The Zombie Adventures of Sarah Bellum (24 page)

I wonder if that's a good
sign.

Homer is entertaining his
last few audience-members – a short fat zombie hopefully
holding out a bunch of dead flowers – possibly myopic,
considering Homer's 'qualifications' as a semi-nude exotic dancer…
and a couple of even more hopeful-looking zombies, whose posture and
own flamboyant air suggest that Homer is eminently qualified, for
their concept of this sort of performance art.

"There." Ace
points upwards.

Crispin is crouched on
the top of a fallen pillar, resting at forty-five degrees to the
ground, on top of some other dislodged masonry. He is apparently
still scanning the area, with his little opera-glasses.

Ace and I scramble up
onto the bottom of the sandstone block, and make our way up the
incline of the pillar to join him, many feet above the paved
market-place.

Goodness
–
the view from up here is
spectacular!

But as I look around, I
notice the snakelike river-god, Atum, still looming in the distance
over the giant barge and the pyramids, examining its domain, and I
gulp. That huge, ominous yellow Eye looks as though it could
obliterate the whole continent with one offended glance…

I look down into the
square, and am rewarded with a vertiginous lurch in my gut. Homer is
still dancing, in a much less threatening manner – evidently
delighted to have found his niche market. Carvery is still hidden in
a furious ball of zombie rage. A zombie head explodes sharply out of
it, making me jump.

Still alive then, I note
– only slightly disappointed.

It would be a waste of
good DNA if he was torn to pieces…

"Any luck?" Ace
asks Crispin.

"We've lost the
clockwork hand," I butt in. "Luke ran off with it –
the traitor."

"He was probably
just scared, Sarah," Ace points out. "I was scared. Look at
my hand shaking."

He's such a liar. His own
dirty blood-soaked hand is as steady as a rock.

"We were probably
just a tad early," Crispin admits, turning to scan another
side-street. "The carpet-salesman has an established schedule…
aha."

He points into the
distance.

"The Oriental
gentleman in the coolie hat, with the long whiskers," he says.

"Where?" Ace
and I both squint, into the early-morning heat-haze. The streets seem
deserted – nothing but shadows and miniature sand-storms,
drifting along them.

"We will need a few
more minutes," Crispin says. "I hope my brother has enough
wind in his sails to stretch out his dance routine a bit longer…"

We all look downwards, to
check. Still a good effort from Homer – in the distracting
department – being put on below us in the quad. And still a
mass of exploding zombies where Carvery Slaughter should be.

"Now – what
was that about Mr. Lukan and the clockwork hand?" Crispin asks
vaguely, raising his opera-glasses once more…

CHAPTER
THIRTY-ONE
:

THE LIFE OF BRAINS

Fortunately – or
possibly unfortunately – something more pressing intervenes on
our discussion.

Some of the slave zombies
have noticed our position atop the tilted pillar, overlooking the
square, and are gradually gathering at the base.

One of them is boosted up
onto the uppermost surface by his comrades, and starts to scale the
hypotenuse determinedly. Others scrabble to follow.

"Um – I think
we have company," I squeak. "And not not the sort you get
the best china out for!"

"Carver!" Ace
yells.

The boiling sphere of
hungry zombies down in the market-place, where Carvery Slaughter's
current position can be estimated, seems to rotate slightly, on an
unseen axis. A zombie cadaver pops out of it abruptly, and dangles –
from the shotgun barrels jammed into its ribcage.

The gun raises, angling
upwards, and fires. The zombie corpse shoots across the quad,
trailing limbs flapping – and knocks the ascending zombie from
its perch, halfway up our pillar.

"Good shot, buddy!"
Ace calls out.

The shotgun withdraws
into the ball again, and bits of zombie continue exploding out of it.

"Told you he was
having fun," Ace tells me – and then disappears, over the
edge.

Crispin and I both dive
forward at once. Ace is dangling by his fingertips, from the
crumbling sandstone.

Another zombie, who had
evidently scaled the pillar inverted, like a sloth, is hanging from
his ankles. More are now attempting the forty-five degree climb to
reach us.

"Crispin, I am so
sorry," I gasp, as we each grab hold of one of Ace Bumgang's
wrists. I decide to risk the theory of revealing bad news in the face
of greater danger. "But Luke has run off with the special
clockwork hand…"

"He will not get
far, Sarah
Bellummm
," Crispin Dry intones, calmly. "They
never do."

"What – it's
been taken before?" I ask.

"Still here, you
two," Ace chips in, also sounding remarkably cool about things.
"Zombie chomping on my trainers, and stuff…"

There is a whiplike crack
of air, and the end of Homer's ostrich-feather boa curls around the
knees of the suspended zombie. With an expression of horror, it is
yanked free.

Homer continues his
burlesque dance, while the now detached dangling zombie crashes in a
mess of gray splintered bone and sludge, onto the paving. The little
fat zombie spectator with the bunch of flowers is now on his knees,
in adoration – or perhaps due to his rickets – while the
other remaining two more
fey
zombies appear to be taking the
critical judgement evaluation standpoint, as they applaud the latest
trick in Homer's repertoire.

"It's all right,"
I say to Ace. "We'll pull you back up…"

He glances past me, over
my shoulder, wryly.

"I think I'll stay
put, thanks," he replies.

I look up just before the
shadow falls across me, and scream in the face of the latest zombie
to climb the pillar…

…
Just
before I'm aware of a sudden rush of air, as a sand-storm blows
swiftly down the street, engulfing us – and I feel Crispin grab
my shoulders and flip me backwards over the edge as well…

…
Falling
…

The air is knocked out of
me with a thud, as the wind seems to slap me in the face, and
suddenly I'm hurtling along at speed – with Ace and Crispin
sitting either side of me.

"Ah, just in time,"
Crispin approves. "Ace – Sarah – may I introduce
Justin Time, the carpet-salesman?"

"Justin Time?"
we both repeat, dazed.

The Oriental gentleman,
as forewarned in the coolie hat and with the long whiskers, looks at
us calculatingly over his shoulder. He is also sporting
Biggles
-style
aviator goggles, and the traditional white tasselled mohair scarf.

"That is my name,"
he snaps. "Don't wear it out."

"What happened?"
I ask Crispin, wiping the streaming tears from my eyes, caused by
wind-speed and sand.

I become aware of the
distant view of the market-place wheeling far below us, and the sight
of tiny angry gray zombies shaking their fists from the top of the
fallen pillar.
What the Hell…??

We are sitting in a
rickshaw!

Mr. Time is perched just
in front of us, with a little driving whip and some reins in his
hands. And the reins are harnessed to…

…
A
rug.

The sort you put on the
hall floor… an actual
rug
…

Flying!!

More rugs are rolled up
at our feet, and strapped to the back. Some of them are wriggling.
And not all of them appear to be unoccupied, either.

"Mr. Time,"
Crispin begins, quite loudly, while I'm sure I can hear pleas for
mercy emerging from some of the carpet-bundles. "We need to get
to the Six a.m. Lounge. But would you be so kind as to pick up the
rest of our party on the way?"

"That will cost
extra," Mr. Time snaps again.

"I can offer you –
two days off."

"Hah!" Mr. Time
leans the rickshaw. It's as if he wants to scare us. "Twenty! In
August!"

Ace is brushing bits of
zombie finger off his
Caterpillar
hi-tops, before resting his
feet up on one of the struggling sausages of rolled-up carpet.

"I can perhaps
stretch to a long weekend in September?" Crispin ponders.

I look over the side as
we circle the square again, and squeal as a zombie skull hurtles
skywards past us, its eye-sockets full of white ostrich-feather.

"You insult me, Mr.
Dry!" Justin Time froths, slapping the reins crossly on the back
of the flying carpet. It bucks, bouncing us in our seats. "Twenty
days! If you are lucky, maybe I even clean your dirty rugs too!"

"God, just give him
his days off!" I appeal. A zombie arm arcs slowly over us,
tumbling gently, and I suddenly find myself the surprise recipient of
a dead floral bouquet.

"We have to do
this," Crispin whispers. "It is traditional to exchange the
barter and the insults, so that he will feel better about it when he
wins."

He clears his throat.

"A week, Mr. Time!"
he proposes. "Late July! And a long weekend in September!"

"Not listening, Mr.
Dry!" our pilot shouts. "La-la-la! I want August!"

They continue their
obligatory negotiations, while my mind spins, and my stomach –
well, I've never flown before, put it that way.

"Thanks," Ace
remarks, trying to inch further away from me in the seat. "I
think you actually found a clean bit of my overalls that I missed
yacking on myself, earlier."

"Sorry." I use
a tail of Lady Glandula's borrowed robes to wipe my mouth.

A loud bang comes from
the side of our carriage, and a ragged hole appears right beside him.

"Ow!" Ace
flinches, and snatches his elbow off the sill of the rickshaw. Blood
trickles from a large nick in his arm. "All right Crispin, hurry
up. Carvery just shot me."

"Twenty days in
August, Mr. Dry!" shrieks our driver, not budging one iota.

"A fortnight in
August!" Crispin relents.

Justin looks back at us,
a glint of triumph in his smile.

"And a virgin!"
he amends.

Oh, God
…
I
seem to recall seeing that one coming…

But then an even bigger
elephant in the room suddenly raises its ugly head – quite
literally…

"Look out, Mr.
Time…" Crispin points.

The pilot turns abruptly,
and veers to avoid the gigantic yellow Eye of the river-god, Atum. I
slide sharply along the seat, sandwiched between Ace and Crispin. Ace
grunts resentfully, as his shotgun-pellet wound smacks hard into the
side of the rickshaw.

"Out of my way!"
Mr. Time rants, waving his arm ineffectually at the looming
sea-monster. "Stupid great snake! Like you own the place!"

"Technically…"
Crispin begins, but then catches both of our eyes, and appears to
think better of it.

The frightening rumble
emanates again from the endless scaly column, and the prehensile neck
curls around to follow our path, as Justin Time disciplines his
wayward rug to hightail it back in the direction of the square. There
is a bump, as we just clip the tip of the tallest mast on Lady
Glandula's barge, in passing.

"We will discuss the
terms
en route
," Crispin continues, smoothly.

I don't get it – is
that him agreeing to the price, or not yet?

"…But first,
my brother…?" he reminds the pilot.