The Zombie Adventures of Sarah Bellum (37 page)

"I meant the bucket,
Sarah
Bellummm
," he says.

Why is he always so calm
and patient about everything?! It's enough to make a girl scream…
well – I suppose, technically he is dead. That, combined with
any disposition of his OTHER than inert, would make most people
scream.

I sigh, as the bucket
shakes us around, like unfortunate beach cockles.

"How do you usually
get past one of these Leatherback snakes, then?" I relent.
Hoping there's a simple answer.

"
Welllll
,"
he begins slowly, "they are partial to a vir…"

"Oh, God…"
I groan. "Really? The old 'virgin' chestnut again?"

"
Noooo
, Sarah
Bellummmm
," Crispin says, aghast. "They are partial
to a virtuoso singing performance. Ahem. Homer – do the
honours, if you
pleeease
…"

Grinning in his usual
too-disturbing fashion, Homer clears his throat and clings
determinedly to the ropes, striking an operatic pose.

Right before a falling
rock bounces off his head – and he keels over like a mining
canary…

CHAPTER
FORTY-EIGHT
:

HAIRY PALATE &
THE CHAMBER OF SECRETIONS

"
H
eads
up, dudes!" Ace's voice calls from high above. "Look
sharp!"

Another rock pitches
down, and scores the giant viper's flank. Our bucket tilts
nauseatingly.

I squint up at the top of
the stairwell. As I guessed, Ace and Carvery Slaughter have reached
the summit – and are bombarding the reptile with stony
missiles.

"Pinstriped
Leatherback Vipers enjoy singing, not stoning!" I yell up at
them. "You're just making things worse!"

Poor Homer N. Dry is out
for the count. A dribble of blackened blood trickles from his angular
gray cranium.

"Do we look like a
boy band to you?" Carvery scoffs. I have to bite my tongue on
that one. Girlfriend-battering psychopath Carvery Slaughter, and
dodgy breaker's yard mechanic Ace Bumgang together look like any
girl's poster-boy dream duo. "You want to play snake-charmer,
you go ahead and sing to it!"

I gulp and look towards
the viper's angry face as it curls its body around the rickety
bucket. One tooth broken already by the stock of Carvery's shotgun,
its eyes remind me of
Kaa
from
The Jungle Book –
swirling pools of deadly hypnotic venom, in a head the size of an
inflatable dinghy. Long whiskers trail from the corners of its mouth,
as in the renderings of Oriental dragons.

Not as big as the
river-god Atum, by a long shot – but could easily pass for his
evil gamete…

Oh, God – the only
singer I can impersonate is a
Singer
sewing-machine!

I clear my throat, merely
succeeding in nearly choking on the lump of rising bile at the back
of my tongue – and open my mouth…

But instead of my usual
Enter Sandman
opener I usually attempt alone on
Nintendo
Wii X-Factor
, an ethereal crooning sound echoes around the
bucket. It envelops me like a tangible jade mist, joined by a
tinkling of the most delicate bells.

What the Hell? Am I
channelling
Enya
?

The snake pauses in its
constriction manoeuvres around the woodwork containing us, and tilts
its head, questing the air.

The choral vocals soar up
the underground stairwell.

"It's beautiful…"
I hear myself breathe, drawn to lean over the edge of the rim,
straining to hear more. I feel as though I want the whole song to
climb up inside me, possess me…

Crispin's hand closes
around my arm.

"It is the hatching
Squidmorphs, Sarah
Bellummm
," he says, gravely. "Do
not let their call seduce you."

Ooohhhh… I recoil
from the edge slowly. Climb up and possess me, indeed! But surely,
something so magnificent could not be produced by something so vile?

One of the choral voices
breaks off abruptly, with a piercing, piteous scream. The viper
shakes its head as if dislodging water, or slowly awaking from a
trance.

I'm sure I just heard the
swisshhh-thuddd
of a harpoon gun, far below…

Crispin tugs on the
pulley arrangement, and our carrier jolts swiftly skywards again,
overtaking the head of the snake, as it moves groggily to tighten its
coils around the bucket.

Swisshhhh-thuddd!

Another horrific scream
punctuates the singing rising up from the inky black water. And with
a deep, indignant hiss, the Pinstriped Leatherback Viper darts after
us in pursuit.

"What's that?!"
I shout, as we jar to an unexpected halt. "Why have we stopped?"

"Something is stuck
in the ropes, Sarah
Bellummmm
," Crispin reports. "It
looks like…"

"Snake fang,"
Carvery calls out, and drops another rock, missing the dodging and
weaving viper. "My bad. Sorry about that."

Crispin reaches up and
works it free. Good Lord – it's longer than his arm…

Released once more, the
ratchet system grinds and cranks us further up the rope.

Only a few more storeys
to go… A formation of five Bat-Eater Owls barrels past,
picking off prey from the underside of the stone steps – and
turning, flies straight into the gape of the one-toothed snake.

Swallowed whole!

"Screw this," I
hear Ace muttering overhead, and see him unhitching his own harpoon
gun and fiddling around with the tip. "Carver – give me a
spark."

Carvery takes out his
Taser. What are they doing?

Three more owls circle
around us, and as the largest swoops under the stonework and emerges
again with claws full of bat, there is a
twanggg
from above. A
bright streak blazes down from the sky, and Ace's harpoon, ignited,
neatly pierces the owl's outstretched wing.

"Ohh!" I gasp
in empathy. "It's hurt!"

"Yeah, I hope so,"
Ace says, grimly.

The owl shrieks, flapping
on the end of the harpoon and wire tether, its wings starting to
smoulder. Its momentum carries it in a continuation of a wide arc,
straight towards the awaiting maw of the giant viper…

And just as its
prehistoric jaws close – Carvery stabs the Taser into the
extended cable.

A lightning bolt courses
down the wire, directly into the locked mandible. The viper freezes
in midair, suddenly ramrod straight – and smoke pours from
those acidic eyes.

"Stop it!" I
shout. The stench is terrible.

Crispin snatches up the
broken snake-fang, and swings it like a cutlass. The tether breaks
free – and gently, the Leatherback Viper falls down, down –
down into the darkness of the underground Squidmorph nest.

"Well?" Ace
asks, as he and Carvery seize the ropes and help to guide the bucket
up over the edge. "Did you want our help or not?"

"You didn't have to
do it in quite such a nasty way!" I snap, scrambling out of the
wooden contraption.

And then I'm completely
overwhelmed by the sensation of dry ground underfoot. Oh –
blessed sand. And rocks! How glorious do those sun-baked stones look?

"Thank you,
gentlemen," Crispin says, much more courteously, as he lifts his
brother Homer out of the bucket. "No, Mr. Slaughter, I do not
think my brother requires electro-convulsive resuscitation just yet.
Perhaps just a cool shady spot in which to recover. I think it best
if we take him straight to the Spice Market, where he can be treated
with a milder form of tonic."

"I'll take a large
Gin in mine," I burble, having found the friendliest-looking
rock I can, and hugging it to my cheek, like a long-lost relative.
Terra Firma… Mmmmmm…

"Something was
attacking the Squidmorphs," Carvery observes. "Didn't you
hear them hollering after the singing? That snake would have had you
for an entrée."

"Maybe something was
protecting us from the Squidmorphs, in case we fell," I say,
haughtily, stroking my new pet rock. "Did that occur to you?"

"Then why didn't it
start sooner?" he wants to know. "Like while we were down
there when they were hatching, and trying to get into all of our
pants?"

"Sarah," Ace
says slowly. "Why are you nuzzling that stone?"

"I'm just glad to be
alive," I remark, and toss it aside dismissively. A dull thunk,
and a groan from Homer behind me cause a moment's temporary
embarrassment. "But anywho – what's this Spice Market? Are
really in the Eight a.m Lounge at last, Crispin?"

We survey the landscape.
Another desert, with just few scrubby bushes, and some distant
mountains against the clouds of a storm on the horizon… but as
a heat-haze shifts, and the dust blows aside – a dazzling array
of bright colours appears, thrown across the russet sand like a
patchwork quilt. Tents of all shapes and sizes – hundreds of
them, as far as the eye can see – and as my own eyes adjust,
the equally russet domes, walls and minarets of a permanent
settlement amongst them – almost invisible by their camouflage.

"We are here,"
Crispin confirms. "Welcome to the Eight a.m. Lounge – and
here is also the most likely place we shall find Mr. Lukan has
absconded to – with the golden clockwork hand."

Oh, my word –
however shall we find him in this? It'll be like looking for a needle
in a haystack…

A shape starts to emerge
from the middle distance, appearing out of the reflective air
distortion of a mirage like something from
Star Trek
. It
splits into several shapes as it approaches, wobbling and lurching in
a very familiar fashion.

"Our transport has
arrived," says Crispin, approvingly. "Try not to look them
directly in the teeth."

"No worries,"
Ace grunts. "Same applies when meeting Carver's mum."

"Your mum's teeth
are still in a cup in my bathroom, Ace," Carvery quips.

"Where's the rest of
her?" I ask, automatically.

"You should know –
you've been sitting on her face," Carvery replies, just as
quickly. "While you've been eating your sandwiches under the
silver birch tree, at the Body Farm."

CHAPTER
FORTY-NINE
:

LOBULES OF AREOLA

The approaching
silhouettes jog towards us, as fast and steadily as horses, and yet
with all the co-ordination of string-puppets. Their joints seem to
bend in all directions at once, their feet clomp heavily in the
desert dust like suet puddings being thrown against a wall, and their
noses point towards the sky with all of the arrogance (and smell) of
the
Great Unwashed
.

Crispin looks on fondly.
I suppose with their wobbly hanging necks and lofty attitude, the
camels do have a little in common with his pet cockerel and brood,
back at the mansion.

"Mr. Dry!" a
voice hails, from the leading beast. "What a pleasure that you
bring company to see us on this fine day!"

As he draws closer, I can
make out a tall figure in black robes from head to foot, with barely
his eyebrows visible inside the turban and headscarf. In fact he even
has dark glasses on over that. A long curved scimitar is in his belt,
and a large semi-automatic rifle is strapped to his shoulder.

"My cousin,"
Crispin says. "Asum al Dj'eBraah."

"But my friends call
me Sandy!" the man booms. The camel sags, all knees and hips at
the same time, and its legs concertina beneath it, allowing the robed
individual to leap off energetically. "I see you penetrated the
Well of Our Souls to get here. Are the Squidmorphs hatching?"

"Very much so,"
Crispin nods, scratching the hole in the seat of his trousers.

"Our souls were very
nearly penetrated as well," Ace agrees.

Asum al Dj'eBraah leans
over the edge, cupping his ear, with a critical expression.