The Zombie Adventures of Sarah Bellum (12 page)

"Who's Mrs
Frittata?" I ask, wondering if they refer to their mother so
formally in this house.

"The housekeeper,"
Crispin groans. "She and her two sons, the Frittatas, form the
main hub of my staff here. Jerry Frittata is my driver, while Ben
Frittata is the gardener. There was a third Frittata brother, who did
odd jobs as handyman on the estate – but he fell down a well in
the sunken garden some years ago, and has never been quite the same
since."

"Is he in care?"

"No, still down the
well. He likes to try and entice female visitors to climb down and
kiss him, impersonating a cursed frog. Honestly. Like you say, as if
women persist in believing that you have to kiss a lot of frogs
before a prince appears, these days."

"Quite," I
agree stiffly, thinking of my brainwashed housemate, Insert-Name-Here
– who was virtually born with a glass slipper between her legs
– and had been discussing the very same myth with me (in her
usual deluded fashion) earlier this evening. Before having her
boyfriend-amputated thumb reattached.

The reminiscing is
interrupted by the
'DONNNGGG'
of the impressive doorbell,
reverberating through the mansion.

"Strange…"
hisses my host for the night so far. "Who would call at this
hour? I only ordered the one pizza…"

"Er – which
you still haven't paid for!" I point out, hurrying after him, as
he leaves his mother's boudoir.

With a squeak of
abandonment, I hear his brother Homer disentangling himself from
coat-hangers and designer footwear on the floor of the closet, and
shuffling quickly to keep up – jabbering
'Home…
home…'
as he scuttles after us along the corridor, to the
second-floor landing.

I risk a glance behind.
His progress is hindered, Pippa-Middleton-style, by the pink fishtail
wiggle dress.

Well – he doesn't
look too dangerous… At least, not to humans, I think, as he
burps a chicken feather.

We descend the two
flights of stairs to the ground floor again. Reaching the doors
first, Crispin answers it himself – just as he did when I first
arrived, with that pizza.

I wonder how I'm meant to
ride the
Pizza Heaven
scooter back, now I'm only wearing his
loaned pyjamas.

"Luke," Crispin
greets our
Legally-entitled-to-work-since-1971
Nigerian
taxi-driver, from the hospital. "What brings you here?"

"The young lady left
her mobile phone on the seat of my cab," Luke announces, holding
it out to me. "I was passing by on another passenger route,
thought I would see if you folk were home."

"How kind!" I
say, although I'd barely missed it. The only calls I get are from my
housemate Twatface, when she has some new drama with Carvery
Slaughter…

I pocket the phone, and
look up again, just in time to see another movement in the doorway
behind the taxi-driver…

Fuck
.

Speak of the Devil…

"Hey, this doesn't
look like
The Astoria
," Miss Novelty-Tricks slurs,
staggering in behind Luke.

"No – this is
way better," says another familiar voice, and – oh, no –
Ace Bumgang lopes in as well. "Where's the bar in this place?"

Last and definitely
least, Mister Slaughterhouse himself walks in, and spots me
immediately.

"Don't know about
the bar, but I've found the toilet," he says, meaningfully.
"Hello again, Sarah."

"I'm sorry."
Luke apologises to Crispin, trying to herd the three of them back
outside. "Drunk customers. Always leaping out of the cab if you
so much as stop at a traffic light. Let's get you nice people home…"

"Home!" shrieks
Homer N. Dry, tripping over his skirts, at the bottom of the stairs.

"Oh, do we have to?"
complains Whatsername, pointing at the fallen zombie. "It's
fancy dress here as well, look…"

"Please,"
Crispin steps aside, gesturing into the grand hall. "Make
yourselves
all
at home. It is the least I can do to thank you,
for returning my friend's property. You will find a drinks bar in the
Three a.m. Lounge – straight ahead to your left."

"Very kind of you,"
Luke grins, and strolls jauntily after the others.

I grab Crispin Dry's
sleeve.

"None of them are
virgins," I warn him, under my breath. "If you were
thinking of including them in your little
experiments
in the
basement!"

"Not at all,"
he smiles. "Why would I need them, when I still have you, Sarah
Bellummm
?"

And he limps after them.
Homer manages to get to his feet in turn, and hobbles along in
pursuit.

A moment later, the
cockerel appears in the kitchen doorway, gives me a sidelong glance,
and flutters in the same direction.

"
Et tu, Brute?"
I sigh. "Looks like everyone
wants to go and play with the big boys tonight…"

I hesitate, wondering
whether to just go back to my scooter, taking my chances with the
unknown zombies out there, and my boss at
Pizza Heaven
instead. It would beat the company of two very definite zombies, and
one certified girlfriend-battering psychopath, right here in this
house. Although the thought of Ace Bumgang getting himself
approachably drunk in the same vicinity is hard to resist…

But with escape
resolutely in mind, as I'm aiming for the kitchen to retrieve my
crash helmet and keys, I'm alerted by the creak of floorboards
overhead – and the unmistakeable sound of someone moving around
upstairs…

"Someone else is in
the house!" I cry, bursting into the Three a.m. Lounge. Miss
Tosspot has somehow ended up wearing Homer's hat, and Crispin is
mixing up cocktails. He looks at me and holds out a Sloe Gin Sling in
his gray-skinned hand. My legs betray me immediately, carrying me in
a bee-line to the bar. "Didn't you hear me? There's someone in
the room above the kitchen! I heard them moving around!"

"Ah," Crispin
muses, as I drain the cocktail in one gulp. "Our antics have
awoken the housekeeper, Mrs Frittata. Homer, I hope you have prepared
your apologies regarding her Sunday wig?"

"Homer!" cries
Homer, clamping the wig to his ears, with both hands.

"What will she do?"
Ace queries.

"Well, as she
usually does when roused by strange noises in the early hours, she
will wake up her two sons, Ben and Jerry, arm themselves with
shotguns, and scour the property looking for interlopers."
Crispin leans idly on the bar, twirling a paper cocktail umbrella
between his fingers. "Oh. I haven't introduced any of you to the
Frittatas, have I? How remiss of me."

"We should go,"
I announce, putting the hi-ball glass back down regretfully, and
wishing there was a full one right next to it.

"No need," says
Crispin, smoothly. "The mansion is full of secret passageways.
It is rather fun to play at avoiding the persistently dogged Mrs
Frittata and her sons for a few hours."

He pulls a lever under
the bar, and a wall of bookshelves abruptly disappears. I'm
disappointed to see that Carvery Slaughter, who was leaning
nonchalantly against it, doesn't follow through, but merely
straightens up with the slightest acknowledgement of one eyebrow.

Grrrr… that
butcher is going to pay in blood one day… and maybe sperm,
given the opportunity.

"Shall we?"
Crispin suggests. "And quickly? The Frittatas are always
bad-tempered before breakfast."

The others shrug and
follow. I take out my
Trevor Baylis
wind-up torch again, and
duck into the narrow passageway behind them. I hear the shelves grind
back into place, after I've gone less than ten feet into the walls of
the great mansion.

"There are some
minor hazards
en route
in these passages, designed to prevent
misuse," Crispin's voice intones, from the front. "Just be
careful to only follow my lead. Now – here we have pit of
spikes. The ladies – yes, that includes you, Homer – will
need assistance to step across…"

"This is scary,"
I hear Miss Fuck-Nose whining, somewhere in front of me. "I
can't see a thing down here!"

"NOW you're
complaining of being scared?" Carvery mutters, in disbelief –
much closer than I like to think.

Bringing up the rear, I
approach cautiously, and shine my torch downwards. My toes are at the
edge of a pit so deep and dark, even the torchlight fails to
illuminate the bottom.

"When you're ready,
Sarah," says a grim voice.

I look up into the evil
eyes of Carvery Slaughter, feet braced across the abyss, holding out
his hand to help me bridge the gap. Oh boy. I know where I'd like
those spikes to end up…

I put my torch in my
pocket, and allow him to take my shaking hand. But my feet panic,
both wanting to go first – and my heels skid off the edge of
the precipice.

I'm left dangling by one
wrist, held at arm's length by the monster Carvery Slaughter.

"Thinking of
dropping me?" I challenge, numb with terror.

His amber eyes bore into
my brain, faintly disgusted.

"You wish," he
replies. "Pervert."

"I know what you're
like!" I hiss at him.

"No you don't,"
he says. And with barely a flick of his elbow, deposits me on the
other side.

What? He didn't try
anything
??

"You're the kind of
guy who'd break into my room, and wank on my diary!" I hiss
again, and cover my mouth, horrified. Did I say that out loud?

"Only if it was full
of stuff about cars and firearms," he shrugs, easing himself
over the gap, and falling into step again. "But I've read it
already, when you've been at work. It's all about dead guys at the
Body Farm, and your fantasy notion about Ace Bumgang being
The
Stig
. And if I wanted to, I could just wank on him when he
crashes out at my place, so your diary is kind of a poor substitute.
You don't even talk about your tits or touching yourself in it."

Outraged, I can't even
speak, let alone think of a response.

"Up ahead,"
Crispin's impeccable monotone breaks the fuming silence, ringing in
my ears. "There is a giant pendulum. But it may be quite rusty
now – and is a little unpredictable…"

Behind me, I hear a
distant clatter, and the grumbling of three apparently male voices.

"Aha, Mrs Frittata
and Sons have joined us," Crispin continues. Odd. I thought the
third son lived in the well? But Crispin seems to sense our communal
doubt. "…Hers is the bass voice with the hacking cough,
that you can hear. It might be an idea for the seven of us to split
up at some point."

"Hmmm…"
I hear Carvery's voice, right by my ear again. "That
would
make things more interesting…"

CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
:

RADIALS OF THE LOST
ARM

We catch up with the
others, where the zombie business-man Crispin Dry is waiting at the
edge of an even larger pit.

"As you can all see,
demonstrated by my brother Homer," he says. "And I use the
word 'brother' in the loosest of terms – the pendulum,
installed over four hundred years ago by a previous owner of the
estate, has a mind of its own. There may also be a family of giant
monitor lizards still living in the pit underneath, but no-one
visiting the site from the Animal Cruelty Department has reported
back on their welfare for quite some time."

The rush of air above the
pit is interceded by Homer N. Dry, petrified, clinging to the shaft
above the inverted crescent blade, as it whooshes past us.
Remarkably, his stolen blonde wig and pink dress are still intact –
although the white crochet shawl, fluttering in the draft, now looks
a little tattered, and worse for wear.

"Ouuuuch…"
groans Homer, his yellow zombie
eyes enormous in his ravaged gray face, passing again on the return
swing.

"There is a lever to
stop the blade," Crispin informs us. "But it is on the far
side. One of us has to make it over there in order to operate it.
Homer, unfortunately, has only made it halfway."