Read The Zombie Adventures of Sarah Bellum Online
Authors: Lisa Scullard
A gigantic flight of
stairs leads up to the doors of a pyramid-shaped construction in the
centre, and flanked by leather-chapped zombies, we go inside.
The walls are lit by
burning torches, which smell faintly of sandalwood and incense, and
at the end of the passageway, in the very middle of the pyramid, is a
full-height shrine.
In the centre, a very
beautiful black onyx statue of a woman stands on a pedestal, in the
headdress and typical adornments that Hollywood and history books
would have us believe denotes ancient regal status. The decorations
feature the usual collection of beetle and bird motifs, modified eye
designs and snake heads.
One of the red-chapped
zombies strides ahead of us, the leather-bound diary belonging to Mr.
Dry Senior in his hands. When he gets to the pedestal, he kneels, and
places it reverently on an altar at the foot of the pedestal.
"What is this,
Show
and Tell with Mother
day?" Ace asks.
"No," Crispin
says, shaking his head, asymmetrically. "I think she always just
wanted to know what Father was writing about in that diary, all those
years. Maybe hoping to uncover an illicit affair."
"Makes sense,"
Carvery remarks, nudging me unpleasantly.
I swear – I'm never
keeping a diary again…
The zombie returns to
stand in front of Crispin, and seems to be expecting something.
Reluctantly, Crispin
produces the golden jewelled clockwork hand from inside his jacket,
and relinquishes it. The zombie nods, and turns back to face the
altar and pedestal.
"One never really
knows what to say in these circumstances," Luke whispers in my
ear.
"What do you mean?"
I ask, of the Nigerian cab-driver.
"Well, when you're
in a foreign country, being introduced to someone's parents, the
protocols are usually completely different to what you're used to,"
he remarks. "I mean, are we expected to bow? Or kneel down and
touch our foreheads to the ground? Or are we intended to arrive
bearing gifts of
Asda
sparkling Chardonnay and copies of
Woman's Weekly?
I remember one young lady in the past whose
parents didn't even acknowledge you until you'd delivered a full
fish-and-chip supper."
The zombie in the red
leather chaps, his back to us, does some minor adjustment to the
clockwork hand, and holds it aloft in front of him, pointing it at
the statue.
Another zombie swings a
hammer at a gong in prompting, vibrating my eardrums just to the
point of discomfort, and a brilliant, blinding light shines out of
the gemstones on the mysterious ornamental hand, illuminating the
statue as if under a disco-ball.
"Is my tie
straight?" Crispin asks me, anxiously. I notice that Homer is
fluffing the feathers on his ostrich boa self-consciously.
"Ooh, pretty,"
is all my housemate, Miss Air-Head, comes out with.
Gradually, the black onyx
under the beams of light starts to change. Rainbows of colour appear,
like in an oil slick on tarmac, and they move in the same way,
shimmering over the surface.
"Reminds me,"
Ace mutters to Carvery. "I need about eight tons' more builder's
sand at the breaker's yard."
"No problem,"
Carvery replies.
The moving rainbows start
to split, and the statue moves, as if freed from a waxwork museum.
When the echoes of the
gong finally die away, she opens her eyes, and casts an icy green
gaze down onto our motley party.
She scans each of us in
disdainful silence, as if judging individually. A flicker of fondness
appears around her full lips as she espies Homer N. Dry, in his
Diana
Ross
sequins.
"This is quite a
gathering," she says at last, and accepting a nearby zombie's
hand in assistance, she elegantly steps down from the pedestal,
descending towards the altar. "Is it my birthday?"
PRUDE AND PREPUTIUM
The regal vision passes
the altar with a cursory glance before approaching us, but I do
notice the fleeting look of triumph in those emerald eyes, as she
notes the leather-bound diary, waiting in pride of place.
I know what she's
thinking.
What did that bastard
write about me??
And possibly:
Now we'll find out if
all of those sluts were just 'acquaintances'…
Maybe, given the current
setting, those strange diagrams that the diary seems to be full of
will tell her exactly what she wants to know…
I gaze around at the
thousands of hieroglyphs, featuring on every wall and pillar. Under
the circumstances, it might be too much to hope that the décor
of the pyramid-shrine, aboard the megalith of a barge, is all just a
bit of interior-designer
feng shui
.
"Everyone,"
Crispin begins, while she glides closer, attended by two of the
red-leather-chapped zombies. "This is my – and Homer's –
dear mother. The Lady Glandula de Bartholine."
"Pray, introduce us,
Crispin," she purrs. Her catlike eyes miss nothing, but equally
give nothing away, as she takes in our decidedly morning-after
appearance. Only Homer has freshly scrubbed up for the occasion.
"Don't stand on ceremony on the account of strangers."
Crispin clears his
throat, nervously, and gestures along to the far end of the line with
a gray-skinned hand.
"Mother, this is Mr.
Carvery Slaughter…"
"A powerful one
indeed," she muses. "But I would say, a little tainted."
"Ambitious in that
direction, certainly," Crispin agrees.
"Understatement,"
I mutter, thinking of big holes in the ground, dug at the dead of
night.
"And what is this?"
Lady Glandula asks, her gaze travelling over my housemate,
Whatserface. "A pet monkey?"
"Mr. Slaughter's
amour
, Mother," Crispin corrects, a hint of reproach in
his tone.
"But it's all made
of spare parts!" Lady Glandula scoffs. "A Frankenstein's
monkey… and so corrupted in health, one would not know where
to put it. Or where to put your what in it. Surely you do not expect
me to…"
"
NO
, Mother,"
Crispin interrupts, raising both hands, in a placating fashion. "It
had not even crossed my mind."
Expect her to what? My
mind boggles. Not eat Miss Fuckwit's brains, surely? Besides –
Lady Glandula doesn't look like your typical zombie. She looks in the
peak of health.
Compared to the rest of
us, particularly.
"And Mr. Ace
Bumgang…" Crispin continues.
Lady Glandula stops a
moment, taking in the yummy dark brown eyes, and washboard stomach. I
can fully sympathise… even hung over, Ace Bumgang looks like
any woman's dream sperm-donor.
"Hmmm," she
says at last. "He needs a wash…"
She speaks sidelong to
one of her zombie attendants, not taking her eyes off Ace in the
meantime.
"Have my bath made
ready," she orders. "Lots of rose-petals."
Noooo
,
my jealousy reflex yells. That was
MY
fantasy…
well, one of them, anyway.
Just got to hope she
doesn't have a jar of Nutella and a spoon as well…
"Your son, Homer,"
Crispin adds. "Whom I'm sure you recognise."
"
Hooome
,"
says Homer, lurching forward, with skinny gray arms outstretched.
"My dear lady, er,
boy," the Lady Glandula greets him, permitting a genteel
embrace. "I see my old wardrobe is still in vogue."
"Mr. Gaylord Lukan,
formerly of Nigeria…"
"Indeed?" she
says, and offers her hand. Luke's concerns about introduction
protocol seem to evaporate, and relieved, he puts his business card
into it.
"Twenty-four hour
minicab services, your Ladyship," he beams. "Since 1971."
"Goodness," she
says. "A workaholic. I was married to one of those –
allegedly. While I was alive."
"And Miss
Bellummm
…"
Crispin says, at last.
"Sarah," I
amend, and find myself bobbing a curtsey.
"Sarah Bellum…"
she ponders, and stops in front of me, her stare calculating,
shrivelling any remaining scraps of my self-worth. "You are very
scrawny."
"Nervous energy,
Ma'am," I excuse myself. My kneecaps are twitching again.
"A fidget, in other
words," she surmises. She leans in slightly, and sniffs my neck,
exactly as Crispin did last night. "I see… This is the
best you could manage, Crispin?"
"I had to order a
lot of pizzas, Mother," Crispin says, again a little
reproachfully.
"Your theories
regarding the identification of virgins leave something to be
desired, my son," she remarks. "Unlike your father –
who was foolish enough to take a girl's word for it."
"A foolishness that
runs in the family, Mother," Crispin nods gloomily. "Hence
the perpetuation of the curse."
"I, for one, have no
issue there, as I'm sure you can see for yourself," she replies,
rather smugly surveying her surroundings. "I do not know why you
Dry men even bother with these little mortal beauty contests. I see
nothing I wish to trade here."
"Supposing I were
not offering a trade," Crispin appeals. "But seeking your
approval?"
She turns back sharply to
look at him, and her expression is alert and – amused.
"With THAT?"
she cries, waving towards me. Laughter bubbles out of her. "And
your grandfather's old out-of-date hoodoo-voodoo, hocus-pocus
theories? You would seek to cure yourself alone, rather than fulfil
the family honour? My boy, you are as selfish as any man."
"The family honour
will not be abandoned, Mother," Crispin sighs. "This is –
a personal request."
She shakes her head,
still chuckling.
"Your ulterior
motives shine out of you like a beacon, Crispin." She strides
away, calling back over her shoulder. "But make yourselves at
home. I so rarely have entertainment. I look forward to the
crocodile-feeding later."
She picks up the
leather-bound diary as she passes, and disappears somewhere behind
the pedestal. As does the zombie in possession of the special
clockwork hand, I notice sadly.
We exchange looks, and
everyone feels they can safely breathe once more.
"I think that went
well," Crispin concludes, with a sigh of defeat.
"
Gooood
…"
Homer agrees.
"That's nothing,"
Carvery remarks. "You should meet MY mother."
"At least she didn't
demand fish-and-chips," Luke remarks. "Or a
Woman's
Weekly
."
"What does she mean,
needs a wash?" Ace grumbles, looking down at himself. "This
is a good day after alcohol, for me…"
"She called me a
Frankfurter Minky!" my housemate Fuckwit suddenly explodes,
making us all jump.
As for me, I have far too
many questions lined up, after that little exchange between Crispin
Dry and his mother.
But at the forefront of
my mind, is the phrase
'crocodile-feeding'
…
THE GRANULATE
"
W
hat
do we do now?" Luke wants to know. "Are we going to get the
treasure back?"
"And the diary?"
I add, with more empathy in my voice for poor Mr. Dry Senior than I
was expecting. I try not to make eye contact with Carvery Slaughter.
"She can't just go around stealing other people's diaries for
God knows what diabolical reason…"
Crispin Dry nods,
gloomily, while his brother Homer wanders off to dance around a
hieroglyph-covered pillar – humming to himself, shedding red
sequins and the occasional ostrich-feather.