The Zombie Adventures of Sarah Bellum (74 page)

Braaaiiins.
Must haaave…

"
Straight
ahead, Miss
Bellumm
.
"

Her
breathing is like snowflakes falling onto a headstone. It tickles my
inner ear and the back of my throat, sends chills down my
disintegrating spine. It resonates with my deepest, darkest,
hungriest thoughts.

Things
I had not entertained notions of since breakfast…

Sexy
braaaiiiins. Gimme…

My
arm extends past her to swipe my security card in the lock of the
next door, and a waft of her Pears soapy scent washes over my
strangely heightened senses.

"
Go
through, Miss
Bellumm
,
"
I
whisper in her ear.

The
door clicks open, and we step through. Murky grey daylight filters
through the tinted windows from the seafront, and she gasps. Another
personal assistant is banging her head repeatedly on the steel wall,
not three feet away from the door.

"
Debbie,
"
I
say, a tinge of disappointment, or possibly disapproval in my voice.
"
Take
Miss Bellum's coat. You will not need the yellow site vest either
while you are with me, Miss
Bellumm
.
"

Debbie
turns to look at us, her flat bleached-out bloodshot eyes registering
nothing. She holds out her arms to accept the navy-blue Chanel and
hi-visibility vest as Miss Bellum shrugs them off, vulnerable and
exposed now in an Andy Warhol
Marilyn
Monroe
t-shirt.
Boooobs…

Debbie
takes her jacket with a soft grunt, but goes nowhere, turning back to
face the wall instead, contemplating the smear where her head had
been rebounding off it just a moment before.

I
take Miss Bellum's arm to steer her past, the unexpected contact
eliciting another gasp from her. She must be so aware of my long,
cold, prehensile fingers, closing around the soft warm flesh of her
tricep… she trips fawn-like along the next corridor, trying to
keep pace with my rolling, loping gait, like that of a wounded
panther.

I
want to lick her ear.
Braaaiins.

"
My
office…
"
I
hiss, swiping my security pass a second time, and ushering her
through.

It
is black. Everything is black, from the desk, to the leather seating,
to the vertical blinds. The only colour in the room is a giant white
canvas, on the wall facing the long window, upon which a modern
meditation in red is represented.

"
You
like my art, Miss
Bellummm?
"
I
murmur, seeing her openly gape at the piece.

"
It's
yours?
"
She
sounds really very intimidated.
She
will find much more to be intimidated about, regarding my appetite.
"
It's
beautiful…
"

"
I
call this one…
‘
High-Velocity
Spatter’
,
"
I
confide in a husky voice.
"
Sit.
"

She
plants her quivering haunches onto the soft leather, and starts to
take out her notes. The only sound otherwise in my office is the
eerie call of gulls, from the windswept pebble beach outside.

I
watch her, calculatingly. I circle around the sofa opposite, not yet
seated, assessing her professionalism in getting ready – for
me.

Braaaiiins,
baby…

"
Would
you like something to drink,
Sarah
Bellumm
?
"
I
move languidly towards the huge, black, state-of-the-art vending
machine in the corner.

The
sound of her full name on my lips causes her own to part
involuntarily, like the opening of a beautiful white lily…

"
I
am a little parched,
"
she
admits.
"
Yes,
please, Mr. Dry. Thank you.
"

"
What
would you like?
"
My
hand hovers over the illuminated keypad.
"
Tea,
coffee, hot chocolate? Iced water? Chicken soup? Gin and tonic?
Bubblegum? Breath mints?
"

Braaaaiiiiiins?

"
A
chicken soup would be lovely,
"
I
hear her say, and her stomach grumbles in agreement. I recall the
report of the last slice of cold
Pizza
Heaven
pizza
she ate for breakfast, many hours ago.

"
Chicken
noodle, chicken and sweetcorn, Thai chicken and lemongrass…?
"
I
prompt.
She
could use fattening up…

"
Yes
please – the last one…
"

She
watches as my clever fingers dance over the keys. There is the
faintest hum from the machine. In a trice, a large fine china mug
appears, steaming, on its own saucer, garnished with fresh chives and
coriander. There is even the traditional porcelain soup-spoon on the
side, intricately decorated.

I
can sense her wondering what sort of businesses I supply this
particular machine to. All that the University ones dispense, is
various colours and temperatures of pond-water à
la
Styrofoam.
They are at the very bottom of our budget range.

I
bring it to the low onyx table in front of her, and present it with
the gallant flourish of a red napkin. Something of the gesture, and
the way I arrange myself laconically on the sofa opposite, seems to
disappoint her slightly.

She
looks disillusioned, while I fidget my earlobe in that
I’m-ready-to-listen way and stroke my knee with my other hand –
I thought women were less threatened if a man threw at least fifty
shapes of gay…
Perhaps
I should tone it down a little. But not too much machismo. Just
enough heteropolitan transmosexual metrochismo to tease her
braaaiiins a little bit.

She
struggles to focus on the list of questions written out for her.
She’s
starting to worry that maybe she won’t enjoy finding out the
answers to some of them. Haha. Braaaiiins, baby.

And
when is she going to start eating? I’m literally dying to see
her masticate.
My
bile gland twitches and swells in agreement.

"
It's
very hot,
"
I
say, in a warning tone. It startles her.

"
Hmmm?
"
Is
she always this jumpy? Perhaps I'll have to tie her down and use the
braaaiiin hooks…

"
The
soup, Miss
Bellummm
.
"
My
mouth twitches in the corner, and my black eyes crinkle slightly.
I
can see into the dark shadows at the back of your own mind, baby.
Braaaiiins.