The Zombie Adventures of Sarah Bellum (11 page)

"All the equipment
is functioning," Crispin murmurs. "Which means only one
thing…"

"What?"

"That room," he
remarks, tapping on the screen again. "It also has
significance."

I wonder what he could
mean.

"Is it a shrine?"
I ask, nervously.

It hadn't occurred to me
that the enigmatic entrepreneur Crispin Dry might be religious.

Or what that might
entail.

Never mind the wonderful
world of
Voodoo
, it's the other sorts of religion that scare
me. The religions that come with men in long dresses, fancy headgear,
and spending a lot of time on one's knees for no useful purpose…
not even a bit of
'wax-on, wax-off'
while you're down there…

"A shrine would
indeed be one way of describing it," he murmurs, stiffly. "Show
footage from two weeks ago today,
06:00
hours."

The screen clears, and
reveals what to my relief looks like a normal, ordinary – if
somewhat large and elegant bedroom. Within a few seconds, something
dark moves over the screen, rendering it black again.

"Run sequence
again," says Crispin. "Zoom in on reflection, upper left."

The image reappears. The
footage expands, increasing the size of a large vanity-unit mirror,
on the far side of the room.

A shape moves across it
swiftly, causing me to jump and gasp.

"Stop!" Crispin
snaps, and I nearly swallow my poor tongue, before realising he's
still talking to the computer. "Run again, quarter-speed…"

The image of the mirror
refreshes. Expecting it this time, I wait for the anticipated shape –
and sure enough – the side-view of another zombie steps into
frame, reflected in the glass.

No wonder there was no
heat signature detected…

"So…"
Crispin whispers, as the frame freezes. "It is him…"

"Who?" I ask.
There is a long pause.

"The zombie I
revived," he sighs, staring at the image. "He must have
remained hidden in this house for the last two weeks – possibly
recuperating and convalescing – until the motion sensors
detected his movements in the room just now."

"How would he know
about the cameras?" I demand. "Do zombies have incredible
intuition?"

Crispin shakes his head,
and moves the footage forward, one frame at a time. The zombie's head
turns, with slow precision, to look directly into camera – via
its reflection in the mirror.

And it
grins
.

"No," Crispin
says, grimly. "He knows about the cameras, because they are in
his bedroom."

"His bedroom?"
My brain can't keep up.

Is he sub-letting to
zombies as well?

"It has always been
his bedroom," Crispin nods. "That is my brother…
Homer N. Dry."

I have to grip the edge
of the console. My knees have handed in their notice, both at the
same time.

Crispin continues to
stare impassively, at the grinning image of his brother's face on the
giant screen.

He was experimenting on
his own family…
his own flesh and blood
…

"Print me a hard
copy," he says at last, and the appropriate equipment hums into
life. "Right there."

CHAPTER
TWELVE
:

E.T. ~ HOMER LONE

"Keep this," my
zombie host says, handing me the CCTV image, from the printer.
"Remember that face. He must come to no harm."

"Of course," I
agree, studying the hard copy, before pocketing it. "He's your
brother…"

"Not only that,"
Crispin interrupts. "He is the first zombie to respond –
at least partly – to treatment. He is thinking and plotting…
see how he concealed himself in the mansion? We must find him –
and ascertain how much of his faculties have recovered."

"Sure," I
remark. I'm relieved. Perhaps now something else seems to be
effective, that rumour about virgins as medical therapy will finally
go away… it's not as if we're living in the Middle Ages.
Although by the behaviour of some of the men I know, you'd think it
still was.

He gets to his feet,
starting to shamble back through the vast underground cavern.

"Come, Sarah
Bellummm
," he hails me, over his shoulder.

"Yes," I
respond, but not before bending to retrieve the other piece of paper,
balled-up in the waste basket. Curiosity having got the better of me,
I unravel it, flattening out the creases, and turn it over.

Oh.

TAKE OUT TRASH.

Well, that was an insight
that could have been left undisturbed. I toss the piece of paper into
the basket again, and head after him.

"We must be
cautious, Sarah," he warns me, as we go back up the stone steps,
out of the deep echoing basement, and into the slightly less enormous
house. "My brother Homer has always been nervous in company. He
may go to great lengths, to maintain his privacy."

"I can tell, by the
way he covered up the cameras in his room," I say, thoughtfully.
"Will he lock himself in there indefinitely, do you think?"

"It is not his
ability to covert himself away that is of concern." Crispin
stops and turns to face me in the grand entrance hall, his hands on
my shoulders. Those fathomless black eyes seem to burrow into my
skull once more. "It is what he may do in order to protect his
concealment."

I get a familiar chill in
my veins, at his words.

"Is your brother
violent?" I dare to ask.

Thoughts of my housemate,
Miss No-Knickers, and her ABH-on-legs boyfriend, Carvery Slaughter,
flit across my mind. I wonder if she's managed to keep all of her
stitches intact in the last few hours, in his company?

"He is –
creative," Crispin Dry admits. "Stay close. If I give you
an order, or tell you to move, act immediately. Without question."

Hmmm
.
I can see where this might be open to abuse…

"So long as you're
not just grabbing me to try and cop a feel," I say, pointedly
shifting slightly away from his hands, which seem to be heading for
the direction of buttons and buttonholes again. "I know all
about those guys who get reported on TV, for telling girls they're in
imaginary mortal danger – so they can be persuaded to hide in
the trunk of an unlicensed car, and be driven to cheap motels in the
middle of nowhere."

"Be vigilant,"
my zombie says in warning, and turns away, to lead me upstairs.

"Exactly my
meaning," I mutter, but hang close behind, anyway.

You never know. In my
housemate Wossname's case, quite literally. She falls for that macho
bullshit game every time…

As we scale the next
flight, up to the second floor, the lights start to flicker in the
entrance-hall chandeliers, at our eye-line from the gallery. Although
aiming for steely determination in our climb, I still jump.

"He will not be
successful in disabling the lighting," Crispin assures me. "It
is all supplied with back-up reserves…"

Then he hesitates, and a
faint clicking noise reaches our ears – gradually getting
closer…

"Against the wall,
Sarah
Bellummm
!" he hisses. "Do not step on the
carpet!"

"What is this,
nursery games now?" I ask, incredulous.

"You could say
that," he nods.

To my alarm, he looks
terrified. I press myself likewise, against the flock wallpaper.

The clicking becomes
louder. I look down at my feet.

Dozens of glass marbles
suddenly roll past, in a steady stream. They carry on with their own
momentum, and start bouncing down the ostentatious staircase,
smacking and cracking loudly where they strike the actual marble,
either side of the carpet-runner.

"We will proceed
with caution," he says at last, as the last few Dobbers and a
Thumbelina Milky trickle by. "Be careful to step only where I
step…"

There is a sudden twang,
and he is flat on his face, prostrate on the rug.

"…Except
there," he amends, as I help him up. "Hah! Tripwires…
a spell in cold storage has evidently done nothing to improve his
tactics…"

At which point we both
have to duck abruptly, as a remote-control Spitfire zooms down the
corridor towards us. I feel my hair flatten in the downdraft, as it
whines overhead.

"His aircraft are
occasionally armed," Crispin announces, as dumbstruck, I watch
the Spitfire do a circuit of the biggest chandelier, and hightail it
back, for a second assault. "Now, I suggest, we should run…!"

He doesn't need to repeat
the idea. I hurtle after him, down the long corridor, lined with
doors. The cockerel bursts out of a cat-flap in one of them as we
pass, and joins us in our escape, flapping its panic-stricken wings,
squawking and scattering loosened feathers.

"He has been
attacking my chickens!" Crispin rages. The Spitfire's
high-pitched whine seems to get higher, as it approaches from behind.
"One of these doors will be safe – the rest will be
booby-trapped…"

"In what way?"
I pant, limping to keep up. I stumble, to the sound of a strangled
cluck. "I think I tripped over your cock…"

Crispin yanks open a door
at random, and leaps aside as a large ironing-board pops out, with a
clang. Seizing it, he wrenches it loose, and hefts it in both hands.

"Duck, Sarah
Bellummm
," he orders.

"No, definitely a
cock. I thought you only kept chickens?" I say, confused.

He swings the ironing
board with a grunt, and I do indeed duck. There is the dull smack of
ironing-board cover against RC Spitfire, and the whine stops dead.
Bits of
Airfix
kit land in my hair, and slide down the collar
of my borrowed pyjamas.

"I know where he
will be hiding," Crispin says, tossing the ironing board aside,
and offering his gray hand to help me up. "It is the same, since
we were children. Quickly – this way…"

He drags me to the
turning at the end of the corridor, and we hurry into another
glamorous, expansive suite of rooms.

They are decadently
decorated in pink and white silk, with a rose motif, and the scent of
lavender hangs in the air.

"This isn't your
bedroom, is it?" I gulp, thinking about those 'fifty shades of
gay' again.

"No," he says,
to my relief. He lets go of my hand, and almost strides into the
walk-in closet. "It is – or rather WAS – our
mother's room."

He stops by the slatted
white wooden doors of the built-in wardrobes, running the length of
the wall. Seems to pause, to sniff out the immediate area – and
flings the doors of the closet wide.

"Homer…"
croaks a strange voice. "Home… home…"

A single, gray finger
points out from the depths of the closet, reaching up to Crispin's
face in an unearthly appeal – for help, perhaps?

"Yes, you are home,
Homer," Crispin sighs. "And you are in Mother's closet,
dressing up in her clothes, as you have done for the past forty
years."

Shocked, I cannot resist
a peek past him, into the wardrobe.

There indeed, is the poor
emaciated gray zombie – the billionaire Crispin Dry's brother,
Homer N. Dry – resplendent in a pink dress, white crochet
shawl, a blonde wig, and a rather fetching summer hat.

CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
:

THE GROANIES

"
M
rs
Frittata is going to be very annoyed that you've taken her Sunday wig
as well," Crispin scolds his brother, while the transvestite
zombie cowers in the closet, attempting to hide his face in shame,
behind a bejewelled clutch-purse.