The Zombie Adventures of Sarah Bellum (30 page)

"A poor defenceless
woman," I tell him. "Eviscerated in her bed…"

"Eviscerwated?"
He sucks in his breath between his teeth. "Oh my. Woger, I think
we may need the photogwapher – huwwy back to the pub, wake him
up, and don't let the other hacks know we're onto a biggy…"

"But Ted –
what if they won't let him leave without paying his slate? They only
listen to you…"

"You know I can't
cawwy the gweat fat oaf and his equipment on my own, Woger…"

"I'll be here,"
I assure them, as they both look at me like hungry puppy-dogs. "You
can both run and fetch him, and I'll make sure no-one else gets first
look…"

"You, my girl, are a
diamond," says Ted. "One more thing – this
Whipper
– does he have a first name? Weginald? Wichard?"

"I'm sure it's not
my place to hijack the real name of
The Whipper
," I say,
shaking my head, as Woger – I mean Roger – drags him
away.

"
Jack
is
weally the name of
The Whipper
, you say?" he calls out,
disappearing into the smog.

"No, er…"
I begin, weakly, but they have gone – shouting about keeping
something a secret.
Damn it
…

"Have they gone?"
Carvery asks, jabbing me between the shoulder-blades. "Let's go.
By the sound of it, those two couldn't keep a secret if they put it
where the sun doesn't shine."

"Good work, Sarah
Bellummm
," Crispin says, much more approvingly, emerging
behind him with a large, handmade, bloodied linen bag. "But I
think Mr. Slaughter has a point. The residents of the Seven a.m.
Lounge are rather more curious than cautious, and the whiff of gossip
will have them out like a pack of hounds…"

"It's them!" a
distant voice suddenly hails, echoing along the alleyways. "The
invasion has started – from the Six a.m. Lounge!"

"Ah," Crispin
continues. "It sounds like my brother Homer and Ace Bumgang have
caught up with us. No doubt smelling distinctly of Madam Dingdong's
Bring Your Own Towel Sauna And Spa
Eau de Toilette."

CHAPTER
THIRTY-NINE
:

THE LEG OF
EXTRANEOUS GENITO-URINARY MEDICINE

Almost immediately, we
are inspired to run. The sound of stampeding feet seems to come from
all directions in the maze of alleyways, accompanied by the angry
shouting of the Seven a.m. Lounge denizens – which sounds
exactly as though it comes complete with cleavers, butcher's knives,
pitchforks and flaming torches attached.

"Ruddy Six a.m.
Loungers!" I hear a cry, too close for comfort. "Sneaking
up on us – with your fancy flying hearth-rugs, and
hocus-pocus!"

"I don't suppose you
want to try out your Lady Glandula impression on them, do you,
Sarah?" Carvery asks me as we pause for breath in the shadow of
a doorway, with a nasty grin. "Seeing as you've still got her
dress on. That'd put the heebie-jeebies up them all right."

"You may not have
noticed, but I'm lacking a certain limb to complete the job
description of
Quim of the Damned
," I retort. "I'm a
bit short in the alien tentacle department."

"I'm sure there's a
piece of gizzard left over from that woman you just skewered that we
could stick up your nightdress," he suggests. "I bet no-one
here has seen the real thing. You could get away with it."

But I'm distracted from
answering by another immediate fact.

"Where has Crispin
gone?" I demand, looking around.

But as I look back again
– Carvery has also vanished. Into the smog, the shadows, thin
air – I have no idea…

Oh, God. Do I stay put?
Do I run??

"There's one of
'em!" a voice cries, and I see torchlight at the end of the
alleyway.

I take my chances, and
run. Blindly. Anywhere.

Hoping that any turn I
take doesn't lead to a…

…
Dead
end…

I feel as though the
endless brick-wall alleys are turning into those dreaded tunnels,
back in the Three a.m. Lounge – or was that the Four a.m.
Lounge? What bloodthirsty maneaters could turn up here? Monitor
lizards? Crocodiles? More of Crispin and Homer's eccentric zombie
ancestors?

The winding routes make
me dizzy, and the crossways bring tears to my eyes. Which way?
Which
way?
I run onwards, hoping to find my way at least to the river,
where maybe I could reach the safety of the rickshaw and flying
carpet…

Trying to stay one step
ahead of the noise of angry residents, I double-back after one left
turn and hurry back the way I came, only to realise – too late
– that I can hear running feet also approaching the same
junction.

I try to double my speed,
hoping to bisect the crossway before anyone else reaches it…

…
And
collide with a mass of tanned muscle, smelling of Sea Breeze fabric
softener, and Lotus Blossom massage oil…

"It's me," says
Ace, taking his hand off my mouth. He obviously knows my scream
reflex too well by now. "Where is everyone else?"

"I don't know, Ace,"
I sob. "We got separated…"

I try to fling myself
into his arms, tragic-heroine style – but he steps aside too
quickly, so that I merely deflect clumsily off the wall.

"They'll be around
somewhere," he shrugs. "Come on."

So I'm resigned to
stumbling along hurriedly in his path, hiking up my skirts
gracelessly. God… Why is it never like the movies? Why hasn't
he swept me off my feet and carried me to safety?

How much more obvious
do I have to be??!

A sound like a gunshot
startles me from my thoughts of romantically fickle injustice, and
the rickshaw pulls up abruptly at the next junction, the flying rug
rearing up like a stallion, pawing the air.

"Quickly, Sarah
Bellummm
," Crispin calls out from the driving-seat. "We
will have to meet the others at the water's edge. The turning tide
means that our transport to the Eight a.m. Lounge will not delay much
longer."

"Can't we take the
flying rickshaw to get there?" I ask, as Ace and I scramble in
on either side.

"The rickshaw will
not leave its driver behind in such a state as Mr. Time currently
is," Crispin explains. "I am afraid Mr. Time has already
found his bed to sober up in at one of the Seven a.m. Lounge's
delightful constabularies. So we will take the optional
transportation route – which hopefully will put us back on the
path of Mr. Lukan, and the stolen clockwork hand. Now – hold on
tight, please…"

And the rug strikes out
again at the crack of the whip, jerking us into forward motion once
more, as two legions of Seven a.m. Lounge residents converge on our
spot from both directions.

Looking behind, I see
them charging in pursuit, throwing half-bricks and other missiles.
And from above – I'm fairly certain that they are on the
rooftops as well…

"What about the
other two?" Ace asks. "I think Homer stopped to try and buy
a hat."

Crispin mutters something
that is probably a curse against cross-dressing.

"…Father
would never forgive me if I left the little painted trollop behind,"
he grumbles at last. "He knows his own way about…
probably the safest of us on his own here, he is so popular amongst
the seamstresses… Hang on. I know where he will most likely be
found."

And we turn hard right,
out of the labyrinth of alleyways into wider roads, dodging
horse-drawn cabs, and startling pedestrians.

Oh no – this looks
like the way back to the market-place…

"It's all right, so
long as they think we're still back there around the houses,"
Ace points out. "Whoa, watch out for the flower-seller…
never mind. She looked old anyway…"

"There's Carvery!"
I cry. "Over there – fighting with that Geisha-girl…"

"THAT is no girl,"
Crispin remarks, grimly.

I look again.

Ohhhh
…
And
it doesn't look like they're fighting, on second glance. To be
honest, it looks as though the Geisha-girl is refusing to leave a
shop by hanging onto the doorway for dear life, in spite of Carvery
tugging on the other arm…

"Homer!" I hear
Carvery yelling. "It's not even your colour! Let go of the
stupid hat and let's go!"

Homer, who has evidently
just had 'the full works' at Madam Dingdong's, is indeed painted,
primped and preened beyond recognition. The white face powder. The
rose-red Cupid's Bow of a mouth. The black hairpiece, complete with
ornaments. The fabulously decorated kimono…

"
Gooood
…"
Homer protests.

He scrabbles at the
doorway of the hat-shop, as Carvery makes a heroic effort, and hoists
the skinny transvestite zombie over his shoulder – in exactly
the way I so wished Ace had done with me – before running
towards us in the rickshaw.

"Go!" Carvery
yells, dumping Homer on the floor at our feet, and jumping in.

"Well done, Mr.
Slaughter," Crispin says, and I sense his relief – at
having the difficult job of corralling Homer done for him, so
efficiently.

The rug twitches into
life again, and this time we soar over the market-stalls, taking a
different route towards the river.

"Ace, buddy,"
Carvery greets him. "You smell like a cheerleader's gym locker."

"Dude," Ace
frowns at him. "You just gave a fireman's lift to a zombie drag
queen."

"Meaning?"
Carvery raises an eyebrow.

"Meaning, you smell
like a cheerleader's armpit." Ace dodges as Carvery aims an
elbow at his head, meaning I get it in the ear instead.

"Ow!" I yell
indignantly.

"Please, do not
fight amongst yourselves," Crispin urges, trying to concentrate
on steering the flying rug. "We are nearly there…"

And not a moment too
soon. Already we can hear the angry mob closing in, and
deliberately-aimed roof-tiles bounce off the canopy of the rickshaw.

"Can't we go
higher?" I ask.

"Our transport is
rather more low-profile this time, Sarah
Bellummm
," says
Crispin, and I spot a glint of streetlamp reflected off the river in
the distance, as we near the water's edge. "And like I said –
it will not wait around, due to the tide."

A great creaking and
groaning sound reaches our ears, and the end of the road where it
stops at the riverbank suddenly darkens, eclipsed by the rising of a
strange monolith from the river itself. Water cascades from its
sides, and for one terrible moment I believe that the river-god Atum
has arrived, to decimate the city with its omnipotent Eye of doom…

But instead of scales,
the shape is covered in riveted metal plates. As we approach, a
drawbridge lowers from it, onto the pier alongside.

"That is our
transport to the Eight a.m. Lounge," Crispin announces. "The
Colossal U-Boat –
The Great Nematode
."

CHAPTER
FORTY
:

THE HUNT FOR RECTAL
OEDEMA

I can well believe the
need for a high tide. Goodness – the upper surface of the boat
as it emerges from the depths stretches the length of the docks as
far as I can make out, in either direction. Even with the smog
drifting a few feet overhead, it is still quite a distance.

"That's a sub?"
Ace gasps. "Holy shit."

"Don't,"
Carvery grunts. "Reminds me of something Miss Fuckwit greeted me
with after work once, suggesting we should try out. Luckily there
were no batteries in the house, or I'd have had to fake a slipped
disc again. The amount of total crap she keeps hidden in her
wardrobes… just the stuff she thinks is needed to set the mood
now is like playing
Ann Summers Buckaroo
."

"Sciatica," Ace
nods. "That's a good one. Good excuse to lie on the beanbag
chair with a beer playing
Metal Gear Solid
all night, and tell
'em to go play with their toys on their own."