The Zombie Adventures of Sarah Bellum (60 page)

I take it back –
that was a LOT of magic…

But that's not all.

Where the segments of
Swiss suit of armour and the dismal small rug were lying, there is
now only a tapestry clutch-bag, and a gold charm necklace.

I pick it up curiously,
and dangle it in the light.

The single charm is, of
course, a tiny, one-armed suit of armour.

"At least it's
better than frogs and zombie nuns," I concede, immediately
transferring the little leather-bound diary into the clutch-bag, and
pull on the enchanted attire. "Hmmm. It might
look
like
La Senza
, but it still chafes like pink plastic pig thong…"

Pushing the discomfort to
the back of my coccyx as well as my mind, I finish dressing, and
clasp the necklace around my neck. Fortunately, the suit of armour as
a charm doesn't weigh the same as a suit of armour at full size.

I pick up the clutch, and
step out of the bathroom.

"Goodness, Homer,"
I greet him. "Ready for the prom?"

He gives a coquettish
twirl of full-length peacock-blue satin, fanning himself like a
débutante.

There is a knock on the
door.

"Are you girls
decent yet?" Ace Bumgang's voice calls through, and my heart
responds like a hamster in an exercise-wheel. "If not, hurry up.
Got another
situation
out here."

"Just coming!"
I reach for Homer's hand, who totters along behind in sequinned
slippers, as we hurry back outside.

Ace is already heading
back towards the others, who are looking over the side of the wooden
air-ship when we emerge. Leaving Homer straggling, I try to catch up
with him.

Only Crispin spares my
new turn-out a second glance when I join them.

"Very fetching,
Sarah
Bellummm
," he whispers, giving me a dark thrill.

Ace and Carvery are still
in their cowboy outfits, and I'm aware of feeling a little resentment
that my own sartorial efforts don't have the same effect on them as
theirs are having on me.

…
Which
could be due to the issue of the zombie nuns hanging onto the ballast
underneath the air-ship, I note, as I peek over the edge.

"Can't we cut them
loose?" Carvery asks.

Through the clouds below,
it's clear that we're now over open sea.

"We are already
ahead of time, Mr. Slaughter," Captain Dartos tells him. "If
we drop the ballast, we will jump forward even further, and lose our
place in the schedule completely. The timetable will be totally
awry."

One of the glowing-eyed
nuns tries to crawl higher. A trombone is bent around her
oddly-angled neck, hindering progress slightly.

"Maybe they just
want to put on a little concert for us?" Ace suggests. "Spread
the word of the Lord."

"Well, I didn't
think they wanted to join the Mile High Club," says Carvery
sourly.

"You hope,"
Luke adds. "Might be the best opportunity to get your hands on a
set of virginal organs for your girlfriend."

"I don't think she
plays the keyboards." Ace shakes his head.

A liver-spotted, wrinkly
nun-hand reaches up the side of the ship, grasping the air for
another handhold.

"Virgin or not, I
think they might be a bit past their
Use By
date,"
Carvery remarks.

A set of bagpipes drops
out of the skirts of the nearest nun as if to illustrate, braying as
they fall towards the ocean below.

"
Hooome!
"
Homer clutches himself in sympathy.

"Behind you, Sarah
Bellummm!
" Crispin shouts.

I turn, just as a double
bass is raised over my head, blotting out the sun, and I open my
mouth to scream…

…
But
it appears that the zealous elderly nun has overestimated her
super-human zombie strength, as the weight of the instrument reaches
its zenith and continues its momentum, toppling her slowly over
backwards with a look of undead surprise. Captain Dartos runs in with
an indignant cry, and more helpfully, an axe.

The look of surprise and
disappointment on the nun's face is still evident as her head is sent
flying over the side, off the steel toecap of his boot.

More disappointment is
evident from the groans of her Sisterhood, as they remain clinging to
the ballast.

"We cannot introduce
this metaphysical type of infection to the Elevensies Lounge,"
the Captain says, holstering his weapon. Ace and Carvery haul the
rest of the nun's body over the side, managing to knock another
doomed groping climber loose in the process, and Luke does the same
with the abandoned double bass. "If they cannot be stopped, Mr.
Dry…"

"A detour. I
understand," says Crispin, grimly.

"What do you mean, a
detour?" I ask.

But his expression is
cold and distant. A scream from one of the crew alerts us to further
hostile presence already aboard our ship.

"Where's that Sunday
school choir when you need them?" Luke mutters.

"Oh, that would be
chaos, Mr. Lukan," Crispin replies. "They get terribly
air-sick, require more clean underwear for a single journey than the
luggage allowance permits, and are always asking to stop for chicken
dunkers and ice-cream."

"There is only one
solution," Captain Dartos continues, while the others seize more
axes from the emergency points by the ballast ropes, to arm
themselves in turn. "The logical solution!"

"Do what you have
to, Captain," Crispin agrees. "We will cover you."

The Captain runs to the
helm, leaping up the stairs four at a time.

"What's happening?"
I ask as Crispin hands me an axe, which I nearly drop straight
through the deck at my feet, scuffing a satin-covered toe. It's far
heavier than I expected.

"Change of course,
Sarah
Bellummm
," he tells me.

I look up in time to see
the Captain already spinning the tiller, and the great air-ship
tilts.

The door to the Ladies'
cabin at the far end of the deck swings open, and several nuns
shuffle out, groaning and trailing musical instruments, entangled
with neon Lycra hen-night party-wear…

CHAPTER
SEVENTY-TWO
:

THE TOURNIQUET

"
Change
of course?" I repeat, while the crew rush in with their axes
raised. Bits of violin and spangly nylon underwear fly around wildly.
"Can we do that?"

"We can, Sarah
Bellummm
," Crispin says, as a nun's head bounces across
the deck between us, a beaded thong caught over one ear. "What
do I own in Paris, Captain Dartos?"

"Everything below
sea-level, Mr. Dry!" the Captain calls out, from the helm.

A flute whistles by,
embedding itself in a life-preserver strung from the wall.

"Perfect,"
Crispin nods, curtly. "Behind you again, Sarah
Bellummm
."

I turn quickly, and just
see the tuba arcing overhead before everything goes dark and echoey.

I can't even lift my arm
to swing my own axe.

Great, I think. Sarah
Bellum dies, trapped by a bell-end.

I'll never hear the end
of it at University…

"Help!" I
shout, but only succeed in half-deafening myself inside the brass
convolutions. "Let me out!"

A
clanggg
from the
outside denotes the expiry of another set of sisterhood false teeth.
Eardrums already numb, I let out another scream as I'm lifted bodily
from the deck, inside the giant tuba.

I manage a glimpse down
past my feet as I feel the instrument swaying, only to see the
upturned gray faces of clambering zombie nuns with glowing green
eyes, scudding clouds, and beyond, the ripples of distant blue sea…

"Help!" I
scream again, picturing a subsequent plummeting to a watery grave.
"Pull me back in!"

The tuba lurches, and I
fill my lungs, trying to increase my body area in contact with the
surface…

And then it is shaken
abruptly, and I shoot out backwards with another yell.

"Sorry," says
Ace, as I tumble heels over head, back onto the deck. "Thought
you were a nun."

"In all senses but
the religious," Carvery says, elbow-deep in another zombie.
"…She is."

"Any luck with those
organs?" Luke asks, holding a clarinetist at bay with the loops
of his axe.

"Not a sausage,"
Carvery sighs, shaking the drips off. "Whatever spell Sister
Jaundice used on her Superiors, it only did a Green Slime Reduction
on their old carcasses. Crispin, wherever we're going, I hope you
have a REALLY big hole in the ground ready and waiting."

"I am indeed ahead
of you there, Mr. Slaughter," Crispin replies.

The air-balloon
progresses at speed, whipping tears from my eyes, while the crew adds
to the pile of musically-inclined gnostic zombie corpses amidship.
But undead members of the elderly orchestra keep coming, scrambling
over the sides.

I shouldn't have wasted
the magic in the clockwork hand on changing this stupid dress.

I try to wipe green
smears off the silk, and struggle back onto my feet. I could be
standing here in a cheap cosplay
Wonder Woman
outfit, an itchy
pink patent thong, half a suit of Swiss watchmaker's armour, and be
turning all of these zombie nuns into…

I glare at the clockwork
hand, hanging onto my wrist.

"Not even one speck
of magic left?" I demand of its dull and inert gemstones.
Nothing. It might as well be a bangle. "Nothing of any use at
all? Wow, sometimes, you really…"

A shadow falls across me,
and I look up into the glowing green eyes of what I can only assume
was the Mother of all nuns. Mottled, wrinkly and warty, and raising
her conductor's baton. She opens her mouth, like Donald Sutherland in
the final scene of
Invasion of the Body-Snatchers…

Ribbet
,
she says.

"…Suck!"
I continue angrily.

The baton strikes,
gashing my forearm – as the gemstones in the clockwork hand
open, and the green glow pours into it from all sides…

With a banshee-like
scream, the enchanted undead life-force drains from every remaining
nun, shaking and vibrating them right off their feet. Black robes
smoking, they shrink and shrivel alarmingly.

The gemstones close with
a
whoosh
, now illuminated like evil radium.

Suddenly, the deck is
hopping mad.

"
Well
done, Sarah
Bellummm
,"
Crispin approves, lowering his axe and moving quickly to attend my
bleeding arm, thoughtfully tying a monogrammed, embroidered
handkerchief around the wound.
"Frogs go down a
treat in Paris. Easier to explain than nuns turning up in the sewers,
too."

The crew exchange their
axes for buckets, and are soon scooping up frogs left and right.

"The nuns
were
frogs!" I gasp. I look down to check my clothes. Phew –
still silk and cashmere… perhaps the clockwork hand can only
do one thing at a time… "I mean – before they were
nuns! I didn't cast a spell! It sucked the magic out of them!"

"Ah." Crispin
picks one up and dangles it thoughtfully, while it blinks a benign
yellow-and-black eye. "Then let us consider ourselves fortunate
that you have already dealt with Sister Jaundice, the witch. I will
make a note to have the nunnery in the mountains investigated, to see
what else may have occurred there."

"No wonder the
organs weren't right." Carvery wipes his hands on his cowboy
denims. "Nothing but out-of-date frogspawn."

"No wonder they
never stood a chance against the Sunday school choir," Ace
grunts.