The Zombie Adventures of Sarah Bellum (58 page)

I look in utter
frustration at the clockwork hand clamped around my own wrist.

"Now would be a good
time!" I shout at it.

But it merely glitters,
and does nothing.

The scream of elephants
and braying of cattle is barely audible above the roar of the
twister, as it hits the far riverbank and forms a waterspout…

…
Where
it remains, the muddy waters of the river raining down on the stage
and the audience, along with the occasional monkey limb.

The rearmost four rows of
seats in the audience are decimated by a falling bullock.

"Keep playing!"
orders the General. "Louder!"

Luke closes his eyes, and
opens up his lungs.

The cyclone's rotation
gathers speed in its static position mid-river, like an upright
washing-machine entering the spin cycle.

And in the hellish
darkness at the centre of the waterspout, glimmering through the
murky rush of water, a giant Eye slowly ascends…

"Atum…"
I breathe.

"It is a Summoning!"
Corporal Punishment shouts in my ear, as we cling to the
side-supports of the stage, against the buffeting wind.

The gigantic river-god
rises higher and higher inside the water-spout. There is a strong
smell of brine, and a barnacle the size of a saucepan ricochets off
the hidden breastplate under my clothes, knocking all the air out of
my chest.

"Keep playing!"
the General yells. "Even you, Bandy-Legs!"

Sister Jaundice leaps to
her feet, tossing aside the cello, which concusses Miss December.

"My legs are not
bandy!" she screams, pointing at the General with her bow, her
eyes flashing angrily.

And I mean, literally
flashing… green, like traffic-lights…

Almost apologetically,
the clockwork hand opens from its death-grip around my wrist.

It's too late
,
I hear myself thinking before I can grasp and level the illuminated
clockwork hand, as the line of green fire from Sister Jaundice's eyes
crawls down the bow, and leaps straight into the General's heart.

There is a bang, and a
puff of green smoke and glitter, quickly washed away by the rain from
the tornado.

There had been neither a
shout nor a scream. No reaction at all to the sudden transformation
of the skinny, bespectacled, cello-playing ex-nun.

All that remains of
General Foramen Winslow are his boots and hat.

Crispin is still playing
– and the others are still singing, eyes closed as if in a
trance.

The clockwork hand only
uncurls those deadly fingers as she aims the bow a second time –
towards the river…

…
Too
slow
,
I'm thinking, as I see the line of green fire moving down her arm
again…

"I hate musicals,"
she glowers. "And I hate crazy megalomaniac Generals. But I
really
REALLY
hate giant, omnipotent snake-gods…"

Then I remember the last
thing the clockwork hand absorbed, as Carvery reaches for his Taser
and shakes his head, hesitating.

"Can't mix water and
electricity," he grumbles, stamping into the considerable puddle
on the stage.

As a last resort, I look
upwards into the sky desperately –
yes
– and point
the clockwork hand straight up above my head.

"First rule of home
D.I.Y…" Carvery mutters.

"There's no place
like home!" I scream.

The massive bolt shoots
from the clockwork hand, lighting up the sky, turning the entire
landscape white – except for the witch-nun Sister Jaundice and
her green fire, poised to strike the river-god in his watery prison…

There is a deathly
nanosecond of eternal waiting…

A blackened village hut
comes crashing down onto the stage, its grass roof smoking ominously.
Cello splinters and imploded green glitter fly everywhere.

"Aw, Sarah,"
says Ace, brushing himself down. "Did you have to squash Miss
December as well?"

"That's almost two
full sets of human organs you owe me," Carvery adds, extracting
a nipple-tassel from his ear. "And a few extra pounds of
silicone butt and boobage."

The door of the burned
hut swings open with a creak, for a dazed elderly villager to emerge,
his make-do diaper around his ankles.

"Jeez…"
says Carvery, organ repossession quickly forgotten.

"Someone get this
man a nice big leaf!" hollers Ace.

Ribbet
…
croak…
ribbet
…

I turn to see a webbed
forefoot reach up out of the General's right Army boot, and a
batrachian amphibious brown warty face with a waxed moustache
follows, burping imperiously.

Crispin's hands hesitate
over the piano keys, and his eyelids flutter over his jet-black eyes.
Luke's voice fades uncertainly. Homer stops swaying, and looks
around.

"
Hoooome!
"
he squeaks, pointing at the pom-poms sticking out from under the
lightning-stricken village hut.

As soon as the last note
of the tune echoes away, the storm abruptly ceases. The cyclone and
waterspout silently collapse, and for one split second, the river-god
Atum is looking down at us accusingly, with his all-seeing alien Eye.

Then he is gone, with a
serpentine flick, back underwater. A never-ending tidal ripple
follows.

"He looks really
pissed off," I observe, as the last few raindrops fall, and the
broiling sun returns.

"Well…"
Carvery ponders, and then shrugs. "He's just been sucked up out
of nowhere… and then the witch tried to blow him out at the
last minute. Where do I even begin?"

The tea-vala has picked
himself up from where he was sheltering under his tea-tray. He
surveys the scene briefly, and claps his hands.

"Strike camp!"
he cries. "Moving on after lunch – Frog Leg Soup!"

The former General makes
an optimistic leap for freedom, straight into an awaiting silver
samovar. The lid clatters down, drowning out his final, outraged
ribbet
.

I hurry to Crispin's
side, as fast as the top half of the stolen armour encasing my body
will allow me. The clockwork hand has immediately clamped around my
wrist again, like a mechanical Chinese Burn torture device.

But it's not the first
concern on my mind any more.

"Crispin," I
say gently. "Are you all right?"

He looks my way, but
doesn't seem to focus.

Please don't say it, I
think.
Please don't say
…

"
Braaainsss
,"
he groans, blinking, and my heart plummets.

His hands, weakened and
groping, reach up to my shoulders, as my own eyes fill up with tears.

We've come so far…
why did it have to be while he was playing music? This wasn't the
piano-related fantasy I was having at all…

"
Braaainsss
,"
he repeats, his voice getting louder.

"No, Crispin,"
I cry. "No, no…"

He heaves a sigh, both
leaky lungs whistling in harmony.

"You used your
braaainsss
, Sarah
Bellummm
," he says. "I
couldn't be prouder of you."

The tears pour down, and
if it wasn't for this stupid armour holding me rigid, I would have
collapsed into his arms in relief.

"Be careful,"
he warns. "You will go rusty under there."

Of course – he
knows about the armour…

"The watchmaker?"
I query. "Was he related to the Dry family?"

"No time," he
shakes his head. "We must hurry. Our ride to the Elevensies
Lounge will be early, in the wake of the tornado."

I move to help him to his
feet, but he brushes off my assistance, his strength returning.

Thank goodness…

"What happened?"
Luke is asking, squinting into the ten a.m. sunshine. "Did I get
the part?"

"You sang up a
storm, bro." Ace claps him on the shoulder.

"Yeah, you slayed
'em," Carvery adds, retrieving his cowboy hat from inside the
grand piano and putting it back on. "Let's go. Where are we
going?"

"The yellow road to
the north," Crispin tells us, pointing beyond the stage. "To
the hills. We have a hot-air balloon to catch – to the far side
of the world."

"Sounds familiar,"
says Luke, vaguely, evidently still a little worse for wear. "Wasn't
there a tune, or something –
Around the World in Eighty Days
of Yellow Brick Road?
"

"Closer to eighty
minutes, I hope," Crispin tells him. "No, Homer, leave the
pom-poms. Keep the shoes, if you must. Will you be joining us,
Corporal Punishment?"

The Corporal salutes
stiffly.

"There is much work
to be done here, Mr, Dry!" he snaps. "Stolen property and
Missing Persons to identify! Lots of filing and documenting!"

"In that case, I
look forward to your report," Crispin acknowledges, and returns
the salute formally.

The Corporal remembers
something.

"Take these,"
he says, and pulls the lower half of the armour and the little
leather-bound diary out from under his trousers. "I will inform
you the moment I have any further intelligence on the fate of the
finest Swiss watchmaker!"

I pocket the tiny book
and accept the rest of the armour on Crispin's behalf, tucking the
parts under my arm.

"I shall miss you,
Corporal Punishment," I say, sadly. "Won't you, Crispin?"

"Corporal Punishment
is never far from my thoughts," he admits.

My heart swells
hopefully. He really is a family man under that hard, undead
exterior.

The Corporal shakes hands
with the others.

"Mr. Slaughter,"
he says politely.

"Abandon Hope All Ye
Who Enter Here," Carvery nods.

"Mr. Stig – I
mean, Bumgang…"

I rattle a finger in my
ear, uncertainly.

"Cuz," Ace
winks at him.

"And Da… I
mean, Mr. Lukan…"

"Good to meet you
too, son," says Luke, gripping the Corporal's hand in both of
his own. "You will make a mighty fine librarian one day."

"
President
,"
Crispin corrects, with a sniff.

Homer, of course, will
only settle for a hug. The Corporal graciously accepts, before
saluting again sharply – and then scampering away, like an
eager meerkat.

The six of us remaining
turn to face the hills, and step onto the yellow dirt road.

"What will happen to
the Cult of Atum without General Winslow?" I ask. "Will
they disband now, and return to their homes?"

"In my experience,"
Crispin divulges, as we fall into an easy, if brisk pace. "They
will have a four-day holiday with much feasting and dancing, and
enjoy themselves so much that they decide to celebrate annually in
order to remember the day of their freedom – requiring a
committee, and a calendar of events and organisation. Leaders will be
appointed, and much of the year will be invested in rehearsing –
so I think, over all, the answer is no."

CHAPTER
SEVENTY-ONE
:

SCARDUSK

Mist gathers on the
yellow dirt road as we ascend to higher altitude, and the air
noticeably cools, a relief from the relentless sun. I notice Crispin
looking up at the scudding wispy clouds, worried.

"There is a short
cut to the top," he says. "But it is guarded, as a
strategic outpost. With this fog, we could be at risk."