The Zombie Adventures of Sarah Bellum (36 page)

"Welcome back,
dude," Carvery greets him. "You look like you just escaped
from New Jersey."

"Are you okay?"
I ask. "Oh, no – you're hurt…"

Crispin sits up and
thumps himself in the chest. Water gushes out from a fresh gash in
his neck, and from unseen ribcage compromises under his shirt.

"I will be fine,
Sarah
Bellummm
," he says, he voice croaky and bubbling.
"Let us continue. We must catch up with Mr. Lukan, and hope that
he is still in possession of the golden clockwork hand."

Hope that he is still in
possession
of it? But I'm too concerned with Crispin's welfare
to demand any further exposition right now. We help him to his feet,
and I notice Ace and Carvery immediately checking out his rear view.

"Er, Crispin –
that's a pretty big rip in the ass of your pants," Carvery
remarks. "Didn't feel anything gnashing on your own alimentary
canal while you were down there?"

"Yeah, are you sure
you don't have any
Squidmorph
hitch-hikers in those trousers with you?" Ace queries,
speculatively. "Feeling bloated at all? Any strange cravings?"

"The only desire I
feel at present is for the light of day," says Crispin. "If
you look upwards, you will see our route to the Eight a.m. Lounge
from here."

We all look up at the
rickety stairwell, the steps ascending around the walls in a spiral.

"Stairs," Ace
nods. "Cool. Doesn't look too risky."

"They are over three
thousand years old," says Crispin proudly, and you can sense the
relief in the group dissipating slightly. "This used to be a
freshwater well, until the Sea Centipedes burrowed through it from
the Deep Ocean Trench. There is still an ancient rope-and-bucket
system you might be able to make out, about halfway up."

"No time like the
present," Carvery mutters grimly, and leads the way to the foot
of the stairs.

Ace follows, and I hurry
to catch up. My torchlight beam clicks on, evidently having dried out
by now – and I shine it onto the mossy stone slab of the first
step.

"Doesn't look too
bad," I echo Ace, tentatively.

And promptly slip on the
slimy green coating, cracking myself on the knee.
Owww
…

"Mind the weed,"
says Carvery. "Bit slippy."

"Thanks," I
grumble, and pick my way more carefully upwards.

There is no handrail –
only a knotted, mouldy old rope slung through rusted iron hooks at
waist-height around the wall as we climb. I reach for it only when
footholds are uncertain, as it seems equally hazardous, and not
likely to bear the weight of much more than a death-sliding mouse.

"What happens if
someone comes down the other way?" I ask, all too aware of how
narrow our worn path is, at frighteningly frequent intervals.

"The usual protocol
is a
Fight to the Death
," Crispin replies, from the rear.
"But at certain points there is space enough for a polite nod,
and sometimes a handshake."

"What about
creepy-crawlies?" Carvery enquires from up ahead. "Do they
get right-of-way?"

"Not many animals
use the stairs," says Crispin, reassuringly. "There are
certain times of day while the bats are roosting that it can become –
unpleasant."

I look up. For the first
time, I see hundreds of furry bodies huddled together, suspended on
the underside of the stone steps as they coil around the walls.

Ewww
–
no
wonder so much moss and slime grows on these slabs…

…
And
a piercing screech nearly deafens me, as a great flapping shape
swoops down, claws extended – and snatches two handfuls of the
drowsy bats from their inverted perch…

"The Bat-Eater Owls
do have unspoken right-of-way, though," Crispin admits.

A second owl slams into
Ace's shoulder. He swipes at it, managing to keep his footing, and it
is deflected straight into my face.

"Do I look like a
bat?" I cry, as its hooklike claws scrabble in my hair, its
inwardly-curved beak pecking at my scalp.

"I believe that's a
yes
," Carvery replies.

I grab for the unsafe
rope to stay upright, my other hand waving ineffectually at my lively
new headdress. The rope is as slippery as the steps. Useless…
but I seize it anyway, badly grazing my already-chewed nail-beds
against the harsh rock wall.

"You could try
looking like a Pinstriped Leatherback Viper, Sarah
Bellummm
,"
Crispin suggests, and sounds like he's being serious. "They are
the next up in the food chain to the Bat-Eater Owls."

"What do they sound
like?" I ask, still trying to dislodge the hungry owl. "Do
they hiss?"

"I suppose so,
yessss
…"

"Sssssssss!" I
hiss loudly, flapping at the bird. "Ssssssss! Sssssssssss!!"

"
Hhhhhhuuuuuusssssssssssssss
…"
A much longer and louder hissing noise interrupts my feeble efforts,
and the owl disengages instantly, backing off with a squawk.

"Thanks, Homer,"
I gasp, glancing behind me – but Homer is shaking his head
silently.

He points at my hand,
still around the safety guide-rope.

I feel it twist and
writhe, under my grip.

Hhhhhhuuuuuuusssssssssssssssss
…

"Aaarrrghhh!" I
yell, snatching my hand away – and take one unwise step
backwards. Onto poor Homer's foot.

"Homer!"

I grab for his arm as he
topples over the edge of the stairs, but only succeed in detaching
his last scrap of embroidered silk kimono.

And Homer is gone –
into the darkness of the stairwell.

"NO!" I shout.

"Nice fumble,
Sarah," Carvery snaps.

HHHHHHUUUUUUUUSSSSSSSSSSSS
…
The dreaded viper-sound is even
closer, and is followed by an even worse one…

…
The
grating of loose stonework underfoot…

CHAPTER
FORTY-SEVEN
:

BEETLEJUGULAR

"
H
omer!"
I sob. "Oh, no – Homer…"

I feel Crispin's hands on
my shoulders from behind, and am convinced that I'm about to join his
brother at the bottom of the stairwell.

"Homer has survived
far worse, Miss
Bellummm
," Crispin's grating zombie
monotone says reassuringly – and most unexpectedly. "Do
not waste your concentration. We must still make it out of here
ourselves…"

"Big snake,"
Carvery's voice warns, from higher up on the steps. "Twelve
o'clock."

"I thought it was
only Eight o'clock?" I ask.

"Dead ahead,
Dumb-Ass," he calls out, sarkily.

Hhhhhhhuuuuuuuusssssssssss
…
The sinister hissing takes on an
evil undercurrent, and a swishing noise close to my head sounds like
a whip being coiled, preparing to strike…

"Shoot it!" Ace
Bumgang tells him.

"Gun's still too
wet." Carvery shakes it, then changes his grip to hold it by the
barrels, and swings it outwards sharply. It connects with something,
with a dull smack that sounds like a cricket bat hitting an old
leather punch-bag. "Think I just broke one of its teeth,
though."

"Quickly!"
Crispin urges. "While it is disorientated!"

We duck under the coils
of the giant snake and hurry upwards. But as I scramble to keep up
with Ace, I hear a muffled thud and a scrape behind me.

"Crispin!" I
shout over my shoulder – just in time to see him swing out into
the yawning chasm of the stairwell, suspended by one ankle in a loop
of snake-tail.

"Keep going, Sarah
Bellummm
!" he orders – and is dropped into the
darkness, after his brother.

"Nooooo…!"
I cry out.

Carvery and Ace are
already far ahead, almost a complete circuit of the stairwell above
me. Only a few more storeys, and they'll reach the top… I try
to increase my own effort.

And trip…

I stamp my foot forward
to regain my balance, and the stone slab slides smoothly and
horrifyingly free of the rock wall, pitching down into the black hole
below.

And my balance goes with
it…

Flailing helplessly in
thin air, I find myself falling – yet again!

Great, I think. Pizza
girl about to make giant pizza-topping splat, on top of double-decker
zombie pizza-base…

…
Or
worse, I realise – remembering the hatching Squidmorphs in the
water below. If my buttocks could clench any tighter, I'd probably
turn inside-out.

It would save THEM the
trouble altogether…

Then the air leaves my
body abruptly – at both ends – as I hit something wooden
and precarious.

"What the…"
I gasp.

"
Gooooood
,"
a familiar voice greets me.

The bucket – for
the well!

"This is a bucket?"
I say in amazement, sitting up. "How much water were these
people using?!"

Homer glances back at me.
He is leaning over the side, reaching down for something.

"As Homer says, good
of you to join us, Sarah
Bellummmm
," Crispin's voice
echoes around the dark walls. "Perhaps you could help him pull
me up, and we will see about getting the ratchet system working
again."

I crawl quickly forward,
and lean over the edge. I grab Crispin's other arm, and we haul him
safely inside the giant bucket with us.

"Thank you," he
says, giving me a pat on the shoulder, and heads straight for the
lever and linkage in the centre. "Let us hope we catch up with
the others quickly. Leatherback Vipers have very bad tempers once
aroused. Keep a look out in case either of them decide to join us as
well."

He frees the lever and
winds a handle, and gradually we start to ascend up the creaking
rope.

"Is it always this
hard to get to the Eight a.m. Lounge?" I ask him.

"Oh, there are other
ways," he replies, dismissively. "But it is rush hour, you
understand. I never take the busiest routes."

"You mean all this
time we could have been sitting in some nice quiet traffic jam,
instead of risking our lives down here?" I demand, shocked.

"I didn't say they
were safer routes," Crispin says, mildly. "Just
alternatives. If you accept the job of secretary, I will introduce
you to all of the alternatives – eventually…"

My mouth gapes like a
hippo's yawn.

"You're offering me
a job?" I can barely say the words aloud. "But – it
wasn't me that was looking for a job…"

"Not you, Miss
Bellummm
?" Crispin looks genuinely surprised.

"No." I shake
my head. "It was my housemate – you know – Miss
Numbskull? Thinks black-and-blue is the new black? Currently a corpse
under your mother's decking? She sent me to the interview in her
place. I was supposed to slip you her credentials afterwards –
but I forgot…"

The great squeaking and
groaning bucket carries us further upward.

"You did seem very
distracted, Sarah
Bellummm
," he reminds me, thoughtfully.

"Yes," I agree,
only thoughtlessly, in my case. "I mean, er – well, I was
rather…"

There is a snapping noise
just overhead, and Crispin pushes me abruptly to the floor. The
bucket rocks violently, and I just see the snake's aggressive tail
entangling in our suspension ropes, whipping wildly through the air.

"It is trying to
upset us," Crispin remarks.

"It's more than just
upsetting me!" I say indignantly.