The Zombie Adventures of Sarah Bellum (53 page)

"
Hey,"
Ace hisses at Carvery. "Maybe these tentacle chicks have
something against dry land."

"
Was
that 'Dry' with a capital D?" Carvery mutters.

"
General
Sunny-Jim," Crispin turns to the visiting officers, who salute.
"It has been a pleasure. Give Higham Dry Senior my regards.
Captain Mainlining – Lance-Corporal Pikey – I will see
you presently, in the Elevensies Lounge."

"
The
kettle is always on, Mr. Dry!" barks the Captain. "Come,
Pikey. Before you catch a chill."

"
It's
the jungle, Uncle," Lance-Corporal Layabout Pikey groans,
slouching out of the static caravan after him. "I could strip
right down to my long-johns, and not even catch a lukewarm…"

We follow them outside
into what is indeed the beating tropical sunshine, and watch as the
two Elevensies delegates march not-quite synchronously towards a
small armoured helicopter in the middle of the field hospital site,
and get in, still grumbling to one another. The awaiting soldiers
flanking it salute stiffly.

Instead of an impressive
engine turning over, or the rotor-blades even starting up, it is
merely lifted up on long poles by the soldiers on the ground either
side, and carried off into the jungle.

"
I
can see that moonshine fuel idea getting increasingly lucrative,"
Ace observes.

"
You
will like the Elevensies Lounge, Sarah
Bellummm
,"
Crispin says beside me. "They are extremely cultured when you
get to know them."

"
Everyone
I have met so far today is cultured, Crispin," I reply. "Some
of them from cultures I thought were completely extinct."

I leave his surprised
side, and run ahead a little to catch up with the loping warrior gait
of Corporal Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here Punishment, whose nose
is still buried in the tiny leather-bound diary of hieroglyphs. His
stride is now mysteriously managing to maintain a straight line, as
if under a magic spell.

"
You
can read it, Corporal Punishment?" I pant, bobbing to keep up,
like a cork in a bath-tub. "It makes sense to you?"

"
It
is very interesting, Miss Bellum!" he announces. "They are
the Missing Incantations!"

"
Incantations?
What incantations?"

"
Numbers
sixteen, eighteen and nineteen, Miss Bellum!" He turns a page,
still not looking where he is going, but walking confidently ahead
nonetheless. "Numbers forty-eight and forty-nine! Numbers
fifty-one and fifty-two! Number sixty! Number…"

"
Numbers?"
I ask, nonplussed.

"
For
going out into the day! For seeing in the dark! For not falling upon
the icicle of frozen poop! For not succumbing to the spell of the
Sirens! For hearing the word of Atum! For…"

"
Icicle
of frozen poop?!" I squeak, looking all around at the sweltering
jungle in horror, before a vague concept of thermal dynamics
reassures me that this is not an immediate threat. "Atum…
did you just say Atum? Massive river-snake thing, big scary Eye,
barnacles?"

"
Oh,
Atum is
soooo
over-rated," General Lissima
calls back over her shoulder, as she lovingly drags her husband, the
unfortunate Justin Time, through the mud and undergrowth,
occasionally slapping him against a tree. "Always turning up
when things are half-done like a desperate theatre critic, saying
'It's not finished, wah
wah wah'
. Of course not,
stupid great snake. You just show up too early, before Big Reveal."

"
There
is a Cult of Atum in the Ten a.m. Lounge, Sarah
Bellummm
,"
Crispin says. "Organised by a renegade General. He has been
predicting terrible things about the Lounges and their stability."

"
He
has also been trying to make Jack Daniels by distilling his own
wee-wee, Miss Bellum!" Corporal Punishment adds earnestly.

"
The
horror…" I murmur. "He must be losing his mind…"

"
Yes,
Miss Bellum! Everyone knows Jack Daniels is not made from human
wee-wee!"

"
Er…"
Something prevents me from asking the obvious, probably a sudden
concern that I may have imbibed a Jack Daniels Sling or two in the
past, when the Sloe Gin had run out.

I look back along our
path, to where Luke, Carvery and Ace are trailing behind, sharing the
last of the pint glass of failed ambulance fuel/potential Guinness
substitute. Fortunately, they don't seem to be paying attention to
the conversation. And Homer is skipping along between all of us,
having already made himself a grass skirt to go with his woolly scarf
and mitten-slippers.

Or should that be 'her?'
I can't get my head around it. Perhaps if they'd given him a shave
and a make-over too…

"
Ah,
here we are, my beloved," says General Lissima, as we reach a
riverbank and a wooden jetty.

"
May
you rot at the bottom of the deepest ocean!" roars Justin.

"
Ah,
does my husband need a nap?" croons the lady General, and with a
flick of her tentacle knocks him unconscious, against the black prow
of the large stealth motor-boat moored in front of us.

"
Hey,"
Ace chips in sharply. "You forgot to say
'I
name this ship'
."

"
And
all who sail in her," Luke adds.

"
He
gets sea-sick," she excuses him. "Much better that he
sleeps on the way."

And she tosses him
aboard, like a sack of old spuds. The tentacle abruptly retracts and
vanishes, into whatever hellish portal it occupies.

It's nothing like the
Great Barge in the Five a.m. Lounge – or even Crispin's own
paddle-steamer. This is a stripped-down small Naval ship, a speedboat
armed with heavy artillery – is that a Gatling gun in the
tower?? Oh dear…

"
Carvery
gets sea-sick too," I announce hopefully, but nobody hears me.

"
It
is not licensed for casual passengers," Cutthroat Liss warns.
"So long as you are on board, you are considered crew. So if I
give you an order, you say:
Yes,
Ma'am
."

"
Yes,
Ma'am," everyone responds promptly.

"
Gooood
,"
Homer improvises, and she dismisses his impertinence with a wave of
her hand.

"
Very
good, Homer. Let's go. Ten a.m.
won't wait around for any old body."

"
You
are coming with us, Corporal Punishment?" I plead. "I think
that little book might be relevant to this clockwork hand thing…"

I hold it up under his
pierced nose for inspection, the golden bejewelled device still
locked around my wrist – and its gemstones still glittering
malevolently with acquired Taser voltage.

"
Oh,
that is very pretty, Miss Bellum!" Corporal Punishment replies.
"But no, I do not see it mentioned in the Missing Incantations
yet."

"
There
must be something!" I press him. "Please, you must tell me
if there are any clues to what it is and what it is for! Because I
think it might hold the cure for…"

"
All
aboard!" snaps General Lissima.

We fall into line, and
shuffle onto the loose gangplank. She chuckles as we pass.

"
There's
my good little shamblers," she purrs.

"
Do
you know what a shambles is, Miss Bellum?" Corporal Punishment
asks me, under his breath for the first time.

"
It's
what we are?" I suggest, feeling unusually clever at
anticipating some derogatory military remark.

He looks worried.

"
I
certainly hope not, Miss Bellum," he replies. "It is a meat
market for the remains of animal sacrifices, deemed unfit for
consumption and prohibited in many religious sects. Incantation
Fifty."

"
Fifty
shambles of gray zombies would be a pretty tasteless meat market
overall, I imagine," interrupts Carvery, glancing from Homer to
Crispin and down at me. "Drool much lately, Sarah?"

"
She's
calling us animal sacrifices!" I hiss.

"
Maybe
she's referring to zombies as being general consumers of sacrilegious
meat parts," he shrugs, pushing past and making a bee-line for
the gun turret. "Sounds about right to me."

"
Waterskis!"
Luke cries, and is suddenly hopping up and down in the bows like a
kid on Sunset Yellow, a ski in each hand. "Oh, man, I have to
try
theeeeese!
"

I'm starting to worry
that there isn't anyone here who is taking the situation seriously…

"
Mr.
Bumgang!" General Lissima hails, and points to the controls.
"How's your driving?"

"
How's
your holding on tight?" Ace grins.

"
Then
let's make waves, Mr. Bumgang. Time to run the gauntlet!"

The gauntlet? I look down
at the golden clockwork hand. But no – still nothing.

Damn it! And – is
she
flirting
with him…?

I topple over sideways as
Ace steers the boat around in a circle, mid-river, and find myself
face-down in a lapful of black wool suit.

"
You
are in a hurry to perform a closer examination, Sarah
Bellummm
,"
Crispin intones deeply above my head. "We are not even in
private yet."

"
No,
no – just making sure you were, erm…" I hazard,
trying to sit up but finding my hair snagged in his zipper. "Oh
dear. I think we might need scissors."

"
I
will pretend I did not hear that, Sarah
Bellummm
."

I attempt to coax the
strands of hair free from the zip tag.

"
You
know, Crispin," I say, concentrating fiercely. "You really
could be being a bit more helpful."

"
You
seem to be managing admirably down there," he assures me.

"
No,
what I mean is…" I tut to myself, as I release one single
solitary hair, resulting in making the remaining tangle worse. "This
is YOUR hereditary clockwork hand. Made in Switzerland by the finest
Swiss watchmakers…"

"
Why
would I need that as well right now?" He sounds puzzled. "Your
own hands are keeping me quite busy enough at the moment. You're not
suggesting I need a prostate exam too, I hope?"

"
No,
Crispin!" I sigh in exasperation, fiddling and fumbling like an
amateur acupuncturist. "I mean – why didn't you ever learn
anything about it, while your father had it? Why didn't he teach you
anything? What is it for? What's its special purpose? And it better
not be for better self-prostate examination, now you mention it…
stupid thing's been hanging onto all sorts of parts of me when it's
not blowing things up or turning them to stone…"

"
That
certainly does not sound like a necessary range of powers by which to
perform prostate exams," Crispin agrees, and sighs in turn, his
undead lungs whistling sadly an inch from my right ear. "But you
are absolutely right, Sarah
Bellummm
.
My father was in mourning for so long over our first brother, that he
never shared much of any knowledge value with Homer and myself. We
had to try and guess what would earn his approval. Homer as you know,
was a little far off the mark."

"
Hoooome
,"
says Homer unhappily, seated beside Crispin atop the stocky body of
the unconscious Justin Time.

It's so frustrating…
I pluck another hair free, trying not to lose my temper and
vigorously jiggle the zipper with what would appear to be impatient
enthusiasm.