The Zombie Adventures of Sarah Bellum (20 page)

"I think you may be
right, Sarah
Bellummm
," Crispin's zombie monotone agrees.
"That clockwork hand allegedly contains other powers, which if
unlocked could permanently alter the fabric of the Universe itself.
My father was obsessed with trying to analyse the hand's potential,
as he believed it could cure the curse of the zombies… but in
the wrong… hands, he knew that its potential as a weapon would
be exploited."

Homer does a pirouette,
and attempts the splits, up against the pillar. It's like watching an
X-rated deleted scene from Michael Jackson's
Thriller
.

"So we need a plan,"
Luke prompts.

"Don't look now,
Ace," Carvery remarks. "But I think your bath is ready."

Two zombies – in
the token loincloths and red leather chaps – are approaching
from the far side of the huge pyramid shrine, both bearing folded
towels, and scattering rose-petals.

"Really?" Ace
sighs. "That nymphomaniac zombie queen was serious?"

"That's the Dry
dude's mother you're talking about!" Luke says, giving him a
thump on the arm. "But as I recall – she did mention you
needed a wash…"

"Yeah – you've
got to take one for the team," Carvery tells him. "Here's
your chance to distract her."

"Catch her
off-guard," Luke nods in approval. "I like it."

"It is an idea…"
Crispin ponders. "All we need to do is recover the golden hand
and the diary while she is – preoccupied."

"I have a few rules
I like to live by," Ace announces. "Never do a bro's
ho's
,
mo's
, or
pro's
. Especially if they're over four
thousand years old. No granny fanny. Or tranny fanny. No offence,
Homey."

"
Ouuuuch
…"
Homer tries to hang upside-down from the pillar, and collapses
head-first, in a heap.

"Come on, fella,"
Carvery urges. "She's not that dusty. And in the bath, you'll
barely notice the squeak. Look at it this way – if you had to
choose between her and Sarah, who would you do – if your life
depended on it?"

My mouth drops open.
The
nerve!
But a small part of my ego wants to know the answer…

Ace shrugs.

"Good point,"
he concedes. "How long do you guys think you'll need?"

NOT the answer I was
hoping for… my shattered ego crawls back under its rock.

The zombies stop in front
of us, and indicate for him to join them.

"She may retain the
diary close at hand," Crispin warns. "Keep your eyes
peeled."

"Crispin, the only
thing my eyes are going to stay peeled for, is keeping a look out for
if she tries to sneak up on me with any Stone Age whips and dildo
shit," Ace tells him. "My job is the distracting. Yours is
the snooping around. All right – let's get this horny
bitch-demon seen to."

And he heads off with the
two zombie attendants, shoving one of them aside, as it tries to
shower him with rose-petals.

My ego, peering out from
under its rock of shame, sees a narrow margin of opportunity.

"I could follow,"
I suggest. "And see if I can pick up any clues there, while the
rest of you search the surrounding rooms."

"Pervert,"
Carvery mutters.

I'm as mysterious as mud
to him, obviously.

"Excellent idea,"
Crispin concurs. "We will meet back outside on the main deck of
the barge in an hour, should we all become separated."

An hour?
The
thought burns into my brain, as I scurry after Ace Bumgang and his
zombie escorts. What on Earth will he find to distract the Lady
Glandula de Bartholine with, for an hour?

The zombies lead Ace down
some more steps, by appearances heading deeper into the bowels of the
humungous ship, and along a wide pillared hall. Hundreds of candles
illuminate it – on every available surface, and hanging from
chandeliers in the ceiling.

I try to stay in the
shadow of the pillars as I follow, attempting to keep within earshot.
But no conversation occurs between Ace and the zombies,
en route
.

At the end of the great
hall is a mysterious room divided only from the rest by gauzy silk
drapes, and beyond the drapes is the biggest sunken marble bath-tub
I've ever seen.

The water ripples
invitingly over the edges, featuring more of those red rose-petals.
And the scent of roses, citrus and vanilla is heavy in the moist air,
rather like having Turkish Delight forced up your nasal cavity until
you start to go unconscious…

The zombies hold aside
the silk drapes for Ace to pass through, and emboldened by the
patches of shade in the folds of the translucent fabric, I creep
closer.

The Lady Glandula appears
from the far side, swathed only in a strip of similar silk voile,
sari-style, also attended by two zombies.

One of whom has in his
possession the leather-bound diary – and the other, the
clockwork hand.

So it looks as though she
doesn't plan to let either out of her sight.

"How good of you to
join me, Ace Bumgang," she greets him, in her catlike purr. "Can
I offer you a refreshment?"

She gestures towards the
bar, flanking the side of the room, where thousands of crystal
decanters are displayed, containing a multitude of
differently-coloured liquids.

"I'm good, thanks,"
says Ace. "I already puked a rainbow this morning."

"So I see," she
smiles. "I find alcohol such a wonderful disinhibitor of
preliminary niceties, don't you?"

And she drops the scrap
of silk sari – another of Angelina Jolie's
Lara Croft
impersonators, I note, and scold myself for having enacted such a
contrived scene already – and she steps slowly down into the
tub. Displaced water gently rolls over the sides and down the shallow
lip, like a decadently slow-motion Victoria Falls.

"Mrs. Bartholine,
are you trying to seduce me?" Ace asks.

"Is that what you
want me to do, Ace Bumgang?" she croons. "Seduce you? I may
simply see a man who needs a wash. Join me."

"All right," he
grunts. "But only because I know you older birds can't reach
your own backs to scrub them…"

And then I nearly scream
out loud.

Because a long tentacle
whips out of the tub, showering the silk curtain between us with
water droplets – and snatches Ace Bumgang off his feet,
dragging him bodily into the sunken bath with the zombie monster
queen.

"You men always give
in so easily," she smiles, as the tip of the tentacle curls
lovingly around Ace's ear to tickle it.

I notice in perverse
horror and revulsion that the alien appendage is covered in
rose-petal-shaped, lip-like suckers, which make kissing noises
wherever they touch his wet skin. Both of her arms rest along the
edge of the tub at her sides, not touching him at all.

"I'm not going to
ask what part of you this is attached to," Ace replies, bracing
himself against the marble in turn, as the tentacle tugs him closer.
"But you know they do plastic surgery for this sort of thing, if
you're interested. Or Carvery Slaughter will do it for free, after
you've had a few pints."

I thought they were
making that kind of surgery on women illegal in most of the world
now? I struggle to keep my thoughts on track. Concentrate!
Focus
on the clockwork hand and the diary, Sarah!

The attendant zombies
stand like sentinels at the four corners of the room, motionless,
going nowhere.

"Just relax and
enjoy yourself, Mr. Bumgang," Lady Glandula continues, in a
sing-song tone. The tentacle is making short work of Ace's clothing.
I hope some of those flying buttons land close enough to make it into
my Ace Bumgang souvenir box. "Technically, I am a widow now –
if that helps."

"Yes, and your kids
are happily playing upstairs too," Ace agrees, trying to detach
a sucker from his left nipple. "I think I'll take that drink
now, if you're still offering."

Abruptly, she snaps her
fingers at one of the attendant zombies who led us down here, and it
turns away to the bar to comply.

I crawl to his former
position and hide in a fold of the drapes, hoping for a clearer view…
er, of the diary and the golden clockwork hand, of course…

CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE
:

PUMP FRICTION

Neither of the zombies in
charge of the stolen booty move. They just stand, stock-still, with
the golden clockwork hand and the leather-bound diary on their
respective red velvet cushions.

The Lady Glandula's own
hands, in contrast, seem keen to get in on the undressing-Ace-Bumgang
action, as his oil-stained overalls become evidently reluctant to
shift below his waist in the bathwater.

"You are a tease,
Mr. Bumgang!" she gasps, wrenching ineffectually at his belt.

Perhaps it has shrunk in
the wet. My hopes of Ace deliberately saving himself, for a deadly
secret crush he's concealing from everyone, soar to my dizzy heights
of fantasy. Of course, if he can keep a secret like being
The Stig
on
Top Gear
, he'd definitely be able to disguise where his
true love lies…

"And you're
cheating," he remarks in response, uncurling the wandering alien
tentacle from around his neck. "You have an extra limb sprouting
from your… from underwater. Supposing I put this in my mouth
and bite it, what happens?"

"Ooohh," she
muses, glowing green zombie eyes narrowing, fang-like teeth baring in
a smile. "Why don't you try it and see?"

I notice that the zombie
guard, relegated to bartender, has apparently finished formulating
whatever cocktails are order of the day for bath-side service, as he
arranges crystal chalice-style glasses on a silver tray.

Yes
…
imminent distraction looming…
now all I have to do is prioritise my targets…

I find myself wondering,
as the potential outcomes for a pro-active strike unroll in my mind,
what would Crispin Dry do in this situation? Or Angelina Jolie as
Lara Croft?
Or Gordon Ramsay… er, maybe not, in that
case. Too many theoretical cooks spoil the plot, and all that…

Do I go for the diary, or
for the clockwork hand first? An image of Carvery Slaughter crosses
my mind, reading my own diary and sniggering, while I was at work –
on God knows how many occasions. The thought fuels my indignation…

Stay focused, Sarah!

I try to estimate the
pace of the bartender zombie as he approaches the marble bath-tub,
while attempting to ignore the distracting sounds of sloshing
bathwater, and the slurping of those alien tentacle suction cups, all
over the body of Ace Bumgang…

"You will not be
disappointed, Mr. Bumgang," Lady Glandula's voice says, oozing
over him like treacle. "I have exhausted many armies in my
time."

"It's not my armies
that are complaining," Ace quips, still keeping himself braced
at arm's length, both hands on the marble side of the tub, against
the hungry pull of the tentacle trying to draw him in closer.

The zombie attendant
places the tray on the edge of the bath, and Lady Glandula de
Bartholine, momentarily preoccupied zombie queen, reaches out towards
it.

Strike, Sarah, while
the iron is hot!

I dive through the silk
gauze drapes towards the nearest static zombie guard, and make a
frantic, one-chance-only grab at the display cushion in his arms…

A heavy silken tassel at
the bottom of the curtain snags on the end of my nose in the headlong
plunge, and blinded by fancy knot-work and cord, I force my hands to
close anyway, on the estimated location of my target…

A great ripping noise of
tortured fabric follows the continuation of my dive onto the
fantastically embellished rug – and I roll, shaking my head in
an attempt to dislodge the detached tassel, now quite intimate with
my right nostril.

In my hands, I have it –
I can't quite believe it, but I have it…