Read The Zombie Adventures of Sarah Bellum Online
Authors: Lisa Scullard
"Not really
necessary, Corporal Punishment," Crispin replies. "Sarah
Bellummmm
, this is my first cousin once removed –
Corporal Abandon Punishment."
"What an unusual
name," I venture, attempting to get an arm through a sleeve
before any motion towards hand-shaking is made.
"Full name Abandon
Hope All Ye Who Enter Here Punishment, Miss Bellum!" says the
hitherto unseen relative. "Adopted by the Dry family in Malawi,
Miss Bellum! Where they hope I will some day be President, Miss
Bellum!"
"Corporal Punishment
was an orphan, raised by a witch-doctor who unfortunately contracted
fatal intestinal worms from eating roadkill sacrifice soup,"
Crispin explains. "My cousin, Beneficience Vassally Dry, took
little Abandon under her wing, and put him through the proper
schools, church and… military service."
"What do you hope to
gain from your service here, Abandon?" I ask politely, feeling
rather like a consort, being given a tour of the local people.
"Perhaps a nice
clerical job, Miss Bellum!" says Corporal Punishment.
"Abandon is very
keen on filing things, Miss
Bellummmm
," Crispin says.
"Complaints, stocktaking reports, daily menus, track requests
for the radio station, death certificates… occasionally
without checking the remains of the deceased first…"
"Sometimes they get
up in the night and run away, Miss Bellum!" Corporal Punishment
agrees.
"But you have other
talents, don't you, Corporal?" Crispin continues. "Enemy
codes and transmissions, for example?"
"Just a hobby, Mr.
Dry, sir!" announces the Corporal, modestly. "I would
really like to work in a library one day, sir!"
Oohhh – I wonder if
this workaholic jobsworthy imp is the contact Sandy was hinting
about? Who would be able to make sense of Crispin's father's diary?
I've most certainly never heard of a rescued Third World orphan
discussing their librarian aspirations before… Usually, they
want to be doctors, astronauts or lawyers – or sometimes pop
stars, or supermodels.
Even future Presidents.
Not gray little clerks whose job it is to point at a sign reading
'Sshhhh!' every ten minutes…
Before I can venture
another enquiry to establish whether this is my contact, the siren
sounds again, this time in reverse, winding down in tone and volume.
"It is the
all-clear," Crispin says, patting my knee in the darkness
reassuringly. Thankfully, I've managed to get a trouser-leg on by
this time. "We can head back to surgery and check on Homer and
the others."
The sunlight is dazzling
back in the open air of the field hospital, and I can see a number of
gunned-down, shattered Six a.m. Lounge rickshaws on the ground, their
pilots hanging from trees, or in a few cases being dragging pleading
and crying towards the tent marked ORGAN DONORS.
"What a pity,"
Crispin notes sadly. "If Homer could have waited half an hour
longer for surgery, he might have had transplants of the right gender
available to him."
"Um – what
gender would that be, Crispin?" I query.
"Excellent point,
Sarah
Bellummm
." Crispin's grim face relaxes a little,
and he looks at me kindly. "Errr… You have your scrubs on
back-to-front…"
"Never mind," I
reply swiftly, loathe to strip off and rearrange everything again so
soon.
"Shall I serve Mr.
Time with a formal complaint, Mr. Dry?!" Corporal Punishment's
eager voice joins in.
I turn to look at the
ambitious adoptee of the Dry family, and gulp. As black as onyx –
only a double-take confirms he is not made of such – with eyes
as white as Mother-of-Pearl. A carved bone that suspiciously
resembles a letter-opener is through his nasal septum, and human
vertebrae are inserted into the expanded piercing holes in his
earlobes.
He salutes at my visual
assessment, doffing his camouflage peaked cap gallantly.
Crispin hesitates, and
the tannoy crackles again.
"As usual, the Nine
a.m. Lounge-Lizards pillage and plunder from every Lounger that
passes through!" Justin, a.k.a. D.J.
Hammer Time
announces, from wherever he is concealing himself in the encampment.
"On the Specials menu today, the officers will be eating
rickshaw pilot liver, with some forearms, and a nice kidney. Followed
by
castrati
of goat, if they can catch the bugger and stop it
drinking all the medical alcohol. With any luck, after the
interlopers have been battered to death, boiled alive, breaded and
fried, there might be enough left for Crispin and Miss
Hot-Limps
to collect in a small carry-out bag, to resuscitate their friend
currently lying dead in the Five a.m. Lounge – so long as she
doesn't mind waking up as a billy goat. Baa-aa-aahhh…"
"
Yessss
,"
Crispin sighs. "Bring him to the General's office. In one piece,
Corporal Punishment."
"Yes sir, Mr. Dry,
sir!" Abandon Punishment barks, saluting stiffly, his glee
skilfully under control – and then he turns and scampers away,
crab-like, elbows and knees flapping like a voodoo cockerel.
"Perhaps I ought to
go with him?" I volunteer, spotting an open window of
opportunity for my investigation. "To make sure his
interpretation of 'one piece' doesn't mean 'a piece of'?"
"Good idea,"
Crispin nods, still in that asymmetric wonky fashion that so weakens
my popliteal regions. "We will meet at the General's office –
in the silver static caravan."
I waste no time, recover
the power of my hamstrings, and hurry after the Corporal.
"Mr. Punishment –
wait for me!"
I catch up only by the
laws of physics and geography, as Corporal Punishment moves at great
speed, but in a randomly zig-zagging fashion – meaning I merely
need to travel in a straight line, hopefully of the right direction,
that he will eventually bisect.
We collide fortuitously
beside what could be either a gunner's bunker, or a golf bunker…
"My apologies, Miss
Bellum!" Corporal Punishment cries.
"Not at all,
Punishment…" I pick myself up and spit out as much sand
as I can. "I thought I would provide support if Justin – I
mean, Mr.
Hammer Time
– offers up any resistance."
Corporal Punishment looks
me up and down several times, as if wondering where on my person I am
storing the physical power and propensity for such services, then
beams a toothsome grin at me regardless.
"I am very grateful,
Miss Bellum!" he says graciously. "This way!"
I skip to keep up,
although by his galloping route, we could be heading anywhere.
"I'm very impressed
by your range of extra-curricular interests," I announce, as we
circle the flagpole twice.
"Thank you, Miss
Bellum!"
"Are you familiar
with hieroglyphs at all? Pictogram writing?"
And I almost cannon into
his beanpole spine, as he stops dead, staring beatifically into
space.
For a moment, I wonder if
I've said some magic word that is pre-programmed to put him into a
trance.
"The flow of
images," he breathes, for once, his voice now a reverent
whisper. "The energy… the life in every line… and
yet so refined – so elegantly restrained…"
"Oh…"
This sounds positive!
But before my lips can
form the start of another question, the radio tannoy seems to clear
its electronic throat once more.
"And now we have
some guests on our little field hospital radio show!" Justin
squawks, evidently enjoying his freedom of speech from behind the
safety of his microphone, in its unknown location. "I'd like you
all to welcome Mr. Gaylord Lukan from Nigeria, and Mr. Carvery
Slaughter from… from…
Your Mother's Back Porch
,
or so I'm told. Both of whom have some interesting experiences with
organ-donors that I'm sure they'd like to share – right after
this next song. Ben E. King with
Stand By Me
. But please leave
the lights on… a healthy man could wake up minus his wallet
and watch, and you don't know how hard it is to get a good ticker
around here. Never mind how good it is to get hard…"
My mouth is now an
ampersand of repulsion, instead of a query of hopefulness.
"He's a shock jock!"
I gasp.
"That is not the
least of it, Miss Bellum!" Corporal Punishment concurs, with
dubious grammatical accuracy. "We must hurry, before he gets
carried away and announces a game of
Musical Autopsy
!"
"What?!" I
demand, dashing haphazardly after him.
"Anyone not holding
an organ when the music stops is out, Miss Bellum!"
Unlike Corporal
Punishment's sense of direction, I can see exactly where this is
going…
DAD
'
S
ARMLESS
The Malawian Corporal
Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here Punishment eventually co-ordinates
his motile efforts in the direction of a rainbow-emblazoned
Winnebago
amongst the khaki tents, which looks very out-of-place in the Nine
a.m. Lounge military field hospital.
A large satellite dish
and a cluster of tannoy speakers perch on the roof. In the grubby
window is a battered cardboard notice, upon which is scrawled (in red
ink?
Blood??
) the words:
PANIC STATIONS –
911-999FM.
"
I
have here a poem dedicated to Mr. Dry and Miss Hot-Limps!"
Justin Time's voice announces from within. "Ahem…
'There
was a young lady from Buckingham'
…
Oh
no. This cannot be right. I am reliably informed by Mr. Slaughter
that Miss Hot-Limps is still a virgin…"
A strange man in safari
shorts, with a tea-towel tied around his head against the jungle
sunshine, sits outside smoking a pipe. Another red sign hangs around
his neck.
ON AIR.
"
Looks
like he's on more than just air," I speculate. "More than
gas and air, even…"
Corporal Punishment
ignores the warning sign, and raps smartly on the
Winnebago's
side door.
"
Open
up!" he barks. "In the name of the General!"
The music inside lowers
slightly.
"
What
name would that be?" the voice queries, after a pause. "General
Ignorance? General Incompetence? Or just General Sense of
Purposelessness?"
Corporal Punishment draws
himself up to his full – and extremely intimidating, primeval
warrior-like – height.
"
General
Sunny-Jim!" Punishment snaps. "Full name as you are well
aware Mr. Time, General You Are Going Home In The Back Of An
Ambulance Sunny-Jim!"
After another pause, the
door in the mobile home cracks open, revealing the familiar face and
coolie hat.
"
General
Sunny-Jim is on visiting duty?" Justin Time whispers, and gulps.
"From the Six a.m. Lounge?"
"
We
are honoured to welcome all of our military ambassadors!"
Punishment concurs. "Today, we are playing host to General
Sunny-Jim, Captain Intraveinous Mainlining and Lance-Corporal
Layabout Pikey from the Elevensies Lounge, and General Lissima Domina
from the…"
Justin blanches so white,
he almost illuminates the darkened doorway with his anaemic glow.
"…
Lissima
Domina…" he echoes, hoarsely. "Cutthroat Liss? Mrs.
Reaper? The old lady?! The ball and chain??! The millwheel around my
neck at the bottom of
Davy
Jones' Locker?!!
"
"
Yes,"
confirms Punishment. "Your wife is visiting in her official
capacity today, Mr. Time!"
"
This
I have got to see," Luke chips in, appearing behind the errant
rickshaw pilot, alongside Carvery Slaughter. "What are we
waiting for? Let's go!"
"
What?
What is going on out there?" a woman's voice calls from inside
the trailer.