The Zombie Adventures of Sarah Bellum (73 page)

Before the app can
respond, a text message arrives. My heart pounding, I open it.

IF YOU'RE OFFERING,
MINE'S A CHINESE MEAT FEAST.

"…You don't
need to give me your answer straight away…"

It's from Ace Bumgang.

I squeal out loud.

"Hmmm?" Crispin
turns and looks at me. "Are you quite all right, Sarah
Bellummm?
"

"Yes!" I gasp.
Both of my hands are shaking now. He's alive! Oh my God! "Er –
I think I just need that coffee, Crispin. If you wouldn't mind…"

"Of course, how
foolish of me." Crispin turns back to the vending machine.
"Cream, sugar?"

"Yes, please."
How can I keep him distracted? "And perhaps some fresh air in
here? And – do you have anything to eat? Maybe I just feel a
little faint."

"Anything my lady
wants," says Crispin, gallantly, typing away on the keypad, and
reaching for the remote control for the windows and blinds. He
suddenly seems very pleased with himself, although I can't think why.

I reply quickly to the
text.

MAYBE LATER. AT CRISPIN'S
OFFICE. HE'S GOT A STONE COLD CARVERY SLAUGHTER ON DISPLAY. JUSTIN
TIME HAS THE CLOCKWORK HAND.

"…I
understand you might want more time to think carefully about my
proposal," says Crispin, a strangely intimate tone in his voice.
"But your knee-jerk reaction has given me great hope already…"

Ace replies immediately.

I'LL SEE YOUR STONE
CARVERY, AND RAISE YOU A MRS. TIME. SHE'S KICKING UP A NICE FUSS IN
THE TRACTOR TYRE INFLATION CAGE HERE AT THE BREAKER'S YARD.

Ace has General Lissima
hostage! And she most likely still has the little leather-bound
diary! How did he manage that…?

Actually, not that hard
to figure out – if he wanted to take
me
hostage, all
he'd have to do is blow gently in my ear…

Crispin sets out a lovely
arrangement of coffee and cream-filled strawberry jam scones on the
low table, on a tray decorated with a single pink-and-white Oriental
lily, reflecting the edible colours of the scones and filling the
room with its spicy perfume. But my mind is racing.

Who is the most likely
person to track down that thieving rickshaw pilot?

Yes!
His wife!

And then – we'll
have the clockwork hand. And then – I'll figure out how to
change Carvery Slaughter back into a human being. Which might be
necessary, I justify the idea smoothly, for if my housemate
Frankenminky turns out to be a bit too little of Miss December, and a
bit too much of Summer Jaundice…

I send a quick reply,
under my napkin.

I'LL BRING YOUR PIZZA
ORDER AT 5PM.

"…And then,
we will take a tour of the premises, so you can find your way
around," Crispin is saying.

Ace answers again,
promptly.

COOL. BY THE WAY –
YOU WERE WRONG. THE ANSWER ISN'T PIZZA. X.

Eh?
I
frown at the message before closing it, and the app screen pops up
again, with its response to my guess on
Draw My Thing.

WRONG. GUESS AGAIN.

"Crispin," I
say, to hide my confusion and images of triangles with scribbles now
dancing in front of my eyes – besides, I feel as though I
haven't really contributed much to the conversation so far, and
should make it at least look as though I was paying attention. "It's
my turn to apologise. I'm afraid Justin Time has run off with the
clockwork hand…"

"If it's not one
thief, it's another," Crispin shrugs, and treats me to his
lopsided smile. "And Justin Time is just a great big pussy."

Hmmm… I put my
phone away, and sit back to enjoy my nice coffee. Of course, I'll
have to accept the job of secretary now – if only to keep an
eye on Carvery, and ensure access to him when I get hold of the
clockwork hand. I wonder how grateful he might be, if I was the one
to save
him
for a change? There's always a chance Justin Time
might turn up here too. Negotiating some holiday, or another…
But Ace Bumgang is alive! And wants pizza! And – is drawing
very rude things on
Draw My Thing!

'You
eat this'
he said! I have to hide my blush behind my sticky napkin, and get my
phone out to re-read his last text message just to make sure. And I
notice the 'X' on the end of it for the first time – and my
brain swims alarmingly.

"I think I really
should be going," I smile, my mind now just pink fog. "Thank
you for a lovely – er – interview."

"Promise me you will
consider my proposal carefully, Sarah
Bellummm
," Crispin
says, gravely.

"I will," I
promise, sincerely, and hope he repeats it at some point soon, so I
know what he's so serious about.

But until then – I
have other priorities. I drop my napkin into the waste basket, and
before I get to my feet, I do a double-take.

All that the waste basket
contains otherwise, is a note saying:

TAKE OUT TRASH.

Strange… isn't
that what was in his other waste basket, in the cellar…?

I recall the deep cellar
under the mansion, and its refrigerated collection.

Dry family members in
suspended animation, infected with the zombie curse. Waiting for
Crispin to come up with the definitive cure, tested out on Homer –
now fully recovered, and Queen of all he surveys… but that's
not all the note reminds me of.

What about his
supposition that
take-out
delivery boys and girls are a good
source of virginal donor organs?

Am I still just potential
Take-Out Trash
to him?

I get to my feet slowly.
My brain now feels like it's whirring and clanking as much as Higham
Dry Senior's clockwork
braaiiiinsss
.

"Could I start work
tomorrow?" I ask, coughing to hide the tremor in my voice.
"Shall I turn up for nine a.m? Or is that a bit too –
warlike?
"

"I've always found
that the working day is more civilised depending on the company one
keeps, not the time of day," Crispin beams, and offers me his
hand.

I shake it, but have to
resist the urge to snatch my own away too quickly.

As I hurry back outside
to my scooter, a glance backward confirms that the seagulls have
found some more pickings on the beach, outside Crispin's office
window. Looks like he gets through a lot of his own staff, not to
mention other people…

I won't be coming back
here just to keep an eye on Carvery. I'll be back to watch
him
as well.

Maybe with a shovel, and
a plot marked out ready, at the Body Farm.

In fact, now I think
about it – there's a nice wheelie-bin going spare. Prime
position.

Under the silver birch
tree…

~ BONUS SECTION ~

GREY MATTER: THE
ZOMBIE ADVENTURES FROM CRISPIN'S POINT OF VIEW

THE CTRLVQUEL

CHAPTER
ONE

As
I approach the reception area of my office on the beach, through the
tinted glass door I espy an attractive, brunette newcomer get up to
accept the hi-visibility yellow vest handed to her by Heather, my
secretary, which has VISITOR stencilled on the back. She pulls it on
grudgingly over a badly-fitting Chanel. It looks borrowed.

She
appears awkward, like a gazelle through a huntsman's gun-sights. It
sends an arrow of excitement to my rotting guts.
Braaaiiiins…

The
adjoining door creaks, as I push it open, and she turns, still
adjusting her Velcro.

She
knows, the moment she sees me.

The
black suit. The pallor of my skin. The attractively tousled, unkempt
bed-hair. The drool. The limp… Her knees are trembling. She
will be putty in my undead hands…

Braaaiiins.

"
Crispin
Dry?
"
Her
voice catches in her throat.

"
Miss…
Bellllummmm
,
"
I
moan softly, extending a dirt-encrusted hand.

I
see her deliciously alive heart palpitating wildly, noting my ragged
cuticles and my long, gray, prehensile fingers.

"
My
housemate,
"
she
begins. “Miss Shitface – she couldn't make it today. Got
the uterine bailiffs in…”

She
grasps my outstretched hand in greeting. So warm… and yet so
apprehensive… a tingle crawls deliciously up my forearm, and
she snatches her hand away quickly, as if scared of her own
delightful response. I know my jet-black eyes are glittering, hungry
and cold, and my upper lip curls in the faintest suggestion of a
smirk.
Braaaiiins,
baby.

"
Were
you offered a refreshment, Miss
Bellumm?
"
Remembering
myself, I gesture towards the famous vending machines.

She
shakes her head, and I turn to glare at the receptionist. Heather
cowers visibly, and I emit a long, low, guttural sound.
Braaaiiin-dead
bitch.
The
receptionist scrabbles in her drawer and holds out a handful of
coin-shaped metal tokens.

"
I'm
fine, really…
"
Miss
Bellum croaks. Her throat does sound terribly dry. Such a wicked
little liar.
Mmmm
– living braaaiiins…

"
Very
wellll
…
"

Her
knees appear even weaker as I hold the door open, and I beckon, my
head at a quirked angle.

"
This
way, Miss…
Bellummm
.
"

How
she staggers through the doorway makes my own gait feel more impeded
than ever. I stumble hazily behind her through into the corridor,
hearing the door creak closed again behind me, and only the
shuffling, shambling sound of my footfalls in her gazelle-like wake.