The Zombie Adventures of Sarah Bellum (35 page)

I push past Homer,
determined to see for myself.

A wall of rubble marks
the end of our path. Jagged segments of centipede armour are either
side, allowing only a narrow current of water and silt to drift
through.

"Let's have a look,"
says Carvery. "I've demolished almost as many walls as I've had
to put up."

I wonder how much of that
involved the interment of his ex-girlfriends?

He assesses the slurry of
mixed shapes and sizes of rock, before apparently picking a few at
random and pulling them free. Dust clouds billow into the seawater,
but the rest of the rock-face holds.

"That's as many as
we can safely move," he says, at last. "It's like
Jenga
.
Pull the wrong stone out, and the whole shebang comes down."

"Man, we still won't
fit through there," Ace tells him, patting the surface. "It's
like a cat-door."

"How far are we from
the surface, Crispin?" asks Carvery.

Crispin considers.

"Fifty feet –
perhaps sixty," he says eventually. "At a slight upward
angle, through these rocks and out the other side. We will find a
stone platform just beyond, with a steel ladder embedded into the
rock, leading up to it."

"Reckon we could
make it without suits?" Carvery suggests.

"What?!" I
gasp.

Take off our breathing
apparatus? Is he
crazy?

"It is possible…"
Crispin ponders. "But during hatching, the Squidmorph eggs
release acid into the water as well as ink. We will have to work
fast."

"Cool." Carvery
seems decided on the matter. Since when was he in charge? "Homer
– you're the thinnest of us. You go first."

"
Ho-ooo-ome?
"
Homer asks, doubtfully.

"It's quite all
right, Homer," Crispin reassures his zombie brother. "Mr.
Slaughter is thinking clearly. Nice deep breaths first. Like Bette
Midler, before a Vegas show."

"
Gooooood
,"
Homer agrees, and we all hear his lungs creaking and whistling like a
frog on a night out with the lads, as he dutifully exercises his
diaphragm before reaching for the clasps on his suit.

"Fuck," Ace
curses. "Forgot about the kimono."

Homer is still dressed as
Madam Butterfly
underneath the diving-suit. Between them,
Carvery and Ace quickly pull apart the bulkiest parts of the sash,
bow and bustle.

Finally down to a scrap
of embroidery, Homer makes for the opening in the rocks, and darts
through, with a kick of his heels.

God – not much of a
gap there…

"You're next in
size, Sarah," Carvery says, turning to me. "Deep breaths
now."

"Why is it in order
of size?" I demand, feeling panic rising up my gullet like a
victory flag.

"Smallest go first,
less likelihood of dislodging any more rocks on the way through,"
he reasons, with perfect logic. "Come on. Less talk. More deep
breaths."

I do as instructed,
filling my last lungfuls of air from the gas-tanks. Blessed gas-tanks
– how I will miss you…

"While we're still
young, Sarah," Carvery prompts.

"Yeah – I
think I just saw one of those eggs wriggle," Ace chips in. "I
think something else's young might be joining us quite soon."

"Aim for the ladder
directly ahead as you exit the rock-slide, Sarah," Crispin tells
me. "When you feel the rungs in front of you, head straight
upwards – do not hesitate."

"No chance of me
hesitating," I say, and I mean it. "Don't worry about
that."

I reach for my clasps.
One – two – three on the front of the diving-suit. One –
two on either side of the diving helmet. I brace myself – and I
am free…

The cold water gurgles
instantly into my suit, and slaps me about the face.
Aargh!
It's gross… I dread to think what living or dead particles are
finding their way into my eyes and ears and nose already…

Even more gross is
feeling Carvery and Ace both shove me towards the opening in the
rocks, and the grating of my Naval uniform gold-gilt buttons from the
Great Nematode
u-boat, as they scrape along the surface. With
one last glimpse of Crispin out of the corner of my eye, I am fully
inserted into the hole…

I have a little
elbow-room, and can kick my feet to propel myself forward – but
the channel through the rock-slide is longer than I thought. I squirm
my way along, my throat burning as I struggle to keep what air I have
in my lungs.

And yes! I can see a
blue-tinged light at the far end! That must be what Crispin was
referring to earlier – we
are
near the surface, at last.
I push forward, dog-paddling my way through the tunnel.

My eyes must be suffering
from the dirt in here. It's getting cloudy…

…
But
then I see the cloudiness billow, and the opening at the other end of
the tunnel turns briefly black…

Oh my God –
parasitic alien butt-hugger squid eggs…

They must be on
BOTH
sides of the rock-slide!

I can't go backwards in
this channel. For all I know, one of the others is already behind me
– and back there – no escape. Just a mile of Giant Sea
Centipede alimentary tract, leading out onto the Deep Ocean Trench,
populated by recently-armed Fish-Man. And me with no diving-suit on…

I shut my eyes tight –
and various other orifices that I can think of – and swim
forward. As fast as I can…

Something hits my nose,
and I almost forget myself by opening my mouth to scream. The taste
of rank seawater and battery acid rushes in. My hands shoot up to
meet my face protectively – and snag on a rigid metal bar.

The ladder!

Do not hesitate
,
Crispin's voice echoes in my mind.

I kick my way up the
underwater ladder, my fingers finding more rungs as I try to increase
my ascending speed. Surely this is more than sixty feet from where I
started?

Just as it seems my
bursting lungs are about to tear their way out of my chest, the water
breaks over my head – and my brain sloshes painfully at the
unexpected loss of buoyancy.

"
Gooooood
,"
Homer's voice greets me, grabbing my arm.

"Homer!" I cry
in gratitude.

As manfully as he's
possibly ever done, the skinny gray zombie hauls me up onto the
strange, livid green stone of the subterranean platform. We are still
underground – but high overhead, daylight filters down from the
top of a tower-like stairwell.

We've done it –
we're here. I've never been so glad to see the sky as I am now…

I'm barely taking my
first full breath, dragging myself onto the cool and welcome flat
surface – when something closes around my left ankle –
still overhanging the edge – like a bear-trap.

"Owwww!" I
yell, and try to snatch my leg in towards me – but whatever has
me caught in its embrace is firmly anchored.

And it
tugs
…

I look down in utter
dread, in time to see a third coil of red speckled tentacle loop
around and up, aiming for better grip below my knee. My foot is
already obscured by some horrible, barbed, knobbly, eight-fingered,
arachnid claw…

And
boy
– do
I scream! Maybe because Carvery Slaughter is nowhere near – I
really let one rip.

"Geddoff!" I
shriek. "
Off!
AAAAAAARRRRRGHHH!"

Bless Homer – he
bravely goes for the tentacle lashed around my shin, and bites and
bites it. It squirts black ink over his head, and I promptly vomit in
turn.

It tugs again abruptly,
and I shoot backwards, suddenly back in the water up to my waist.
Homer grabs my hand, as I scrabble for any purchase on the stone
ledge.

"Please help me,"
I beg, already knowing that Homer is losing the battle, with all of
the undead power in his pathetic, weedy, cross-dressing physique. "I
don't want an alien butt-plug…"

Another lash of the
horrible tentacle suddenly whips around my neck, and its barbed
little hooks bite into my flesh like burning needles of red-hot ice.
It makes the suckers on Lady Glandula's weird appendage in the Five
a.m. Lounge seem almost an attractive prospect in comparison…

"Homer…"
I sob.

I see the despair in his
black eyes, as I recede helplessly back into the deadly water. I feel
it lapping at my ears, the smell of battery-acid already corroding
the hairs on the inside of my nostrils…

Suddenly I feel my
trapped leg jerk abruptly, and a mouthful of the vile seawater makes
its way down my throat – before I realise that my neck is now
free once more.

Homer gives a heave, and
I progress forward slightly, like a
Tug o'War
rope. Oh God –
please let me live… I'll never lick another pizza box again…

Another strange tearing
sensation underwater, and my leg is also free.

Homer heaves again, and I
slither the rest of the way back onto the stone platform.
Thank
God – thank God
…

"Thank you…"
I blubber, not sure how much of the damp on my face is tears,
sea-gunk or snot by now. "Oh, thank you…"

…
And
Carvery Slaughter bursts out of the water, hopping up onto the
platform from the topmost rung of the ladder with ease.

"Carvery!" I
gasp.

"Shotgun works
underwater," he remarks, brandishing the remains of the tattered
waterproof holster. "At least, while it was inside this. That
was one ugly calamari, Sarah."

Ace appears right behind
him – minus his jacket and shirt.

Oh, boy
…
I've gone from
All Systems
Panic Stations
to
All
Hormones Conception Stations
in
four seconds flat.

"Tight squeeze,"
he says, by way of explanation. He shakes the water from his spiky
dark hair, like a
Davidoff
model. I'm glad I'm still sitting
on the ground, as I don't think my legs could stand the moral
challenge of such a display. "I don't envy Crispin, trying to
squirm his way through those rocks."

"Did you see any
more of those squid eggs hatching down there?" I ask Carvery,
nervously.

"Too dark."
Carvery tips seawater out of the shotgun barrels. "Too much
squid ink."

We all look down at the
swirling surface of the water, and wait.

And wait…

CHAPTER
FORTY-SIX
:

GNASHER NAIL
TREASURE

"
A
nyone
fancy going back in to see if he's all right?" Ace asks
eventually.

We all stare hard into
the darkening water. I dread to think how many vampire squid eggs
have hatched by now, to create so much inky blackness down there.

"Maybe he needs a
bit of guidance," Carvery suggests. "Who's got a light?"

A small part of my
mostly-useless brain leaps to attention.

"Yes – yes, I
have!" I fish the
Trevor Baylis
clockwork keyring torch
out of my pocket, and wind it quickly. The light flashes randomly and
intermittently, evidently a little damaged by the seawater, but I
hold it close to the surface anyway – hoping that the blinking
brilliance will penetrate the contaminated depths. I pray that he can
see it… "Come on, Crispin…"

"
Ho-oooo-ome
,"
groans Homer, unhappily.

A scream escapes me, as a
single hand bursts forth from the water, clamping firmly around my
wrist.

"Pull him out!"
shouts Ace. "Attaboy, Crispin…"

Between us, we haul the
zombie entrepreneur Crispin Dry out onto the subterranean platform.
To my secret disappointment, still fully-clothed, although his fine
black suit is showing signs of wear-and-tear from squeezing through
the underwater rock-slide.