The Zombie Adventures of Sarah Bellum (59 page)

"We could be at risk
IN this fog," Luke points out.

Shifting shapes are
already forming on the path up ahead, and I hear a faint dragging
over the stony ground, akin to the noise of a heavy suitcase hauled
by a weary traveller.

"
Ahhh
,"
Crispin muses. "These people are usually of the least concern,
to most visitors of the Ten a.m. Lounge… but taking recent
events into consideration, perhaps avoiding them should be noted as
advisory."

"Who are they,
Crispin?" I ask, while Homer skips ahead foolishly.

Through the wreaths of
mist, dark robes flutter.

"They are the
Sisters of Tolerance and Forgiveness, from the nunnery in the
mountains," Crispin replies. "By the look of things, the
orchestra, taking a morning stroll."

A bass drum with a large
hole in it rolls down the path right past us, trailing green smoke.
It strikes a rock on the way, and a disembodied gray head bounces out
of it, shedding wimple and spectacles.

"I get the feeling
Sister Jaundice didn't like orchestra practise much either," Ace
remarks.

Green eyes glow dimly
through the fog, as the undead Sisters move gradually closer.

"I don't think I've
ever been less pleased to see a bunch of virgins," says Carvery.
"Present company excepted, Sarah."

"Glad to hear I'm
still your
Pubic
Enemy Number One," I mutter.

The ground at their feet
seems to bubble in an unearthly fashion, preceeding their approach –
but then I hear the croaking, and the tide of panic-stricken frogs
bounds ahead, parting like the Red Sea as they pass by our own little
group.

"Where is this
short-cut again, Crispin?" Luke asks brightly, as the nearest
nun lurches in his direction, dragging an acoustic guitar behind her.
"Before I'm Tolerated and Forgiven with Extreme Prejudice?"

And then the guitarist
nun's head explodes, scattering glittering green slime. A set of
false teeth clangs off my breastplate.

"I thought you were
saving that last cartridge?" Ace says to Carvery.

"Wasn't me,"
Carvery shakes his head.

"The Hill-Dwellers,"
Crispin points up into the trees.

We look. The next
movement I see is small and fast – and a feathered spear
skewers the next two nuns, like a shish kebab.

"They're children!"
I exclaim, spotting several small, round, black-eyed faces in the
ferns. Two are blowing raspberries, and one turns around and drops a
farting moony.

"Otherwise known as
the children's Sunday school choir," Crispin says
apologetically, as a volley of water-balloons slows the encroaching
nuns down a little.

"Let me guess –
they hate music practise too?" says Ace.

"How dangerous are
they?" Carvery asks. "On a scale from
Ewok
to
Chucky?
"

"I would say,
Mad
Max III: Beyond ThunderGoonies
…?" Crispin hazards,
waggling a hand uncertainly.

"Then let's go,"
Carvery says. "Rather the
ThunderGoonies
than Sisters
Silent Order Hill
."

And we leave the yellow
dirt path, scrambling up into the bracken underneath the trees, while
the occasional twang of catgut and honk of brass section behind us
punctuates the stand-off between orchestra and choir.

The forest is steep, and
carpeted with slippery pine-needles. More than once, Homer has to be
rescued from holes among the tree-roots, and his blonde cheerleader
wig is lost in the brambles.

"Seen a few
booby-traps," says Luke, pointing out a net high in the branches
as we pass under it. "Resourceful, aren't they?"

"Getting out of
Sunday school requires some cunning, Mr. Lukan," Crispin agrees.

Ace and Carvery navigate
the uphill rocks and fallen tree-trunks with the same ease that Ace
demonstrated on the rooftops of the citadel in the Eight a.m. Lounge,
hopping, skipping, jumping and somersaulting from one foothold to the
next. I trail behind, lugging the rest of the Swiss watchmaker's
armour wrapped in the small and useless rug.

If only it was a
flying
rug – I'd be up this cliff in no time…

"Pity I don't know
how you really work," I mutter to the dormant clockwork hand,
clipped around my wrist as usual. "I'd make you enchant this rug
to fly…"

I blink. One of the
gemstones in the clockwork hand
winked
at me. Glittery green,
like the magic from Sister Jaundice's cello-bow.

I should have known it
would absorb some of that…

"Nah…" I
say aloud, warily. "By the look of things, her magic only does
frogs' legs and zombie nuns. I don't think I fancy it."

"You are referring
to the witchcraft," Crispin says, overhearing me, as he and Luke
help Homer over another tree-stump. "You are right to be
cautious. Channelled through the clockwork hand, I have no idea how
it would be magnified."

I gulp. He's got a point.
Everything that the clockwork hand has absorbed so far has been
regurgitated at a magnitude many thousand times over.

And if the spell Sister
Jaundice was about to cast had been intended to destroy Atum, what
that small glittery green glimmer in the works of the clockwork hand
could do now is anyone's guess…

"She seemed nice,"
I say, and he shoots me a quizzical look. "At first, I mean. Not
evil at all."

Liar
,
my conscience pricks me.
You thought she was competing with
you for Crispin!

"Her career
ambitions may have been genuine," he says, generously. "Perhaps
she had a small problem with constructive criticism."

"Oh." This
hadn't occurred to me. "So you don't think it's unusual that a
witch would join a nunnery?"

"Not at all, Sarah
Bellummm
," he replies. "Judging by her reaction to
the unfortunate General Winslow's remarks, I imagine she joined the
Sisterhood to avoid the stress of romantic disappointment in life."

I suddenly feel quite
cold all over. Yes… and judging by her reaction to the
snake-god Atum, and what I've recently heard that HE represents, I
expect she had rather a large bone to pick with romantic
disappointment…

More pity the poor nuns,
I think. The sound of an explosion behind us, and the whooping of the
junior Sunday school choir, makes me think it's probably not a good
day to be a nun, all in all.

"But you have
nothing to fear there, Sarah
Bellummm
," Crispin
continues. "I think that your self-control in her shoes would
have been admirable."

What? What does he mean
by that?

My reaction to
romantic
disappointment
in life?

Or my possession of a
deadly spell-casting ability?

"Er…" I
say, but I don't know where to begin on that one. "Thanks."

Crispin looks satisfied,
anyway – but I… I can't put my finger on it. What is he
suggesting?

"Whoa," I hear
Ace's voice, ahead of us. "Is this it?"

We hurry to catch up, and
emerge on a hilltop clearing. It ends abruptly, with a sheer drop of
eroded cliff-face. The end of the winding yellow dirt road can be
seen curving up to it, around our short-cut through the wooded
hillside.

A gangplank is installed
over the precipice.

"Our ride should be
here." Crispin produces his little opera-glasses, and scans the
horizon. "The wind has been brisk, and they will have been in
the slipstream of the tornado…"

"Perhaps they were
IN the tornado," Carvery suggests.

Then the view abruptly
vanishes, as a colossal shape rises silently out of the gorge before
our feet. Ropes restraining a multi-coloured silken aeronautical
envelope loom above us, creaking a little.

"My apologies for
sneaking up on you, Mr. Dry!" a voice hails from the deck of the
wooden barge suspended underneath the balloon. "We had to sail
in beneath the mist. Very poor visibility today. You are on foot?
Where is the Diablo?"

"I had company
instead this morning," Crispin replies. "We have taken a
stroll via the scenic route."

"The boys in charge
of valet servicing will be disappointed!" The side of the
airship lines up with the gangplank, and figures on board secure it
with ropes before opening the gate.

"Permission to come
aboard?" Crispin asks, formally.

"Permission granted,
Mr. Dry."

We file across the plank.
I do my best not to look down.

"Captain Dartos,"
Crispin greets the pilot of the airship. "May I introduce Mr.
Bumgang, Mr. Slaughter, Mr. Lukan, and Miss
Bellummm
. Homer,
of course, you know…"

The swarthy Captain, in
the shiny black cap and navy-blue fisherman's sweater (with leather
elbow-patches) gives us a little nod.

"A pleasure to fly
you," he says, as the crew untie the ship. "Make yourselves
at home. Homer, show Miss Bellum to the Ladies' cabin, so that she
may rest and freshen up if need be."

Homer eagerly complies,
and I find myself hustled to the far end of the deck and through an
oak door, inlaid with Mother-of-Pearl.

On the far side is an
elegant suite furnished with
chaises longues
and mirrors, with
leaded windows to make the most of the view. I take a last look out
at the Ten a.m. Lounge, where the retreating hillside is smoking,
punctuated by flashes of burning green glitter as the Sunday school
choir continue to negotiate their singing class grades with the
charmed zombie nuns.

Homer bounces around the
cabin happily, finding a giant powder-puff on the large
dressing-table, and coating himself liberally with talc.
Herself
…
I'll get it right at some point.

I head for the washroom,
and the mirror describes pretty much what I expected. More mud and
green slime than Sarah Bellum. I shed the medical scrubs, and prise
off the armoured torso underneath before helping myself to the hot
water and scented soap.

Homer bursts in wearing a
pink frilly housecoat and a new
Cher
-style long red wig, and
drops a great heap of things on the floor.

"
Goooood
,"
he says, before exiting again.

I'm not so sure that
'good' is the word I would have chosen… I pick up the first
item, which turns out to be a fuchsia pink patent leather thong with
a front zip opening, and gulp.

Why do they keep all this
stuff on board? Is it Homer's? Is Crispin into this sort of thing?
How will neon-coloured pigskin undergarments increase my chances with
men generally? Of course, I don't want to end up like Sister Jaundice
– repressed, unfulfilled, frustrated, angry, blaming the gods,
and squished under a falling house…

And of course, there's
all this armour belonging to the unfortunate Swiss watchmaker to haul
around as well… perhaps I could tie it all together with
something in that little rug? I sigh, and rummage in the heap of
clothing further.

The clockwork hand winks
repeatedly at me from my wrist, with its green glittery potential to
do harm.

"Homer," I
grumble to myself, holding up a
Wonder Woman
outfit. "You
have got to be kidding."

I straighten up and shake
my head, tossing it back onto the pile.

"You want to do
something useful with that magic?" I ask the clockwork hand, as
it sparkles away on my arm merrily. "Turn this heap of junk into
something suitable to wear…"

There is an obliging puff
of green smoke, and I jump, at a bang no louder than a champagne
cork.

Hmmm – maybe it
didn't absorb as much of that nasty magic spell as I thought?

When the smoke clears, a
neatly-folded pile of cream silk and cashmere appears, complete with
elegant footwear and understated underthings.

…
Wow.
And then I catch sight of myself in the mirror, and get a bigger
shock.

It's even done my hair
and make-up! I look like the actress out of
Some Like It At
Tiffany's
, or whatever it's called.