives me an assessing
glance.

"You're the one
dressed as their psychotic zombie queen leader," he points out.
"Why don't YOU come up with something?"

I look down at the
glittering clockwork hand, tucked safely into the belt of my gown. It
merely looks as decorative as the star on a Christmas tree right now.
And about as lethal.

"Maybe there's
something helpful in that book," I shoot back, indicating Mr.
Dry Senior's leather-bound diary, tucked into Carvery's own
waistband. "Or would it take you too long to colour all the
pictures in first?"

"I've already
checked," he says. "No tits in it."

"Or tacos," Ace
smirks.

"Friends,"
Crispin's powerful zombie monotone interrupts, before I can make
another riposte. "We are not getting anywhere by arguing amongst
ourselves. I suggest we send in a distraction."

As one, we all exchange
looks, and turn to look at Homer N. Dry – currently
half-disrobed transvestite zombie. Only the ostrich-feather boa
remains, from his dressing-up sessions this morning.

"Homer,"
Crispin announces, solemnly. "I am giving you permission to
enact that little fantasy of yours, which Father always prohibited at
dinner-parties."

"
Home?
"
Homer asks, uncertainly. A look of perverse hope flickers fleetingly
across his disturbing gray face.

"Yes." Crispin
takes a deep, bracing breath, his own lungs creaking and whistling as
he does so. "The one about the ladies of the
Villa Negra
– and the French Foreign Legion…"

Comprehension sinks in.
And a broad, manic, evil grin spreads across Homer's face.

The very same chilling
grin I first saw of his, on the CCTV footage in Crispin's hi-tech
security bunker, last night…

"
Goooood
,"
Homer approves, rubbing his ragged hands together, and cracking his
knuckles.

* * * * *

I peek out tentatively,
around a pillar.

"Go on, Sarah."
Carvery urges, and I feel the butt of the shotgun nudge me in the
spine. "Homer needs an M.C, and you drew the short finger-bone.
Don't leave the creepy little zombie dude hanging."

The half-hidden Nigerian
slave zombies are still loitering menacingly in the shadows. Homer,
preening his leftover ostrich-feathers, is waiting patiently just at
my shoulder.

"God, all right!"
I grumble, and clear my throat.

I take one cautious pace
out into the open, worrying that Carvery appears to have the gun
trained on my own head – rather than at any potential
attackers.

"I expect you're all
wondering why I called this meeting!" I improvise loudly, in my
best cut-glass Lady Glandula de Bartholine impression. "Well,
er… you've all been very loyal, and very hardworking. Putting
up all these huge erections that I demand of you, and stuff. I can't
imagine what it must have been like lifting all of this stone, day
after day. So, um… I have a little reward for you. A bit of
entertainment."

I step aside, sweeping an
arm out, in a gesture of introduction.

"Gentlemen, I give
you… uh…" My brain frazzles.
Just say anything,
Sarah!
"All the way from… a galaxy far, far away…
the exotic fjords of… somewhere-or-other… Princess…
Homer Rottick!"

"Nice," Carvery
mutters.

Homer swirls past me into
the empty market square, trailing feather boa, like a rhythmic
gymnast. I hear the collective intake of zombie breath, as he
pirouettes into the centre of the pavement.

Any minute now, I'm
thinking. Any minute now – we're all going to be eaten alive…

"Oooh, I hope they
don't notice that…" Luke remarks, right by my ear,
sounding equally concerned. "He has a big wang for a dead white
fella."

"Must be a family
thing," I agree, instantly more worried, as Homer performs a
cartwheel.

"That doesn't sound
like a virgin
at all, Sarah," Carvery points out,
nastily.

"What?" I snap,
wondering why I'm now thinking about Madonna, and elevators. "Why
are you hanging around gawking? I thought you had a part in this plan
too?"

"Yeah, yeah,"
Carvery grins. "C'mon, Ace, let's go shift some stuff."

The two of them head off,
on their own determined mission.

Crispin has taken out a
small pair of opera-glasses, and is scanning the shadows. Some of the
strange zombies are starting to move forward slowly into the open,
attracted by the bizarre spectacle of burlesque gyrations, performed
by Homer N. Dry.

"Any sign of the
carpet-salesman?" I ask Crispin, hopefully.

"Not yet,"
Crispin admits. "I think I will need a better vantage-point. The
two of you stay here, and keep an eye on my poor brother. Well –
having the time of his life for now, at least…"

While Crispin hurries
away also, Luke and I watch the dancing Dry brother, with our own
mixture of deep concern and horrified fascination.

I feel like exactly like
Rachel did, on
Friends
…

"Oh, God – I
can't not look at it…" I quote. My fingers, covering my
face, are fighting each other to hide in my mouth.

"They are getting
very close," Luke confirms. Homer tickles the end of a zombie's
nose with a long feather. "They are going to notice quite soon
that he has the wrong qualifications for this sort of lady-dancing."

"Perhaps they've
noticed already?" I whisper. "And they aren't bothered?"

On the far side of the
square, in the shade of another pillar, I spot Carvery and Ace –
levering up a large paving-slab. My heart thumps in sympathy. I crane
my neck to try and spot Crispin.

Where on Earth has he
got to…??

"Can you see Crispin
at all?" I ask Luke.

"Maybe he's
scarpered," Luke says grimly, after looking fruitlessly around.
"Maybe we were ALL his distraction."

In the middle of the
square, Homer continues his grotesque ballet – the strangest,
gangliest, deadest Sugar-Plum Zombie Fairy I have ever seen…

"We should take the
clockwork hand, and run," Luke suggests. "Give it to me."

"What?" I gasp
in shock, as he makes a failed grab for my belt. "No!"

"Crispin has gone!"
he insists. "We have to save ourselves!"

"NO!" I shout
again, louder than I intended. I stumble backwards, trying to evade
his attempts to snatch the precious clockwork hand. "He'll be
back! He wouldn't abandon us…"

Suddenly one of the
zombies in the market square gives a roar, and we all look around –
to see the tallest, thinnest zombie standing over Homer –
pointing accusingly.

"Oh, shit…"
I mutter.

"Told you,"
Luke reminds me. "It's just not normal for a white dude to be
flaunting THAT about."

Homer twirls
coquettishly, trailing ostrich-feather boa – which inexplicably
speeds up, until it cracks like a whip…

…
And
the head of the tallest zombie pops straight off, bounces – and
rolls right over to my feet, underneath the long gown belonging to
Crispin Dry's mother.

As I snatch up my skirts
and leap aside with a scream, I see it give a much more approving
grin…

CHAPTER
THIRTY
:

THE MAGNIFICENT
SEPTUM

I don't know whether it's
my screaming, or Homer's lethal feather boa snapping around the neck
of a second zombie, rendering its future bow-tie wearing rather
precarious – but suddenly all Hell breaks loose.

Shotgun rounds fired from
behind the upright paving slab where Carvery is hiding immediately
take out a few more surprised slave zombies, and running from behind
it into the back of the gathering, I see Ace knock down a few more.

Is that an adjustable
spanner in his hand?

"Come on!" Luke
is still urging me. "Let's go!"

"We have to wait for
Crispin!" I hiss.

Why didn't he give us a
signal? Or some form of safety code?

Typical man!

Bits of zombie are
already flying, peppered with lead shot and shreds of white
ostrich-feather. Homer continues to whip and whirl, like Nureyev –
minus the tights.

"We have to do
something!" I moan. I look down in frustration at the golden
clockwork hand. Why isn't it helping us? If only I knew how to make
it work!

Ace is dodging from
pillar to pillar dealing with the enemy, one unsuspecting undead
pyramid-builder at a time. Some of the other zombies have figured out
where the gunshots are coming from, and converge on the paving-slab.
Bits of them splatter around, as their own front line meets line of
fire.

"I'm not waiting
here to get my brains eaten by my own ancestors, thank you very
much!" Luke announces. "It might be traditional – but
it's usually the other way around!"

And he makes one final –
and successful – grab for the Dry family heirloom.

"Give that back!"
I shout at him. "That was given to me to…"

But he has already gone,
kicking up dust, as he runs down another sandy side-street.

"…Fuck!"
I shout. Which was not at all how that sentence was meant to end, as
it came out of my mouth.

I look back at the
others. A huddle of zombies has reached the paving-slab, and Carvery
straightens up, kicking it over flat on top of the nearest ones,
jumping on top of it with a crunching of distressed bone and skull –
giving him a few seconds to re-load.

Homer is holding his own,
in the centre of a whirlwind of white feathers.

And Ace… I can't
see Ace…

"Sarah!" A hand
grabs my shoulder.

All imminent bathroom
requirements immediately dispensed with, I try to dislodge my inhaled
tongue and turn to see Ace Bumgang behind me. Yes – it's an
adjustable spatter in his hand. I mean,
spanner
.

Very spattered, at the
moment…

"Where's Luke?"
Ace demands.

"He ran off, that
way." I wave my arm weakly. "He stole the clockwork hand
too…"

"Well – he did
say he emigrated to seek his fortune," Ace reminds me. "I
guess he's planning on cutting his losses, having worked as a
minicab-driver since 1971. Let's find Crispin."

"What about Homer
and Carvery?" I ask, allowing Ace to drag me along by the elbow.

At least this is more
like one of my Ace Bumgang fantasies… without the added
zombie-massacre, maybe…

"Let them finish,
they're enjoying themselves," Ace reassures me. "You know
Carver's never happy unless he's beaten everyone else's body-count
high-score."

I look across into the
square as we run behind the pillars. Carvery Slaughter is rapidly
disappearing, under a mass of zombies, like bees flocking to subdue
an interloping hornet. Every so often a gunshot hole appears in the
seething, writhing bundle. I don't hear any screaming.