The Zombie Adventures of Sarah Bellum (5 page)

"No, the sensation
of touch. With your permission I will draw some different objects
across the surface of your skin, and you will guess what they are."

"Oh, like
Draw My
Thing
?" I conclude. One of my favourite pursuits on the
internet in the evenings, while not doing homework assignments, is to
try and get Ace Bumgang to
Draw
his
Thing
and email it
to me. "Do I get three clues as to what you're drawing?"

"If you relax, we
shall start," he says at last. "And the game will explain
itself as we go along."

"Sure," I
shrug, and roll up my sleeve. "Nothing on the face. Or below the
wrist, in case it doesn't wash off. People don't appreciate seeing
knobs drawn on your hand when you're delivering their pizza…"

I break off with a gasp,
as I feel something icy cold slide up the sensitive skin of my inner
arm.

"What do you think
this is?" he asks, as the tingling cold sensation slides slowly
all the way down again, and back up.

"Er…"
The cold has alerted parts of me I that didn't even know were
peckish. I could use another bucket of chicken wings, never mind that
cocktail, wherever it is. "Um, can I ask for a clue?"

"If you ask a
question, it must be in the form of a question with a Yes/No answer."

Phew… I feel the
icy cold sliding, torturously, all the way back down from my shoulder
to my wrist.
So
different from playing online…

"Okay," I say
at last, my mouth almost like sandpaper by now. Mostly in trepidation
of what the answer to my question might be. "Is it to scale?"

CHAPTER
FOUR
:

BODY OF CONDIMENTS

I got to grips with the
rules of the blindfold touch game eventually. It was the object that
Crispin Dry was drawing on me with that I was supposed to guess, not
the
Thing
he was drawing. That made it much easier, to my vast
relief.

So obviously the first
object was an ice cube. The second was also easy – I've handled
enough human scalps in my time at University to recognise the tickle
of tanned hide and hair. The third was harder – I hazarded an
Ugli fruit, a cauliflower floret, a sock full of marbles, a stitched
leather catcher's mitt, and even an artichoke, before giving up. I
was kicking myself when Crispin told me it was a shrunken human head.
I should have known that one.

The fourth object was
another easy guess, but it was the noise that gave it away. I felt
the dig of something sharp clustered against my belly, through my
Pizza Heaven
work fleece, and the soft feathery tickle against
my bare arm. There was an unmistakable crooning sound, followed by an
uncertain cluck.

"A live chicken,"
I announce, triumphantly. I hear Crispin's echoing undead chuckle.

"I see I will have
to be more creative, Sarah
Bellummm
," he says, in his
now-familiar zombie moan.

Still blindfolded, I hear
him moving things around on the tray. I wonder if there's any danger
of that drink appearing any time soon. Typical male. They invite you
in for a coffee, and it turns out they have no coffee in the house
after all, just a waxworks dungeon and a complete box-set of
Playboy
Mansion
.

I jump out of my skin, as
the next sensation I feel is a mechanical vibration against my hip.
My sudden movement seems to startle Crispin also, because I hear
something metallic clatter on the tray.

"What is the matter,
Sarah?" he asks.

"It's okay, it's
just my mobile phone," I say, feeling the rhythmic buzz a second
time.

I squirm around to reach
my pocket, and prop myself up on my elbow, pulling the blindfold up
to see the number.
Caller ID
informs me that it's Cramps
University Hospital.
Yes!

"It's the hospital,"
I tell him, and he looks disappointed. "They've promised me an
autopsy session if a suitable research donor is found… maybe
there is a fresh one in that has the right paperwork."

"You must answer, by
all means," he says, and replaces the forceps regretfully on the
tray.

He picks up a hi-ball
glass instead, containing an iced pink liquid garnished with mint and
lime, and I hold my free hand out eagerly to accept it as I press
Connect. Ooohh – Sloe Gin Sling! My favourite…

"Hello?" I say
into the phone, and take a huge gulp of Gin Sling before the sting of
alcohol on my tongue reminds me that I'm not allowed into the morgue
under the influence.
Damn!
I hope I have breath mints on me.

"Sarah, it's me,"
says Miss Blah-blah-blah, my housemate.

"Hello – what
are you doing calling me,
hombre
?" I ask. "I'm
working, I hope you realise."

"Sarah, I'm in
Cramps Hospital. My boyfriend didn't believe me when I said I had the
termination today. He came round and we had a fight. We started to
have make-up sex but then he said he was still angry with me, and bit
my thumb off. They're going to try and reattach it. I'm in the
Emergency Room now, will you come and sit with me? I'll make sure you
get paid for the rest of your shift."

"Oh, you mean now?"
I grumble. "I'm with a customer…"

"I will take you
wherever you need to go, Sarah
Bellummmm
," says the
perfect zombie gentleman beside me, deftly tidying the tray.

I nod, and swallow the
rest of the Sloe Gin Sling. Phew. I could use a few more of those.

"I'd really
appreciate it, Sarah…" Dumb-Ass whines in my ear, over
the phone.

"Yeah, yeah, I'll
see what I can do," I say, and hang up. "That girl gives
retards a bad name. I need to get to the hospital. She's had another
bedroom mishap with that delightful human butcher she calls a
boyfriend."

"We must go
immediately," Crispin nods, getting to his feet and offering his
gray-skinned hand to help me up. "I will take you in the
Cadillac."

I allow him to lead on,
wondering hopefully if that means there will be more cocktails to
look forward to on our return… At least now I don't need to
worry about the breath mints.

* * * * *

We enter the hospital via
the rear transport entrance on the lower ground floor, and make our
way to the elevators that will take us up to the
Accident &
Emergency
department at the front. Two porters and a nurse pass
us, wheeling a cadaver wrapped in white sheets on a trolley, and I
hear a low guttural sound from my delectable zombie companion. It
hotwires my adrenal glands directly to my heart rate.

"Is it the smell?"
I whisper, wondering what has caused his reaction.

"The rigor," he
murmurs. The elevator doors open in front of us. "This way."

We head into the
elevator, and the doors close, sealing us alone together in the bare
metal cell. I press the button, and the lift grinds into life.

The atmosphere is
suddenly electric.

"What is it?" I
squeak, aware that his eyes are drilling holes into me.

"I cannot go out in
public like this," he tells me.

No!

"You should have
said," I complain, my heart now sinking. "Why did you offer
to come? You could have stayed behind, out of sight…"

"No – not like
that…" He flaps his hands a little awkwardly, reminding
me of a forlorn
Edward Scissorhands
. "The hospital –
that corpse – it is too much…"

What could he mean? I
stare bewildered into his jet-black eyes, willing him to open up to
me. He casts his eyes hopelessly down at himself.

"I have a Zomboner,"
he admits.

"What?" I look
down at his fly, horrified, and hurriedly look away again. "Is
that all? Er, I mean, not in that way, I mean to say – it's
very impressive, in fact – but what I actually mean – why
don't you just style it, dude?"

"It is my first,"
he says, wretchedly. "Since passing… I would hate for it
to fall off…"

I close my eyes and heave
a sigh. All that mental rehearsal (with frankfurters in coat pockets
while thinking about Ace Bumgang) is going to come in handy now, I
tell myself.

"I'm an expert in
handling dead bodies, at any stage," I tell him, summoning up
all of my confidence. "And I haven't lost an extremity yet. You
will just have to trust me."

He looks imploringly and
awkwardly at me.

"We can kiss,"
I suggest, in barely a whisper. "If it will make you feel better
at the time…"

He turns slowly towards
me. For some reason I wonder, at the back of my mind, if those breath
mints would help me now…

CHAPTER
FIVE
:

PRETTY WARM ONE

I jolt awake, at the
sensation of sliding helplessly down off the washable
hospital-hospitality chair. Quickly catching myself, and prising my
eyes open, I'd much rather be in a hospital-hospitalised bed right
now, the way I feel at the moment.

Blimey. Did I actually
kiss the zombified Crispin Dry in the elevator, while helping him
with his little (okay, not so little) localised
rigor mortis
problem, or did I dream it?

I run my tongue over my
teeth, thankful to find that there are no bits of zombie tongue left
lodged in there. I remember that overwhelming mossy scent, of old
black wool suit, and even older
Old Spice
. The sensation of
falling into those two hypnotic pools of jet that his eyes had
become…

My stomach feels
strangely empty, and even my head feels weightless. I feel as though
if I try to stand up and walk anywhere too soon, I'll be lurching
uncontrollably all over the place.

Slowly, bits of my memory
return. Oh yeah. I'm here to sit with my dear housemate, er…
fuck… maybe I never even knew her name in the first place. How
does she expect people to remember her anyway? She'll be a statistic
sooner than a bride, with the ones she can pick. What was it today?
He bit her thumb off during sex!
I grin triumphantly, as my
brain gets something right for once.

I look across towards
where her gurney should be, but there's just a space in the bay. Odd.

Maybe she went to surgery
already.

* * * * *

I think she was pleased
to see me. Hard to tell with her head being the shape of a football
at the moment. The only expression she could do being 'half-finished
Halloween Pumpkin.'

"Don't you think
it's time you dumped him?" I remember saying to her, when I was
shown through. Crispin excused himself to find a vending machine that
would meet his exacting requirements, leaving us to our girls' talk.

"Oh,
noooo
,"
Dufus-Features protested, waving her bandaged club-hand, in defence
of the sadist currently fulfilling the job-spec of 'abusive
boyfriend' in her life. "He really loves me. And I can handle
him. You have no idea how bad he used to be. He's really making an
effort to change. I'm his best therapy, he says."

"By which you mean,
he uses you as his punch-bag?" I remarked. My stomach growled
weirdly and horribly at the sight of all the blood-soaked gauze, and
I had to sit down on the horrible
Health & Safety
hazard
of a chair, more slippy and slidey than trying to ride an eel. I was
feeling dizzy already. I wondered if I should have asked Crispin to
sneak some more booze in with us. It looked like being a long night,
on only one Sloe Gin Sling. "I hear his last dumb slut, Chelsea,
now has a smile to match her name that he gave her. As a parting
gift."

"Exactly. He's SO
much better now, you have no idea," Brainwashed Prick said, her
one bloodshot eye (that I could still just about see) all misty with
delusional erotomania. Or maybe it was only the Chloramphenicol.
"Remember, you have to kiss a lot of frogs, before one starts to
turn into a prince."

"I really don't want
to know about your Batrachiphilia as well," I replied. "Don't
you ever watch
CSI?
Guys like him don't get better. They're
serial offenders. They get worse. Soon as you're trapped in a false
sense of security with them, you think everything's hunky-dory
because he hasn't slammed your head in the washing-machine for a few
days, and the next thing you know you're flying out of the
woodchipper all over the garage ceiling."