The Zombie Adventures of Sarah Bellum (27 page)

"Something to
drink!" shouts Higham Dry. "Bring the special brew!"

"I can't face
Special Brew this early," Ace remarks, as more servers rush to
comply. "I downed enough dirty pints last night."

A huge tea urn is wheeled
in, steaming, and many small cups are quickly arranged.

"This stuff very
good," Higham Dry tells us. "Make men of you! Put hair on
your palms."

The bounty hunters
exchange glances, and I swear I can sense their evil grins, behind
that chain-mail covering their faces.

The cups of hot brown
translucent liquid are distributed, and I look at mine with concern.
But it seems benign, and has only a faint scent of cinnamon.

Higham Dry raises his
tiny cup in salute.

"Everyone drink!"
he says. The bounty hunters put down their chopsticks, and do
likewise. "Later, we go up on the roof again. More flying
experiments. We see if Mr. Time has enough hot air in him to float
unaided now…"

CHAPTER
THIRTY-FIVE
:

INDEFINABLE BONES &
THE TEMPLES OF GLOOM

Reluctantly, I pick up
the tiny bone-china cup along with the others, and prompted by Higham
Dry Senior, we all drink.

It's not bad. Rather like
Chai tea, with some sort of fermented kick. I hiccup, and immediately
start to feel light-headed. Wow – this is better than a Sloe
Gin Sling! The men around the table exchange more knowing looks at
the taste, and grin at each other.

Maybe it's moonshine.
Perhaps they're spiking it with whatever the soldiers are supposedly
trying to brew in the laundry, having lost their Guinness rations –
to a Caribbean chef from Basildon, and an alcoholic goat…

"How do you plan to
get the clockwork hand back?" I ask of Crispin between
mouthfuls, who is seated to my left. "Luke could be anywhere,
back amongst those pyramids. Or could have been eaten already."

Crispin dabs his mouth
with a linen napkin.

"I imagine that as a
treasure-seeker, he will be most interested in its worth, rather than
its powers," he tells me. "So it would make sense to
anticipate that he will take it somewhere that its basic mineral
value can be estimated. In which case there are few such places he
will find any direct route to, from the Five a.m. Lounge."

"But what if he's
interested in its powers?" I press him. "What is the worst
case scenario?"

"If the worst case
scenario arises," says Crispin, "I would suggest we enjoy
our last meal, and look forward to the next instalment of my
grandfather's flying experiments."

"Does this have
anything to do with the giant river-god?" I ask. "What was
its name?"

"Atum," Crispin
murmurs, in an even more hushed voice. "Everything has Atumic
significance, yes."

"You said it had
been taken before?" I remind him. "What happened?"

He gestures with his
spoon, in the direction of the bounty hunters.

"Those clockwork
hands worn by our breakfast companions," he begins. "…Were
based on the original, made under the Dry family's supervision. There
were only ever intended to be four, in total. And the three you see
here have remained intact on their wearers since the day they were
wrought. On a number of occasions in the past, however – the
original has been… misplaced. Sometimes only down the back of
the couch, or left in coat pockets in strange cloakrooms. But in a
few cases – stolen."

"Stolen?" I
repeat, horrified.

How could they be so
careless, with such a precious family heirloom?

"Yes – by
grave-robbers, or amoral museum curators – the occasional
power-crazed super-villain," Crispin whispers. "Even an
entire cult, once or twice. Fortunately none of them were able to
unlock its full potential, before it was recovered."

"But if it's so
important – what's it doing just knocking around loose on your
estate?" I demand. "Surely it should be locked away for
safekeeping – in a bank-vault, or some sort of anonymous
high-security storage facility…"

"Ahhh – but
that is the first place they would look, Sarah
Bellummm
,"
he murmurs. "Turning up with their safecrackers and cat-burglar
skills, and whatnot."

"So what do we do?"
I ask, again. "Do we have any way of tracking its movements?"

Crispin looks
uncomfortable.

"It was lost for a
great deal of the time, Sarah," he admits. "Electronically
tagging it would have been a foresight indeed, if the technology were
available the last time it was seen."

"That reminds me."
Carvery Slaughter puts his foot up on the table, hikes up the leg of
his jeans revealing a cuff around his ankle, and scratches around it.
"You're welcome to this one. This is probably giving the Old
Bill a proper headache right now."

"We will catch up
with Mr. Lukan," Crispin reassures me, as Carvery puts his foot
back down again, and continues eating. No-one seems to have taken
offence – but then, Carvery is the only one who has a gun at
the table with him. "No-one has succeeded in getting away with
it before."

"But there's always
a first time!" I snap, my voice rising above the gentle tinkling
of bowls and cutlery.

"Ooohh!" Higham
Dry Senior's eyes sparkle, and I shrink in embarrassment. "You
looking for your first time? You have to give an old man more notice…
it take a while to get this bad boy warmed up." He looks down at
his robes, below the table. "I have to get the special key to
wind him and everything…"

"I must apologise
for Sarah
Bellummm
, Grandpappy," Crispin says. "She
is exhausted already after all the running around this morning."

"Shame! But you perk
up quickly with proper breakfast inside you. You have a sweet tooth,
maybe? I get the staff to bring dessert early." He snaps his
palest gray, almost white zombie fingers at one of the servers by the
tea urn. "Bring the chilled monk brains! Young lady here need
energy, for her first time on Mister Whizz."

"Monkey brains?"
Ace repeats, slowly, as the server bows and heads back to the
kitchen.

"No, not monkey
brains!" Higham Dry's face scrunches up in disgust. "Filthy
things." He taps his own temple meaningfully. "Monk brains.
Nice and clean, no naughty thoughts allowed. Make you feel like
super-hero, mmmm?"

"Maybe we could cut
dessert and go straight to the flying experiments?" I suggest,
weakly.

Higham Dry Senior's eyes
widen, like emerging quail's eggs.

"You so keen!"
he approves. "But we finish eating first. Then have a little
tour of fort."

I wonder if it's going to
be anything like the tour of Crispin's mansion earlier… and
then all my thoughts are scattered, as a large silver platter is
placed in the centre of the table.

"Oohh," says
the old man. "We have the whole choir today!"

Chilled monk brains –
served
à la tete
…

CHAPTER
THIRTY-SIX
:

CROUCHING TIBIA,
HIDDEN DUODENUM

I'
m
horrified to see both Carvery Slaughter and Ace Bumgang pick up
spoons, along with the zombies and the overgrown bounty hunters.

"What?" Carvery
asks, meeting my eye over his serving cranium of chilled monk's gray
matter. "I already ate my way through half a dozen deadbeats
trying to munch on me earlier."

Good point… I
switch my gaze to Ace, trying to appeal to what must be his very
well-hidden inner gentle nature. Maybe he's under Higham Dry Senior's
mind-spell after all…

"I've definitely
eaten worse things, for a bet," Ace grunts, spoonful of monastic
brains already in hand. "Not to mention – even those
pizzas you deliver sometimes, Sarah."

"Gross, man,"
Carvery scoffs, his mouth full. "I told you what she does with
the cheese, didn't I?"

"Yeah," Ace
shrugs.

"But – I
didn't tell you what she does with the pepperoni…"

"I'm full," I
announce, suddenly finding myself on my feet. "And, er –
I'd like to use the little girl's room…"

"This look like a
spa to you?" Higham Dry asks, his eyes rounder than ever. "This
is a fort! Built for fighting men. Not for wussy ladies. No little
girl's room here. Unless you count cupboard under stairs. I should
maybe check it again – last time I look, goat asleep in there."

I sink miserably back
down into my seat, and try not to watch, as the others finish up
their breakfast.

"Everybody done?"
Higham Dry asks, and is answered with a series of belches. "Good!
We go for tour of fort. Oh dear. Mr. Time, help an old man up. Him
old leggy gone to sleep again. Sit down too long."

The sniffling rickshaw
pilot dries his mouth on his napkin, and his eyes manfully on his
sleeve, and hurries around the table to take the elderly zombie's arm
on one side, while the guard takes the other, lifting him out of his
chair between them. His legs appear to be locked in a sitting
position, drawn almost up to his chest.

"What am I supposed
to do like this – levitate? Like Maharishi on mushrooms?"
Higham Dry Senior squawks. "Sort it out down there!"

Justin Time and the guard
exchange a look over the old man's braided white head, and then shake
him up and down vigorously, like a salt-cellar.

"Ung-
nung-nung-nung-nung-nung
…"
Higham Dry jabbers, and suddenly his legs shoot out straight, with a
pop of cartilage. "Ooohhh…
ahhh
… That was
fun! Do it again!"

"We don't want your
legs to drop off altogether, Grandpappy," Crispin chides,
gently. "Not like the last time you visited the Five a.m.
Lounge."

"No, quite right.
Very lucky, crocodiles too fat to swim away with them fast enough,"
Higham Dry agrees, allowing his aides to set him down onto his feet.
"Now, we go on tour! Follow the crazy old fool, everybody."

* * * * *

"Here is barracks!"
Higham Dry announces proudly, as the giant studded oak doors swing
aside with a groan. "Pooh! Smell like sleeping-bag farts, no?
Many soldiers bunk up in here."

I can well believe it.
The many parallel avenues of bunkbeds, four high, disappear to
vanishing point in the far distance.

As we step inside, those
occupants who are currently off-duty leap to attention – from
bunks, floor, and even slop-out bucket…

"Hello, hello,"
Higham Dry Senior waves regally and proprietorially, before strolling
in, one hand behind his back, in typical hierarchical-visitor
fashion. "At ease, soldiers. You!"

His finger whips out from
behind his back and points suddenly, at one of the men evidently
caught half-asleep.

"Is it
Dress-Down
Friday
?"

"Not any more,
Lord!" the terrified soldier squeaks. "But I believe
yesterday was Friday…"

"So – you
sleep in your party frock, hmmmm?" The old man scans the
unfortunate soldier up and down, taking in the floral hair
adornments, and sequinned tube dress – not unlike Homer's from
earlier on, only blue.

"There was a
birthday," says the soldier, wretchedly. "I was the
entertainment…"

"Ohhhh… like
in
It Ain
'
t Half Hot, Mum
, hmmm?" Higham Dry nods,
sagely. "Very clever, very clever. You improvise, good work. You
invite me next time, yes?"

"Yes, Lord!"

"And you…"
Crispin's grandfather turns to another soldier, whose blankets heaped
on the bunk behind him suddenly contort violently, and sneeze. "Did
I mention that we do not have a
Bring Your Children To Work Day
,
not even once in the whole calendar?"

"Yes, Lord,"
says the second soldier, grimly.

"Daddy," his
blanket solemnly joins in. "I need you to wipe my bogey."