The Zombie Adventures of Sarah Bellum (25 page)

"You Dry people, you
all the same…" Mr. Time grumbles and raves, half to
himself. Nonetheless, the rug swoops obediently into the quad.

Crispin leans out over
the side as we barely kiss the air above the ground, and locks arms
with his brother, just as Homer strikes a dramatic pose in his final
flourish…

…
And
as we climb again steeply over the far side, the transvestite dancing
zombie securely flying skywards with us – the ball of fighting
zombies erupts, and a protruding hand grabs the very end of the
trailing feather boa…

Carvery Slaughter ejects
from the writhing mass, still in possession of the shotgun –
which is handy as he blows the head off one last determined zombie,
trying to grab hold of his foot as he is lifted free.

"Excellent,"
Crispin announces, and the remainder of our group soar into the sky,
away from the riverside and the frustrated slave zombies. "We
will catch up with Mr. Lukan later. But for now – the Six a.m.
Lounge, please, Justin Time…"

CHAPTER
THIRTY-TWO
:

BIG TROUBLE IN
RECEPTACULUM CHYLI

Homer and Carvery haul
themselves up the sides of the flying rickshaw to perch on the back
of our passenger seat, on top of those other lashed-down, struggling
rolled-up rugs. A few of them give indignant grunts or squeaks, as
the two plonk themselves down heartily.

I immediately flinch, as
Carvery's knees clamp around my shoulders.

"No seatbelts,"
he excuses himself. "Maybe I should hold onto your hair as
well."

I try to make myself as
small and inaccessible as I can, on the padded leather bench.

"Did you get
bitten?" I ask, although it's not the first thing on my mind.
Damn my traitorous hormones again
…
!

"Nope."

And he spits out what
turns out to be a ragged gray ear, right onto my lap.

"I can imagine why
not," I mutter, trying to shake off the piece of discarded
zombie.

Any undead saliva meeting
Carvery Slaughter would only make his bloodstream cleaner, for one
thing…

Homer – our
transvestite exotic zombie dancer – is looking very pleased
with himself, fluffing up his remaining ostrich-feathers once more.

I feel as though some
sort of artistic award or tribute is due for his life-saving
performance just now, and hand him the bouquet of dead flowers, which
had found me as we flew over the square. He is unashamedly thrilled,
simpering dreadfully and fanning his own face with his free hand, as
if overcome with emotion.

Bless him
…

We pass through
early-morning ribbons of cloud, the harnessed flying carpet skilfully
directed by our strange pilot, Mr. Justin Time. He is quietly focused
on his task, but at one point raises an arm and waves.

Stretching my neck to see
over the side, past Ace Bumgang, I just catch a glimpse of another
flying shape in the distance, heading back the way we came –
but I can't make out what it is.

Ace suddenly turns in his
seat, and punches Carvery on the quadricep.

"That's for shooting
me," he says, still nursing the nick in his arm, licking the
blood off.

"I was aiming for
Sarah," Carvery grins. "Sorry, dude."

"We are almost
there," Crispin interrupts, his creaking zombie voice a balm to
my suppressed anger, as usual. "The Six a.m. Lounge is often
quite busy, and some of its denizens and regular clientele are the
private sort, who may be suspicious of strangers. We must proceed
with caution."

My heart sinks. So it
doesn't sound like we're back at Crispin's brownsign mansion yet…

As we dip below the
clouds, the sun disappears, and we find ourselves skimming over
darkened, rain-soaked streets. Not the dry dusty sandstone of the
Five a.m. Lounge – and less architecturally magnificent,
consisting of a higgledy-piggledy of corrugated iron shacks, strange
tenements, rainbow-illuminated storefronts, and many small temples of
differing size and denomination. Ordinary rickshaws bob along the
muddy cobbles, and every street seems to feature rows of
bunting-festooned market-stalls, right on the doorsteps of the
regular shops, businesses and houses. People just seem to exist right
on top of one another here…

Scrawny dogs and tiny
children with pot-bellies wander around loose, unattended. As I stare
in horror, I notice a small boy with his mongrel terrier tethered on
a piece of string, both happily pooping in the gutter.

It's like something off
Rough Guides Uncut
…

"That is our
destination." Crispin points, and on a hill overlooking the
bizarre town, stretching from horizon to horizon on either side, a
huge stone fort appears out of the low-lying, gunmetal-gray clouds.
Every arrow-slot is illuminated, and the distant flying dots of other
airborne vessels arrive and depart from its roof, in a stream of
early-morning industriousness.

"Remember what I
said about caution," Crispin re-iterates, as we dip over the
walls of the fort. "There are people here who would suck out
your soul, and rape it in front of you."

"Cool," says
Carvery. "Get to put my feet up and watch for once."

"Yeah," Ace
agrees, grudgingly. "Wouldn't be the first time I got
sperm-jacked in my sleep."

"It'd be all right
for Sarah." Carvery scruffs my long hair, which immediately
tries to stand perpendicular, in shock. "She doesn't have a
soul. They'd be poking around hopelessly lost in there for ever. Like
chucking a toothpick down the Thames."

"I imagine it's
somewhat like finding out some weirdo has whacked off while reading
my diary!" I bristle, meaningfully.

"Sarah, it'd be like
wanking on my Nan's shopping list," Carvery sighs, shaking his
head. "Even my taxation accounts are sexier than your diary."

The rickshaw comes to a
bumpy halt on an illuminated runway, on the roof of the fort. We seem
to be in a queue of similar arrivals. Helmeted guards are moving
along the flanks, speaking to drivers, and scratching notes on slate
tablets.

"Identification?"
the approaching guard says to Justin Time, peering at us out of the
corner of his faceplate.

"Tell your mother,
she needs to move her stuff out of my brother's caravan!" says
Justin.

Er – not the way I
was ever taught to speak to men in uniform. We all listen, in deathly
silence.

"What have you
brought today?" the official continues benignly, apparently
immune to our pilot's Tourette's Syndrome.

We all let out our
trapped breath.

"I want the bounty
on these rugs," snaps Justin, slapping one of the rolls of
carpet behind him, which squeals for pity. "The ones that those
slave boys were stealing to impress rich girls with. I have a dozen
of them to return."

"And your
passengers?" the guard continues. "Identification?"

"You don't need to
see their identification," Justin Time scoffs. "These
aren't the virgins you're looking for."

My heart seems to
contract to the size of a hazelnut, in fear.
Not again
…

"Ah – Mr.
Dry!" the guard suddenly exclaims, and pushes up his faceplate,
greeting Crispin with a much less intimidating smile. "I did not
see you there… are these people all with you?"

Before Crispin can reply,
a crack of thunder explodes overhead, followed by a prong of forked
lightning. It strikes down a cluster of guards, scattering them like
ten-pins.

"Uh-oh," Mr.
Time gulps. He reaches out and prods our own gawping guard, with his
little rug-driving whip. "Hurry up, Dumb-Ass! Let us through –
I am a businessman, you know!"

A second fork of
lightning grounds itself on the roof of the fort, and remains there,
sizzling and sending up sparks from the stonework.

The dark cloud above
swirls around its vertical axis, in the same way the river had
swirled earlier before revealing Atum the sea-god, in the Five a.m.
Lounge…

But this time, no
gigantic leviathan appears.

Instead, three bat-like
shapes descend, like ragged firemen sliding down a station pole. They
land with thunderclaps onto the roof, and fold their gauntleted arms,
faces half-hidden behind chain-mail and coolie hats.

At least a third larger
than the average man here, they tower menacingly as they stand beside
the lightning fork, which reflects off their armour in flashes of
ultramarine light.

"Who are they?"
I hiss.

"Bounty hunters,"
Crispin whispers back.

The middle one takes one
pace forward, his head turning slowly – until his sight rests
on our little flying rickshaw.

"Justin Time…"
the tall bounty hunter rumbles, in a voice like the quaking of
continents. "
Thief
…"

And the three newcomers
all raise their arms, to point at our equally quaking driver.

I know immediately where
I've seen those twinkly glinting blue lights before…

FUCK…

…
They
ALL
have
clockwork hands…

CHAPTER
THIRTY-THREE
:

THE MEN WHO STARE
AT GLUTES

"
What
do we do now, Crispin?" I ask, my voice by now only marginally
less hysterical than the
Sinclair
C-5
concept.

"We disembark,"
Crispin announces. "Quite rapidly…"

None of us need to be
told twice. In fact, I think being told the once was pushing it.

We scramble out of the
rickshaw hurriedly, over the restrained and thrashing rugs –
while in the true spirit of battle, our pilot Mr. Time reaches for
the sky, and surrenders.

"
Parlez!
"
he cries, lapsing into the language of longevity.

"Crispin," I
pant, as we scurry away, along the battlements of the enormous fort.
"Those bounty hunters – they all have…"

"Yes, clockwork
hands," he agrees. "I know."

"But they are…"
I look down at my own hands, flexing them. "Attached!"

"That does not mean
they have more power than the original," he replies. "Although
they might outnumber it…"

We follow his lead to a
grand archway set into the rooftop gatehouse, barricaded by more
guards, and a portcullis. I'm expecting more hard negotiations –
but our approach is punctuated by a shout, from high above.

"Crispin!"
hails the high-pitched, crackly-as-old-wallpaper voice. "And
Ho-o-o-merrr
… What do I owe this pleasure?"

"Yes, yes,"
Crispin calls out to the unseen speaker, sheepishly, as we draw to a
halt. "Hello – Grandpappy…"

"Grand-
what?
"
Ace asks, as Carvery snorts.

"My father's
father," Crispin coughs. "Higham Dry Senior."

Higham Dry!
Is
this who the stillborn Dry sibling in the pickle jar was named after?

A wisp of cloud above the
battlements moves, and we spot a pigtailed, white-haired ancient old
man, in black and emerald green dragon-embroidered robes, leaning
over the parapet squinting at us.

"What-what-what?!"
Higham Dry Senior repeats, taking in our group. "So many guests!
Is it my birthday?"

"Why do I get the
feeling that you're not well-known for remembering family birthdays,
Crispin?" Carvery smirks.

"You interrupt my
experiments!" Higham Dry cackles. "But I be right down…"

He ducks down and
disappears momentarily, and reappears again with a fat hen in one
hand, and a cannonball in the other.

"Now – which
one will hit the ground first?" he announces, and we leap aside
– as the cannonball and chicken both sail over the brickwork.