The Zombie Adventures of Sarah Bellum (38 page)

"Yes," he says,
straightening up. "They sing for their salvation! But by the
sound of it, no luck today. They will be dead larval vulture pickings
by noon."

Vultures?! Eewww –
are there no cute fluffy animals anymore? Or are those elusive
lovable critters just a
Facebook
fantasy? Everything here,
unless it's a chicken, seems to be a slavering bloodthirsty monster…

"Cool," says
Carvery Slaughter, the biggest sentient bloodthirsty monster on the
current page of events. "I'd like to see that."

"I think you may
enjoy the Noonday Lounge in that case, Mr. Slaughter," Crispin
acknowledges. "But that is four hours away. Let us enjoy what
the Eight a.m. Lounge has to offer first."

Asum – or Sandy –
peels off his Ray-Bans and unwinds his headscarf, greeting us with a
wide, toothsome grin. He is a handsome, aquiline man with brooding
dark eyes, no doubt a legacy of Rudolph Valentino's creation. The
kind of model male that women hate to love, and men love to hate.

Didn't they call him
'Vaselino'? I'm sure I read that on
Wiki
…

"It is quite a
circus you have been missing so far this morning, Crispin!" he
announces, and seems to end every statement with an exclamation
point. "We have seen robbery, trespassing and worse. The
Surgeons of Justice are looking forward to collecting some hands
today!"

"Hands?" I
whisper, in enquiry.

"The hands of
thieves," Crispin returns quietly. "Not the clockwork
variety. But be careful. Where there are thieves, there are also my
grandfather Higham Dry Senior's men, collecting bounty. It can create
conflicts of interest between the Lounges. My grandfather wanting
complete subjects for his flying experiments. The court-appointed
Surgeons wanting their dues first, in guilty body-parts. This is why
the bounty hunters are all a hand short already. The Surgeons of
Justice insisted on a demonstration of goodwill, to collaborate with
inter-Lounge criminal proceedings. A thief must be proved to have
stolen from my grandfather first, to be extradited intact."

"What about Mr.
Lukan?" I ask. "Who has he stolen from, technically?"

"Technically?"
Crispin repeats, pondering. "Well, technically – YOU, Miss
Bellummmm
. Seeing as you were looking after the golden
clockwork hand at the time."

Me?! I gulp. What sort of
punishments lie in wait for a criminal taking Dry property from a
pizza-delivery girl? Or possibly, even – from a just-employed
secretary to one of the Dry family? God – my housemate Miss
Fuck-Nuts is going to be pissed over that one, if she ever wakes up…
she'll accuse me of trying to steal Carvery Slaughter from her next…

"All right, Sarah,"
Carvery interrupts my thoughts, immediately putting psychotropic
pictures in my mind of his consent to the concept. "Let's see
you wrap your legs around this great big hairy thing."

"Hmmm?" I look
over at him, nonplussed, to see him patting the neck of a large white
camel – which appears to be chewing tobacco, drooling yellow
slime. "Oh – well, it can't be worse than riding a
Pizza
Heaven
scooter…"

Oh, but it is. Clambering
aboard, I lurch into the air on what feels like a drunken
Bucking
Bronco
.

Thank God I've already
been sick…

"Well done!"
shouts Sandy. Homer is hoisted across his pommel, thrown under a
blanket to shade his mottled gray wizened skin from the baking sun.
"We will head straight for refreshments, in the Spice Market!"

I glance warily over at
Crispin, adjusting himself in the saddle of his mount. Worrying that
perhaps he looks a bit too uncomfortable. I notice Ace and Carvery
nodding at one another also, in a meaningful fashion.

"And then we will
visit the tailors!" Sandy continues, prodding his ride into
forward motion. "Get you some new breeches made up, Crispin!"

"With an elasticated
maternity panel?" Ace suggests, nastily. "Feel any kicking
and squirming yet, Crispin old buddy?"

"If he starts
looking at little knitted squidling-rompers in the market, I'm out of
here," Carvery concurs.

…
Maybe
Carvery Slaughter wouldn't be such a great candidate to sperm-jack, I
find myself thinking, unwittingly. My mind wanders further down this
precarious footpath of fantasy. You'd expect even the most unwilling
of DNA-donors to have a heart, at the end of the day. But perhaps
it's not the case… Ace sounds like he'd be more sympathetic,
though… he might be the sort to pick up where a less
responsible man left off…

My camel stumbles, and I
pitch forward onto its neck. It continues onwards regardless, as I
slip round to cling underneath, terrified of tangling with those
bulletproof knobbly knees.

"Sarah, stop showing
off," Ace remarks. "You look like a sloth."

"Down!" I try
to command the camel, hanging on grimly. "Stop! Lie down!"

Eventually, the beast
seems to get the idea – or I just wear out its patience –
and it stoops slowly to the ground again, with a flatulent groan. I
scrabble to get back on board, before it can change its mind.

Now – what was I
thinking about? I squint to focus on my travel-companions' receding
backs, as they vanish into the shimmering heat-haze. Oh,
yes
–
who would I rather be left holding the Squidmorph-baby by…?

Well, to be honest, being
abandoned by any of them would be considered a win. It would suggest
at least some sort of interaction had occurred previously.

Which is a hundred
percent more than I've racked up in my life so far…

My camel is in no hurry
to catch up. I try a lethargic bounce up and down on the blankets,
and a kick of my heels.

"Yah!" I shout,
because that's what they say in the movies. Hoping it means
'Go
Faster, Stupid!'

But my ride just sighs,
and breaks wind again morosely.

"God, no wonder
nothing grows around here," I grumble. "I think I'll name
you
'Captain Farty-Pants'
…"

"Sarah's got a
squidling!" I hear Ace shouting, up ahead. "I can hear her
talking to it, and thinking of baby-names!"

"I was talking to
the camel!" I shout back. "How do you make it go faster?"

"You impersonate the
roar of a Maneless Camel-Eating Lion!" calls out Crispin's
cousin, over his shoulder. "And then they run, like the desert
storm winds!"

"What?" I cry –
but am immediately drowned out by an Earth-shattering rumble directly
behind me. It vibrates my toes, knocks my knees, dislocates both my
hips, cracks my spine like a whip, and pops my ears, like two
bullfrogs belching.

"Yes!" Crispin
shouts, as I feel my animal go rigid with fright. I have the presence
of mind to grab hold of the fur on the back of its neck, with both
hands. "Just like that, Sarah
Bellummm
!"

"Good to know!"
I reply in passing, as I overtake them all like a hirsute missile –
hanging on for dear life.

Wow. Sandy wasn't joking.
These creatures certainly can move, when they want to…

CHAPTER
FIFTY
:

SECTS AND THE
CITADEL, TOO

My mount gallops
determinedly through the heat-haze and dust devils, and gradually
slows as the reassuring rainbow array of tents becomes clearer. The
voices of stallholders and market-traders can be heard carrying over
the barren sands.

But it is only a
precursor of the backdrop. What I thought was the main encampment,
are merely the early birds, the eager beavers awaiting visitors to
what I realise is a whole city inside the terracotta walls beyond. I
can see plumes of fragrant smoke, hear the call of exotic captive
wildlife, and the chanting of early-morning prayers from the minarets
within. The scent of sandalwood and frankincense wafts by, on the
arid desert air.

Maneless Camel-Eating
Lions forgotten, I am entranced as my beast's stride shortens to a
less uncomfortable lope. Everything shines or gleams or sparkles.
It's like finding a multifaceted crystal prism boutique, in an oasis
of coloured silks, in the middle of a nomad's land.

The traders are as
wrapped up against the sun's glare as Crispin's cousin, Asum 'Sandy'
al Dj'eBraah. I can't tell through their robes whether any of them
are zombies… although my stomach's reaction is telling me that
someone is most definitely selling
Fried Spiced Brains on a Stick
somewhere close by. Hmmm – what was the last thing I ate…?

"Something smells
good!" Sandy's voice interrupts my thoughts, catching up. "No
wonder the lions are lurking. Possibly a banquet later!"

"For the lions?"
I ask, dubiously – but he just grins.

"We shall see!"
he says, jovially. "Whenever a great rumour circulates here, we
plan for the best possible outcome. A celebration. No one can gossip
on an empty stomach. Or revel. And if the gods declare war, no-one
can fight or die well on an empty stomach either!"

"What gods?" I
enquire. "Have you seen the great river-god Atum too?"

"Atum? He is
whitebait, compared to some of the demons I have seen!" Sandy
chuckles. The others trot up behind him. "But they are not our
concern today. Thieves are our concern! And catching them is always a
cause for celebration! Also, for the lions. There are always
leftovers, after the Surgeons of Justice have had their piece."

"Are we going to
stick around long enough to see that?" Carvery cuts in. "Because
I don't want to miss all the cool stuff. We had hardly any time at
all in
Madam Dingdong
'
s Bring Your Own Towel Sauna and Spa
earlier."

"And I'm sobering
up," Ace warns. "I'm actually starting to feel like I could
use a coffee right now. That's not good. I'll be walking straight
next."

Aha – that explains
his
Ace-is-in-charge
episode, just recently. I get a little involuntary tremble of
excitement. Ooh. Ace
sober
. That's something I hadn't
considered as a possibility before, in any of my fantasies…
imagine what his lap-times as
The Stig
would be like on
Top
Gear
, driving under the influence of only coffee and sobriety?

"Well, you men have
had no fun yet at all, I can see!" Sandy agrees, as my thoughts
spin dizzily. "But first, we will see to Homer. My strangest
cousin is not himself after a swim among the Squidmorph eggs, it
seems."

"I'm glad you
noticed that too," Crispin remarks. "Perhaps he could be
examined for parasites while recovering."

Oh
…
we
exchange glances. Of course – Homer isn
'
t
wearing any trousers to display telltale holes. If a squidling had
taken a fancy to his pants-wearing area as its potential
incubator-host, it wouldn
'
t
even have had to nudge him first to get his attention
…
it
'
d
only have had to lean in his general direction
…

So we head off between
the tents, with their mind-boggling display of wares –
everything from carpets to pots and pans, jewellery and footwear, to
confectionery and hot food.

I'm sure I smell the
familiar barbecue scent of the chicken wings I ate at Crispin's last
night, causing a blush to steal across my face.

God, I could eat
him
alive. Or dead. I'm not fussy.

I wonder if it's possible
to sperm-jack a zombie? Maybe so… and if he's still keen on
that
sleeping-with-a-virgin-cure
idea later on, I might
actually get something out of the deal…

Particularly if that
crazy witch-doctoring notion about a 'cure' actually works.

Although it would of
course contravene all of my Forensic Anthropology dissertation
research. And might get me thrown out of the
Germaine Greer
Readers
'
Society
at Cramps University.

Gosh, having interesting
sectarian morals instead of a rabid sex-life is such a burden! Just
think, if I'd only got drunk on Fresher's week instead of working at
Pizza Heaven
to pay my half of the rent, I could now be
knocked up, knocked about, and nailed under the floorboards, just
like my floozy housemate Miss Thing – whatever her name is.
Exciting, experienced, and dead to the world. A notch on any number
of sports jocks' baseball bats. Just a notch, of course, not a name.
And possibly some deadly splinters.