The Zombie Adventures of Sarah Bellum (22 page)

"Okay," I
relent at last. "But you guys have to turn around. No peeking."

"NOW you don't want
us to look?" Carvery chuckles, as he and Ace, smirking, turn
their backs. At least now, they can keep an eye out for danger.

Oh, God, how does this
sari-toga thing work? Maybe I could just wrap it around over the
pyjamas… but Homer joins in once he sees what I'm doing,
flinging the fabric expertly around me, over a shoulder and under and
through, pleated here and tucked in there – and in the process,
my borrowed pyjamas from Crispin Dry drop discreetly onto the floor.

Phew. No more work for
the lawyers of Angelina Jolie and
Lara Croft: Tomb Raider
at
the Mutual Film Company today, then…

And now the bangles and
headdress…
strange
. The bangles have the same sort of
surface engravings and gemstones in as the golden clockwork hand.
Maybe it was procured to co-ordinate with the queen's wardrobe, when
it was being made in Switzerland?

"You done?"
says Carvery Slaughter, and I realise he's been peeking all along.
"Let's go. Try to act classy. That means – not like a
pizza-delivery girl. Or an alcoholic, sexually-frustrated, closet
necrophiliac."

"And Lady Glandula
isn't one, I presume?" I retort.

"Good point,"
Ace agrees. "Just march right up there and ask if anyone wants
to see your
Thing
."

"In a classy
accent," adds Carvery.

"Just you wait,
Carvery Slaughter," I scoff at both of them. "And you, Ace.
When we get back – just you wait…"

I turn around, head held
high – and with Homer attending carefully to the longer bits of
my gown, which would have made Pippa Middleton professionally envious
– I start to ascend the grand stairs, back up into the pyramid.

"You know she rolls
around naked in the cheese before they put it on your pizza?" I
hear Carvery telling Ace, behind me.

…
And
if I ever find out who invented the idea of keeping a 'secret' diary,
I am going to travel back in time and give them a big piece of my
mind…

CHAPTER
TWENTY-EIGHT
:

UNDEATH ON THE NILE

The interior of the giant
wooden pyramid is quiet, with just the empty pedestal and altar in
the centre, and for a moment I take a deep thankful breath.

"I guess we're
safe…" I announce, before spotting a movement from a far
darkened corner.

Crispin Dry lurches
almost into view, and in one terrible split second, I think he's
injured.

"Crispin!" I
cry out.

He staggers out of the
shadows – and then I see what's hindering him. In his arms, is
the unmistakeable – if unnameable – body of my housemate,
Miss Thingy.

"That's why you
should never trust a brain-muncher," Carvery sighs, and is about
to level the shotgun at Crispin – when Homer squeaks
indignantly, pushing the gun-barrels aside.

Crispin advances on the
altar, and we hurry over, as he places her body carefully on its
surface.

"What happened,
Crispin?" I ask.

"She reached into an
urn, and was bitten by one of Mother's pet vipers." Crispin
turns over Whatsername's left arm, displaying two ugly blackened
circular weals on the inside of her wrist. He looks up at me in
despair, and his expression changes as he takes in my new turn-out.
"Miss
Bellummm
… you look… you are…"

"Had to change, I
know," I explain, blushing fiercely.

Dressing up in his
mother's clothing probably not the best thing to do, on an
almost-first-date…

"You look…
most presentable…" he admits wretchedly, at last.
Dragging his gaze back to the body of my housemate, he heaves a
dejected sigh. Those broad shoulders in the black wool suit slump, at
a loss. "I fear she needs more than an electric shock this time,
Mr. Slaughter."

Carvery shrugs.

"I've seen worse,"
he grunts. "Usually they're fine by the time I get back from
work. Waiting for me with their gimp masks, crotchless aprons and
feather dusters… it's all just a bit of drama for the
attention…"

"I reckon she could
actually be dead," Ace remarks. He lifts up Miss Dumb-Ass's
other arm, and lets it fall back onto the altar, with a loud
Bonnnk
.

"So are most folk
around here," Carvery points out. "No stopping them,
though."

"She can be saved,"
Crispin nods, earnestly. "But we do not have all of the required
equipment here. We will have to head for the Six a.m. Lounge."

He pulls a lever on the
side of the altar. With a grinding sound, it starts to lower into the
floor.

"She will be safe
here," he continues. "It was Mother's regeneration casket –
while she was alive. Once we have the necessary items to activate it,
she will be as good as new."

Am I imagining things –
or does Carvery look none too pleased with that idea?

A seamless panel closes
over Twat-Face, as she sinks fully below the deck. I wonder if there
are air-holes down there, in case she spontaneously recovers. Someone
has to pay their share of the rent…

"Who are we
missing?" Crispin asks. "Has anyone seen Mr. Lukan?"

"Right here, Mr.
Dry!" Luke's voice calls out. He's behind us, in the entranceway
to the pyramid. "I think you might all want to come and see
this!"

* * * * *

Outside, on the gigantic
upper deck of the barge, a strange steady breeze is blowing. And the
surface of the river is moving.

Not with crocodiles –
but in an oddly geophysical, concentric circular motion.

"I think it's a
whirlpool," Luke reports.

We look over the side.
Crispin's paddle-steamer, moored on the opposite bank, bobs on its
tethers at the edge of the watery disturbance.

"It is not a natural
occurrence," says Crispin, grimly.

The rotating phenomenon
dips in the centre – and blinks, revealing a huge, reptilian
yellow Eye.

"Sarah!" The
butt of the shotgun clips the back of my head. Carvery is grimacing,
rattling a finger in one ear. "Screaming again, Jeez…
control yourself. How many sets of underwear do you get through in a
day?"

The Eye starts to rise
out of the vortex. Scales… and more of those weird alien
tentacles around it too…

"What is it?" I
whisper.

"Not what,"
Crispin murmurs. "More of a who."

Taller than the masts on
the giant barge, it towers over the river. The snakelike head curves
downward, and swings around, surveying the surroundings. River weed
trails from it, and crustaceans tumble from its sides.

"What does it want?"
Ace Bumgang asks. "Is this the part where we hand over a
convenient virgin sacrifice?"

"Ssshhhh!" I
hiss. "This isn't
Fifty New Ways With Virgins
day!"

"Sarah, if you can
name fifty new ways with a virgin, and still be a virgin after number
one, you're either doing it wrong – or an incredible liar,"
Carvery remarks.

"They're usually
doing it wrong on purpose," Ace tells him. "Because they
reckon it doesn't count."

"What?" Carvery
scowls. "So you can't change lanes without indicating?"

"It is Atum,"
Crispin says, sombrely. "It means – there is unfinished
business…"

An echoing, bubbling
sound comes from deep within the massive serpent's body. Dwarfed
alongside, the sides of the barge vibrate, making the timbers creak.

"What kind of
business?" Luke asks. He has produced his iPhone, and is trying
to take a picture of himself, with the forbidding leviathan towering
in the background.

"The business of the
fabric of the Universe." Crispin glances meaningfully at the
golden clockwork hand, tucked into the belt part of my gown. "If
he is disturbed from his waters – it means the world is not yet
finished."

"What do we do?"
I ask cautiously.

"We try not to get
in his way," Crispin confirms.

"Abandon ship?"
Luke suggests.

"Yes," Crispin
nods. "But in an orderly fashion. Walk, do not run, to the
nearest exit."

* * * * *

It feels strange without
Miss Fuckwit, as we set off inland away from the monstrous barge, and
the even bigger sea-monster.

Could she
really
have been bitten by a viper? I mean, it did look that way, but I
can't say I've ever seen an actual snake-bite before – but what
if Crispin's not being completely honest?

Could it have been a
zombie
-bite?

Or even – I risk a
glance at Carvery Slaughter – a Taser-burn? He definitely
didn't look too happy at the thought of her being revived
'as good
as new'
…

The serpent-thing, Atum
or whatever it is called, is preoccupied with the land around the
pyramids, behaving as though something is mislaid – as it scans
every surface, nook and cranny, with its huge yellow Eye, on the top
of the apparently endless prehensile neck.

"The Six a.m. Lounge
will give us a chance to review our situation," Crispin
announces, leading the way, in his rolling zombie gait, along another
avenue of palm trees. "But the route from here is not the most
straightforward…"

"Not more tunnels…"
I groan, wearily.

"Not at all."
Crispin pauses, and surveys the silent sandstone side-streets. "We
merely need to find the travelling carpet-salesman."

"Oh, is that it?"
I say. My voice sounds oddly high.
Is this what they call
hysteria?

"Almost,"
Crispin continues. He seems to sense my unsteadiness, and takes my
arm reassuringly, with his cold zombie one. "He also enjoys a
good barter, and drives a hard bargain."

Why do I get the feeling
that the word 'virgin' is going to be brought up again imminently?

We turn a corner into a
pillared square, perhaps an empty market-place.

"This place is
dead," Ace remarks. "No offence."

A large sandstone block
pitches abruptly into the ground from high above, right in front of
us. It's big enough to demonstrate that a direct hit would have made
our journey to the Six a.m. Lounge completely unnecessary.

We all look up, and spot
the disappointed gray zombie face at the top of a pillar briefly,
before it abruptly withdraws.

Suddenly, it seems that
every shadow in the square is occupied by other shadows…

"None taken, Mr.
Bumgang," Crispin replies. "I think your estimation of the
populace here is entirely accurate."

CHAPTER
TWENTY-NINE
:

OCTOPULPY

"
S
even
of us – a few dozen of them…" Luke muses.

There is an expectant
pause. Why is there a certain lack of humorous
Pimm's
reference to follow that remark?

And then it dawns on me…

"Six of us,"
Carvery corrects him.

"Oh yeah." Luke
sighs. "Forgot about your girlfriend. Sorry, man."

Of course. Miss Knob-End,
the usual air-headed wit on this occasion, is in a wooden box under
the deck of Lady Glandula's gigantic barge. Awaiting any regeneration
privileges that might come her way. Or
rigor mortis
. Whichever
arrives first.

"No worries,"
Carvery shrugs. "She acts up like it all the time."

We remain at the apex of
the square, or market-place, unwilling to chance another masonry
assault from above. The awaiting zombies shift restlessly in the
shadows.

"Are these more
relatives of yours, Crispin?" Ace Bumgang asks.