The Zombie Adventures of Sarah Bellum (72 page)

It still runs though.

I check my phone, which
I've left on charge all Sunday, by the look of things. Holy Hell –
a hundred and seventy-one requests on
Draw My Thing?
I don't
really have that much of a social gaming problem, do I?

And one voicemail –
from Dry Goods, Inc.

Well – he can
definitely wait. I have no idea how I'm going to explain the loss of
the clockwork hand this time…

I peel myself off the
bed, and go to push Miss Nipple-Nuts out of the shower.

* * * * *

I ride to the Body Farm
in a blue funk. Passing
Bumgang & Sons' Breaker's Yard
brings my mood even lower. And as for the D.I.Y. store, with its
advertising billboard announcing a sale on patio slabs and cement –
I can't even look at it.

I enter the code at the
gate for the Farm and let myself in, leaving the scooter to trudge up
to my favourite silver birch tree, and even more comforting
wheelie-bin. Eyeing some of the exposed body tags warily
en route
.

"Hands up any
zombies here?" I say, but they're all either asleep, or very
good at play-acting.

I lift up a tarpaulin to
check. Pooh. Maybe a zombie with a hygiene problem. If it's true
where we get half of these subjects from, that wouldn't be unusual. I
think we have the highest rate of scrofula victims
per capita
of
the entire civilised world, on our little smallholding. Where do
tramps go when they die? They get an open-air burial in a different
sort of park.

Slumping down under my
favourite tree, I take out my sandwiches and unwrap them. The sight
of limp white crustless bread and lemon curd makes me want to burst
into tears. No chilled monk brains. No cheese made from billy goat.
Just plain old bread and sickly sweet yellow goo.

"I'm glad none of
you are zombies," I say out loud. "Too damn noisy by half,
they are."

I munch on my sandwich,
and pull out my phone, with another gaming notification.

ANONYMOUS HAS SENT YOU A
CHALLENGE ON DRAW MY THING. CLICK TO ACCEPT.

I tap on the screen, glad
for another slice of reality as I know it.

An inverted triangle
appears on the app, covered in scribbles. Five letters.

Dubiously, I count on my
fingers. Most likely another illiterate twelve-year-old being rude.

I stick the remainder of
the sandwich in my mouth, and send a request for a letter clue.

P appears as the first
letter. Ohhhh – maybe they're just really bad at drawing…
I enter the letter E, and click on
Send
.

WRONG. GUESS AGAIN.

"Huh?" I try
looking at the scribble from all angles. "Illiterate
and
crap at drawing?"

While my mind boggles,
the message reminder on my phone flashes up again. Comforted and
emboldened by the proximity of my beloved Mr. Wheelie-Bin, I switch
to Voicemail to listen.

"I think we have
some unfinished business, Sarah
Bellummm
." The sound of
Crispin's disembodied voice on my phone still manages to send shivers
down my spine. "If you would like to drop by my office at your
convenience, we can conclude the interview."

"He's still serious
about offering me a job?" I remark, to Mr. Wheelie-Bin. "I
have a feeling that losing the clockwork hand won't go in my favour…
Mind you, trying to shove a giant squid up my bottom doesn't exactly
go in his…"

I look at the
Draw My
Thing
challenge again, and to pass the time while considering my
options, type in the letter N.

WRONG. GUESS AGAIN.

"It's nice to know
he's alive, I guess," I ponder, dubiously. "And that he's
checking up on me too…"

I glance in frustration
at the game screen, and completely at random, try a letter T.

WRONG. GUESS AGAIN.

"Crap," I
mutter, and send a request for a hint. "I mean, it's not every
day a girl meets an eligible bachelor – dead
or
alive…"

HINT: LETTERS 3 AND 4 ARE
THE SAME.

There is a noise, beside
me. I freeze.

Did I imagine it, or did
the wheelie-bin just
rattle?

Putting my phone away, I
sidle a little closer.

"Um…" I
say, looking around quickly for any other evidence of undead activity
or pranks in the Body Farm, but there is only the usual rustling of
dead leaves, dead skin, beetle-husks and rotted clothing on the
breeze. "Er… Mr. Wheelie-Bin?"

The square plastic
garbage container vibrates again, followed by a definite scratching
sound from within.

Bravely, I find the
longest stick I can (which, being in over two acres of conservation
woodland, is pretty long), and use it to poke the lid open.

Nothing… well, I
suppose it would be more conclusive if I actually looked inside…

I drop my eight-foot
branch, and creep closer, clearing my throat.

"Is anybody home…?"

The smell hits me first.
It's… it's… well, I was going to say indescribable, but
as it happens, it's a lot like the barracks in the Six a.m. Lounge.
Sleeping-bag farts, I think Higham Dry Senior described it. With a
hint of coffee and dead thing, whoever said that as well.

It's not as if I'm unused
to it. Just that it seems particularly ripe and pungent today –
or maybe some of that is me, and my nervous tension…

I'm just about to peer
over the edge, when there is a
glooping
sound, and a dark,
rancid slime bubbles out and over the side.

"Gosh," I say,
politely, looking down into the upturned eye-sockets. "I hardly
recognised you…"

Barely holding together
at all, the skeleton gropes its way out into the sunlight. A t-shirt
hangs apologetically from his twisted torso, and one of his legs
seems to be locked into a foetal position from his stay in the bottom
of the garbage container.

The only thing that seems
to have lasted the ravages of decay and exposure is that wonderful
shock of copper hair, hanging from his scalp as it flaps on the side
of his battered cranium, and my pity goes out to him.

Domestic violence is a
terrible thing. Hmmm. Carvery Slaughter is probably better off
wherever he is. Being a garden gnome somewhere, I suppose.

"You're looking
well," I say, encouragingly. "In fact…"

I frown, as he lists
weakly in the wheelie-bin, like an X-rated, morning-after
Oscar
the Grouch
. Or
Davros
on a bad day – in need of a
pampering session.

Doesn't his hair look a
little too
bouffant
for this stage of deterioration…?

I take out my Cramps
University notebook, and flip back through the pages.

Hair – no
change… hair – no change… hair – no change…

I look back up at him, in
growing disgust.

"Your hair…"
I begin, and watch as the breeze has no effect on its uplift and
pattern at all. "…Is a wig!"

All this time!
A
badly-attached toupée!

It doesn't even cheer me
up that I will be getting an 'A' for my research, that I have spotted
one of the mythological corkers that the academic staff like to test
out on the Forensic Anthropology undergraduates.

I feel cheated. I feel
conned. The rose-tinted scales have fallen from my eyes.

"You, sir," I
announce. "Are a liar and a cad!"

And I storm off, head in
the air.

I'm not sure what 'cad'
means, but I always assumed it was a golfing insult, implying that
they weren't good enough to play, just to hunt for the more qualified
men's balls. It feels appropriate right now, as fuming, I head back
for my scooter.

Perhaps Crispin
can
make me a better offer, after all…

* * * * *

I recognise Debbie,
Brain-Dead Blonde Mk II, in the Customer Services lobby of Dry Goods,
Inc, but she doesn't recognise me.

I suppose the yucca plant
pot on her head, smashed deep into the front desk isn't helping, but
her left arm flaps out anyway and buzzes me in, as I ask to see
Crispin.

His office door is
already open at the end of the corridor when I show myself through.

"Sarah
Bellummm
,"
he greets me, rising to his feet behind his own desk. "So glad
you accepted my invitation…"

But I freeze in the
doorway, staring at the opposite wall.

"What is THAT?"
I demand.

He looks hurt.

"My art, Sarah
Bellummm
," he reminds me. "
High-Velocity Spatter
.
I thought you liked it."

"Not the painting."
I point. "That…
him
."

Alongside the painting,
is the black onyx Carvery Slaughter, complete with shotgun.

"Ahh – Mr.
Slaughter." Crispin gestures for me to sit on the black leather
sofa by the coffee table as before. "I rather like him as office
décor, don't you? You can hang your coat on him, if you want."

"I got dressed in a
hurry," I say, stiffly, taking the seat ungraciously. "This
is all I have on. Er, underneath. Just me."

"Intriguing,"
he echoes, in a low voice. "Would you like anything from the
vending machine? Let me get you a coffee. Or – is it too early
for a Sloe Gin Sling?"

"Definitely too
early," I say, pleased with my self-control, although the nape
of my neck is itching in paranoia at sitting with my back to Carvery
Slaughter. Stone statue or otherwise. "Um. How is Homer?"

"Having the time of
his life, the precocious trollop," Crispin grumbles, hesitating
over the keypad of the state-of-the-art black vending machine.
"Mother's wardrobe hasn't seen so much action since she posed
for the Ancient Egyptian equivalent of
Hello
magazine."

"Er, Crispin,"
I say, twiddling my keyring in an embarrassed fashion. "There's
something I need to tell you…"

"No, Sarah
Bellummm
," he interrupts. "Let me apologise first…"

"It's not that…"

"…Lady
Glandula de Bartholine was my greatest inspiration – more so
than the munitions business that the male line in my family
dominated, as you may have guessed," he blurts out, and turns to
face the window, unable to meet my gaze. "I was her star pupil,
her brightest hope – and her devoted patron…"

I don't know how much
more icky and uncomfortable this monologue is going to get, so I
sneak occasional peeks over my shoulder at Carvery, just to check
he's still a statue. Still a man-beast, but still a statue.

Mmmm. Pity you can't get
DNA from onyx…

"…It was my
honour to serve her and keep her in the manner to which she was
accustomed…"

If only I hadn't lost the
stupid clockwork hand – if I'd known he was going to end up
displayed back here…

"…Provision
of certain sacrifices, at regular intervals…"

My phone buzzes inside my
fleece, with a notification. I pull it out.

ANONYMOUS SAYS: DO YOU
NEED ANOTHER HINT?

"…Now with
Homer, I imagine those services will become redundant, except for…"

I tap on
YES
to
pass the time, and wonder if Crispin has forgotten about the coffee
he offered me.

HINT: YOU EAT THIS.

"…At least
once or twice a year, usually at the solstices…"

My brain slowly unfreezes
as I stare at the app on my phone screen.

Inverted triangle.
Covered in random scribbles. Five letters beginning with P. Letters 3
and 4 are the same…

My hand shaking, I
feverishly type in the letters I, Z, Z, A after the P, and hit
Send.

"…Of course,
fulfilling the role of secretary would be neatly killing two birds
with one stone, if that doesn't sound too selfish of me…"