Read The Zombie Adventures of Sarah Bellum Online
Authors: Lisa Scullard
"
You'll
be hearing from our lawyers."
W.D,
film artisan empire.
"
And
mine."
Mr. Steven S,
purveyor of moving pictures.
"
Our
author has never read your books…"
R.H,
publisher.
"
Lisa
who?"
Q.T, film
fanatic, writer and bon viveur.
"
I'll
never hear the end of it…"
Anonymous.
"
What's
her name and Social Security Number?"
A.J,
United Nations Ambassador.
"
There
better be stuff in it worth stealing…"
A.L.S.
Esq, lawyer.
"
I
knew it was just a uniform thing."
P.
Harry, on tour.
"
More."
Swaggers,
Hastings.
LIKED
Mr. D.
Hedgehog, on Facebook via BlackBerry.
"
I
must finish my blog…"
S.
Neville, backpacker extraordinaire.
"
Delicious."
Patricia Morgan,
paintbrush wielder, 10th
Dan.
"
Bums
on seats."
O.
Cinemas, popcorn and hot-dog distributor.
(The above quote
widely misinterpreted in the United States).
"
Looks
interesting…"
P.E,
satirist and commentator.
"
Which
book is this one?"
DS-10,
demonic stats expert.
"
I
was making it up as I went along."
H.
Gray, F.R.S.
"
We
can confirm that 'Miss X.' worked for us between October 1996 and
January 1997. However, we do not take responsibility for any loss or
damage incurred by your relying on this as a reference."
Safeways, no
longer trading as a U.K. supermarket.
"
Carlsberg
don't make nightclub bouncers. But if they did…"
A.
Customer, Southampton.
The Zombie Adventures
of Sarah Bellum
started out as a blog parody of copyright law,
having read something that gave me about three months'
worth
of uninterrupted
déjà-vu
and
pattern-matching
.
The blog gathered
momentum and fell into a great sucking vortex of movie scenes,
dialogue, characters and settings, that folk had conveniently posted
on YouTube for me to reference.
It has been the most fun
I have ever had on this sofa.
I'd like to thank all
those talented people who not only made the original films, but also
the fans who posted their own edits, alternative trailers, and
mashed-up tunes, which I featured in my blog posts while writing this
bloodthirsty monster.
And also the
professionals in writing, film, law, publishing and journalism whom I
met and corresponded with this year – your time was much
appreciated. Thanks for clarifying everything…
When not enjoying long
walks off short cliffs and walks on the wild side, I like to walk the
path of least resistance. I have found that this involves a lot more
effort than just sitting on the fence.
on
Twitter:
aka_VoodooSpice
For Caitlin
CEMETERY ~
FILTHY SHAVINGS OF
GRAY MATTER
I look in the mirror. I
do it every day. Pretty much most people look in the mirror every
day.
I see a girl. That's a
relief. A girl with hair, two eyes, a nose, one mouth, and as I push
the hair back as I'm brushing it to check – yes, still got two
ears.
Phew
.
My housemate, whose name
escapes me most days, has forced me into this, the reason I'm awake
and brushing my hair at the ungodly hour of ten a.m. How dare she go
for her abortion today, and pack me off instead to do her media
studies homework? Couldn't she have had her termination some other
time?
"Mr. Dry," I
say to my reflection, giving myself a momentary identity-crisis. I
see the panic in my two eyes, and pull myself together.
Rehearse,
dammit!
"I'm Sarah Bellum. Pleased to meet you…"
I have to go for an
interview with some vending machine business mogul. The company is
called Dry Goods, Inc, and the owner, Crispin Dry, supplies our
University with all of its vending machines. He's notoriously hard to
get appointments with. When you ring his office, you have to press so
many buttons on the phone to finally get through – only to be
told that your selection is no longer available, and to choose an
alternative.
Miss Whatsername, my
housemate, says that she's got to get this interview for the
University paper. I don't know why, they only use it to wrap take-out
cartons in the refectory. Maybe it's to promote a new drinks machine
range.
I think she's secretly
fishing for a job too, as she's insisted I take along her school
yearbook, and a set of twelve professional head-shots – which
must have been taken some time between tooth-braces, and her recent
foray into fertilisation.
So I'm having to forgo my
weekly visits to the Body Farm and the morgue for my own research
project. I don't even know if I'll be back in time for work later.
She's going to owe me
big-time for this. If I don't get to see a corpse this week, I don't
know what I'll do. There's one I'm rather fond of in a wheelie-bin
under a silver birch tree at the Body Farm, where I like to sit and
eat my sandwiches.
He'll have changed so
much the next time I see him…
I leave Whatserface, my
best friend, packing her nightdress for the clinic.
"Good luck!"
says Thingummyjig, as I head out. "Don't forget my C.V!"
I struggle to guess what
she means… Cervical Vacuum? Crazy Voodoo? Crotch Visor?
Copulation Venom? Crinoline Vagina? Contraceptive Velcro? What kind
of prophylactic is called a
C
.
V?
Perhaps if she'd
remembered some of that sooner, she wouldn't be heading for a
D&C
now…
"I'll bring you back
some sanitary towels," I concede, and slam the front door.
* * * * *
It's a long drive to
Seafront West Industrial Estate, but luckily I have my father's
trusty bullet-proof Hummer in which to navigate the rain-soaked
roads. I don't think my
Pizza Heaven
scooter would have made
it. When I put my books in the insulated top-box, it always skids
over in the wet. And sometimes nasty people put other things in
there, when I'm doing a delivery.
Dry Goods House is a huge
monolith of connected storage containers, converted into offices on
the seafront industrial park, an illegal immigrant's fantasy.
Mirrored glass windows inserted into the corrugated steel keep out
any prying eyes.
The revolving doors swish
as I enter the Customer Enquiries lobby. A brain-dead-looking blonde
is sitting at the stainless surgical steel counter.
"I'm here for the
interview with Mr. Crispin Dry," I announce. "I'm Sarah
Bellum. Miss Thing from the University sent me."
"I'll text him,"
says Miss Brain-Dead, picking up her phone. "Have a seat."
She eyes me as I sit down
on the plastic chair between two vending machines, one for hot
drinks, the other for snacks. I feel over-dressed. Maybe stealing my
housemate's
Christian Louboutin
studded Pigalle pumps and
Chanel suit had been taking it too far. The receptionist looks cool
and comfortable, in turquoise blue overalls and a neon yellow
hi-visibility industrial vest.
"He's on his way
down," she says, after a moment. She reaches under the desk.
"You'll have to put this on."
I get up again to accept
the hi-visibility yellow vest she hands me, which has
VISITOR
stencilled on the back. I pull it on grudgingly over my borrowed
Chanel.
The adjoining door
creaks, and I turn, still adjusting my Velcro.
I know, the moment I see
him.
The black suit. The
pallor of his skin. The attractively tousled, unkempt bed-hair. The
drool. That limp… oh, God, that limp…!
"Crispin Dry?"
My voice catches in my throat.
"Miss…
Bellllummmm
," he moans softly, extending a dirt-encrusted
hand.
My heart palpitates
wildly, noting his ragged cuticles, and the long, gray, prehensile
fingers.
"My housemate,"
I begin. "Miss Shitface – she couldn't make it today. Got
the uterine bailiffs in…"
I grasp his outstretched
hand in greeting.
So cold… and yet so mobile…
a
tingle crawls deliciously up my forearm, and I snatch my hand away
quickly, scared of showing myself up. His jet-black eyes glitter,
equally cold, and his upper lip seems to curl in the faintest
suggestion of a smirk, like a slow, private spasm.
"Were you offered a
refreshment, Miss
Bellumm?
" He gestures towards the
famous vending machines.
I shake my head, and he
turns to glare at the receptionist. She cowers visibly, and I'm sure
I hear him emit a long, low, guttural sound. The receptionist
scrabbles in her drawer and holds out a handful of coin-shaped metal
tokens.
"I'm fine, really…"
I croak, although in all honesty, my throat does feel terribly dry.
"Very
wellll
…"
My knees feel weak as he
holds the door open, and beckons, his head at a quirked angle.
"This way, Miss…
Bellummm
."
How he rolls my name
around his mouth makes my own feel drier than ever. I stumble hazily
through into the corridor, hearing the door creak closed again behind
me, and the shuffling, shambling sound of his footfalls in my wake.
"Straight ahead,
Miss
Bellumm
."
His voice is like
sandpaper being rasped over a headstone. It tickles my inner ear and
the back of my throat, sends chills down my vertebrae. It resonates
with my deepest darkest thoughts.
Things I had not even
entertained notions of while eating sandwiches under the silver birch
tree, beside my dear Mr. Wheelie-Bin…
His arm extends past me
to swipe his security card in the lock of the next door, and a waft
of his moss-like scent washes over my strangely heightened senses.
"Go through, Miss
Bellumm
," he practically whispers in my ear.
The door clicks open, and
I do as bidden. Murky grey daylight filters through the tinted
windows from the seafront, and I gasp.
Another brain-dead blonde
is banging her head repeatedly on the steel wall, not three feet away
from the door.
"Debbie," Mr.
Dry says.
Is that a tinge of
disappointment, or disapproval in his voice?
"Take Miss
Bellummm's
coat. You will not need the yellow site vest either
while you are with me, Miss
Bellummm
."
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 I shrug them off, feeling exposed now in my Andy Warhol
Marilyn Monroe
t-shirt.