The Zombie Adventures of Sarah Bellum (31 page)

"I can fake
Metal
Gear Solid
too," Carvery grins. "Just leave it on demo
and lock the door to the den, while I read a bit of
Dean Koontz
and get some sleep for once."

"I'm stealing that
idea, dude," Ace tells him.

A thud on the roof of the
rickshaw interrupts, but Carvery simply puts the muzzle of the
shotgun to the canopy and pulls the trigger. There is an unearthly
shriek, and the body of a Seven a.m. Lounge zombie crashes onto the
cobbled dock behind us, as we head onwards along the pier.

"Women,"
Carvery sighs. "Way more trouble than zombies."

"Not if you treat
them the same," Ace points out. "Oh, wait… you DO
treat them the same."

A figure appears on the
gangplank from inside the enormous submarine, as we finally pull up
and tumble out of the rickshaw.

"This is our
u-boat's captain," Crispin introduces us. "Rima Glottidis –
Captain of
The Great Nematode
."

The man, who looks
strangely exotic for a Naval officer, bows very formally. He is
dressed more as a nobleman of the desert than a member of the
military, and sports a well-groomed beard.

"Just the five of
you today, Mr. Dry?" Captain Rima Glottidis asks of Crispin, in
a clipped baritone. "I must have been mistaken – I was
expecting seven."

"It has been a night
of many surprises, Captain Rima," Crispin confirms. "I will
fill you in
en route
."

"Then let us not
delay." Captain Rima steps back, and gestures inside. "Time
and tide waits for no man."

The interior of the
u-boat is brightly-lit and carpeted, not how preconceptions of
sound-stage constructed movie-sets of submarines have been ingrained
in me. It's more like being in the inside-cabin section of a very
swish ocean-liner.

The drawbridge closes
behind us, and Captain Rima picks up a white courtesy telephone
receiver from the wall just beside it, as massive wheels and bolts
seal us within.

"Make ready to
depart," he orders simply, and replaces the handset. "And
now – this way. The guest quarters you will find pleasing, I
hope."

* * * * *

I would have found them
more pleasing if I didn't find myself alone… some nautical
nonsense about underwater gender segregation. My new fantasy of being
away at sea, in some romantic clincher with either Ace Bumgang or
Crispin Dry, cannot resolve itself to the four uninterrupted blank
walls facing me. It would have been so perfect – locked in a
u-boat, God knows how many leagues under the sea – no escape
for either of them… er, I mean
us
…

The suite is comfortable
– more than comfortable. The white walls have gold accents to
match the gold fittings in the bathroom, and dark blue wool carpets,
and the only sound is the faintest distant humming of the submarine's
propulsion system. There is not even the sensation of movement to
detract from how inviting the crisp linens on the bed look, and how
long it feels since I last slept… or rather snoozed, back in
the hospital emergency room last night… but I resist.

No.
No going to bed
alone
, I scold myself. Not when Ace or Crispin might only be the
thickness of a wall away…

But it is the uncertainty
of what the adjoining rooms might contain that prevent me
experimenting with any tapping on those walls,
Morse-code
style. Maybe some unknown zombie naval officers, or even prisoners,
are my neighbours for the journey. Or worse – I could find
myself on the end of a Carvery Slaughter sleep-deprivation shotgun
solution, or hours of helping Homer N. Dry attempt repairs to his new
Geisha wig…

Worst of all – when
I try the door – I am locked in.

Reluctantly, I eventually
curl up in the cool sheets. With no idea where we are going –
or at least, what the Eight a.m. Lounge has in store.

* * * * *

A brisk staccato rapping
noise on the cabin door rouses me, and I am instantly alert.

"Are you awake,
Sarah
Bellummm
?" Crispin's unmistakeable zombie drawl
hails me from the far side.

Yes!
I
check myself hurriedly in the mirror, and instantly regret it.

I do indeed still look
exactly like a scrawny pizza-delivery girl, who has fallen into a
hen-house, crawled through rank underground tunnels, stumbled across
desert sands, toppled off the roof of a giant Oriental fort, and
accidentally stabbed a middle-aged Victorian streetwalker.

I try to wipe the scabby
blood from my face with a corner of Lady Glandula's robes, which are
not so much worse for wear as fully ravaged. I attempt to tweak them
into a more alluring position, but only succeed in finding a mess of
more blood, and dried vomit. Oh yes. A scrawny pizza-delivery girl
who has also been repeatedly sick…

I cut my losses and give
up on my turn-out. Maybe accessibility will trump appearance.

"I am awake,
Crispin!" I reply loudly. "What is it?"

The door opens, and I am
ashamed. He has made some attempt at personal grooming of his own,
having brushed the dust and grime off his fine black suit, and his
gray zombie countenance is far cleaner than my own.

"I was just going to
freshen up," I add, alarmed, and scurry into the
en-suite
,
slamming the door.

"Oh, good, Miss
Bellummm
," he coughs. "You will find clean apparel
in the airing cupboard. Captain Rima Glottidis has requested our
attendance in the Mission Hall."

"Mission Hall?"
I repeat, splashing water onto my face and arms. Urgh. Not so much
cleaning it off as moving it around…

"We need to discuss
plans to retrieve the clockwork hand, Sarah
Bellummm
," he
explains. "As you were so keen to pursue the matter, I thought…"

"Oh – yes, yes
– of course!" I cry. I chase the soap around the basin
ineffectually. "I will be right out!"

And I dunk my whole head
into the warm water, hoping for the best.

* * * * *

I am finally presentable
for the first time since last night. Now wearing a u-boat issue
tailored navy-blue trouser uniform with gilt buttons, and my
slowly-drying hair scraped back into a bun secured by bobby-pins
borrowed from Homer's own wig, we follow Crispin through the bowels
of
The Great Nematode
.

Halfway, we meet up with
Ace and Carvery, who have also both been issued clean uniforms. My
dormant DNA-seeking hormones spring to attention like internal
hunting-dogs.
Damn them
… I am also irked by the fact
that their uniforms seem to be higher-ranking than my own plain blue
one…

Homer N. Dry is the only
one of us who has not required a clean-up, having only recently had
the full attention of all the skills at Madam Dingdong's disposal.

"You look like a
singing telegram," Ace greets me.

"You look like a
strip-a-gram," I snap back.

"You wish,"
Carvery chuckles. Who still looks like a lady-killer, in all senses
of the word.

We find ourselves in a
long conference room. A porcelain tea-set is on the far end of the
table being attended to by a servant, and Captain Rima beckons us to
join him.

"My suggestion is
that we take the Northern approach to the Eight a.m. Lounge," he
begins, and an illuminated spherical 3-D map appears in the centre of
the room. I can make neither head nor tail of it, except for the
virtual shapes of swimming whales and giant squid glowing within, and
what might be shipwrecks flickering at the lower peripheral edge. "We
will moor at the subterranean docks, and you can make an undetected
entrance in the most convenient manner for your destination."

"Where are we going,
exactly?" I ask.

"The Eight a.m.
Lounge, Dumb-Ass," Carvery reminds me.

"I was hoping for
more detail," I mumble.

"The detail only
becomes apparent on our arrival, Sarah
Bellummm
," Crispin
says. "Time does not work in the same way between the Lounges.
All that is certain is the time of day on our arrival. Everything
else is fractal."

"We are making good
progress," Captain Rima assures us. "Tea?"

We all concede our
thirst, and sit down to the dainty cups and saucers.

"Finger?" the
Captain asks me directly, and I feel my eyes widen in horror –
before daring to look down at the plate of crumbly sugared shortcake.

"Thank you," I
barely whisper.

"Have you considered
what the risks might be, should your fugitive Mr. Lukan unlock the
powers of the clockwork hand?" rumbles Captain Rima, as he takes
the seat at the head of the table.

"It is of no
consequence," Crispin says dismissively. "Atum would not
allow it."

"But the wrath of
Atum would have far greater consequence," the Captain points
out.

Crispin shrugs.

"Here today,"
he muses, and finishes his biscuit. "Gone tomorrow."

"
Gooood
,"
Homer nods, sipping his tea, with his own little finger crooked
upwards.

The rest of us sit in
bemused silence. My mind is racing. Are they talking about Atum the
giant river-god? I daren't ask what the wrath of the colossal
sea-serpent would entail…

There is a slight judder,
tinkling the china on the tea-tray, and the distant hum of the
propulsion system becomes a faint jarring vibration.

Captain Rima exchanges a
look with Crispin, and beckons to his servant. The servant picks up a
second tray upon which is a white courtesy phone, and brings it to
his side.

The Captain picks up the
receiver.

"Status report,"
he orders, and listens. "I see."

He replaces the handset,
and gets to his feet.

"I am afraid I must
leave you and attend to the bridge," he says, and clicks his
heels smartly. "There is a minor issue to address. Please make
yourselves at home."

And he strides out.

"What does he mean,
a minor issue?" I ask. A second judder clatters a silver spoon
out of the sugar-bowl.

"Well, as he is
attending to it personally," Crispin ponders. "It sounds
like it could be sabotage. Would anyone care for a digestive?
Chocolate Hob-Nob?"

CHAPTER
FORTY-ONE
:

CREMASTER TIED

"
S
houldn't
we do something?" I ask. "Isn't there – an emergency
in progress? An evacuation procedure, or battle stations alert?"

"Sarah," Ace
says carefully. "We're in a submarine."

"Mr. Bumgang is
correct," Crispin agrees. "And the best thing to do under
the circumstances is to remain calm. If it would take your mind off
things, we can always move to the Games Room."

"I wonder what it
would be like to play darts underwater," Carvery remarks.
"Probably got to be really sure you're aiming for the dartboard
and not the walls…"

I don't understand these
guys. Surely the worst case scenario on a u-boat has to be sabotage?

"I really would be
more comfortable knowing what is going on," I announce. "Can't
we go with Captain Rima to the bridge?"

But Crispin merely gets
to his feet and offers me his arm.

"Shall we, Sarah
Bellummm
?" he says. "The Captain will alert us if
there is anything we need to know."

Oh, when he puts it like
that, of course… I jump to my feet and latch on, like a
friendly limpet-mine.

"Forget it,"
Ace grunts, as the optimistic Geisha Homer N. Dry sidles up to him,
on his block-soled slippers.

Homer takes a speculative
look at Carvery Slaughter in turn – but it seems, from that one
frosty exchanged glance, that even zombies have an instinctive sense
of self-preservation. So the gray Geisha is resigned to trooping
along unescorted, as usual.