The Zombie Adventures of Sarah Bellum (57 page)

And then the General
himself appears briefly on his own porch, a pink towel on his head
and a white fluffy bathrobe wrapped around him, cooling himself with
a rice-paper fan.

"
That
is not bad, my lovely boys and girls!" he shouts. "But
let's see if you is any good at putting on a dress rehearsal! All of
you on stage in one minute, chop-chop! Get moving!"

The quad is suddenly a
hubbub of activity, as hitherto unseen occupants of the theatre camp
hurry out of various dormitories, setting out chairs and working on
winching up the enormous curtains.

A white grand piano is
wheeled out onto the middle of the stage.

"
Homer,
honey!" I hear Cynthia's voice calling. "Help me with these
rollers!"

"
Backstage,
Miss Bellum!" Corporal Punishment reminds me. "Quickly!"

Although there's not much
that's 'quickly' about it for the pair of us, we waddle over
uncomfortably, and clamber the steps into the wings.

"
What
do you mean when you say, people who won't wait for prayers to be
answered?" I whisper, as more stage-hands hurry back and forth.
"Have they learned of the Shambles too?"

"
They
have taken advice from the Incantations, but interpret them
differently," the Corporal replies. "From Incantation
Seventy-Seven, One Hundred and Fifty-One, One Hundred and
Seventy-One, and possibly others. They have replaced faith in the
gods with science and technology. Even in planning for the afterlife,
Miss Bellum!"

"
Why?
It's not as if they can take it with them…" I begin. A
large scenery cut-out of the Great Pyramids is wheeled past me. "Who
would be silly enough to think they'd need technology in the
afterlife?"

"
You
may have noticed, Sarah
Bellummm
,"
that other voice joins us, and my quadriceps melt. "The
afterlife is not something anyone can take for granted."

"
Of
course, Crispin," I murmur apologetically.

For some reason, I'm glad
to see that both he and the former Sister Jaundice are still in their
regular clothes as musicians… Luke is looking very groomed, in
a suit and bow-tie, very appropriate for his skills… and
Homer, perhaps also appropriate for his own, is now sporting a
cheerleader's outfit and another blonde wig, matching Miss December's
quick change into her
Playbunny
cheerleader costume. Ace and
Carvery, however…

…
Here
my patellas completely lose it, and try to run away down my legs,
past my metatarsals and out through my phalanges…

Both are dressed as
cowboys. Well – the ripped denim jeans, boots and Stetsons are
recognisable, although there's rather less going on in the shirt
department. Carvery seems to have on the remains of a white
muscle-back vest, while Ace has donned an open leather waistcoat.

"
What
have you two come as?" I try to sound cool and sarcastic, while
worrying far too much about them both wearing gun-belts, and whether
or not the weapons holstered are merely props.

"
Lunchbox
Mountain
," says
Ace. "Look, I've covered in glitter as well…"

I try not to make eye
contact with his flexing biceps and deltoids. Carvery still has the
shotgun with its last cartridge, and most likely has the Taser in one
of those riveted pockets…

"
If
this makes more money than paving and concreting, I'm throwing out
the cement-mixer," he remarks.

I realise that Crispin
and Corporal Punishment have been whispering.
Damn!
Why wasn't
I paying attention? Damn my traitorous hormones for distracting me!

We notice as a deathly
hush falls across the quad. The General has emerged from his cabin,
followed by two turbaned attendants – one of whom is carrying
the tea-tray, the other a large wicker fan.

Now finally dressed, in a
khaki uniform, the General inspects every detail of the scene as he
approaches.

"
Not
bad, not bad, lovely boys," he rumbles. "Sweep up that
monkey do-do in the aisles, that's right, chop-chop! Now let's see
what you band of vagabonds is hoping will entertain the troops! I
want big smiley faces and jazz hands on the lot of you!"

Oh, dear. I can't imagine
any one of our surly troupe meeting those expectations. Except for
Homer, of course…

Fortunately, Homer and
Miss December are first out onto the stage, as Crispin plays a
rousing introduction on the grand piano. Sister Jaundice is installed
nearby, the cello wedged between the long skirts covering her bony
knees, like a musical hydraulic jack.

"
So,"
I hear Ace mutter to Carvery in the wings beside me. "How come
neither of those two…?"

"
Well,
one of them's Miss Plastic Fantastic," Carvery replies. "And
the other one is as deluded as this one."

"
Are
you referring to me?" I whisper, annoyed.

They look at me
irritably.

"
No,"
says Carvery. "Your dead housemate bitch, back in the Five a.m.
Lounge."

"
Why
do I get the feeling you want her to stay that way?" I demand.

"
One
less mad woman in the world," Ace shrugs.

Ah, okay. He does have a
point… I've had to live with her, after all.

Homer, of course, gives a
stellar performance with his pom-poms, and his high-kicks are far
superior to Miss December's tassel-jiggling. I just find myself
hoping it's all to the General's taste. His reaction is inscrutable,
sipping his tea through his waxed moustache, the peak of his cap
pulled too low to read his expression.

Luke launches smoothly
into
'Me and My Shadow'
after his introduction by the two
cheerleaders, and Sister Jaundice joins the piano-backing by scraping
away enthusiastically at her cello-strings, trying to throw in the
occasional jazz hand between strokes.

The General is still
immovable. I'm glad I didn't volunteer to wear the bottom half of the
stolen armour under my hospital scrubs, because with this sort of
nervous tension, it might be in danger of going rusty, the longer I
stand here…

CHAPTER
SEVENTY
:

THE WONDERFUL
WRISBERG OF OESOPHAGUS

General Winslow's
response to the performance is a slight nod, at which the rest of the
encampment applauds politely – if somewhat nervously.

"That is not too
shabby, lovely boy," growls the General. "But I does not
want you pandering to that old tea-dance black-and-white minstrel
image. We is not the occupying hordes anymore, we is culturally
integrated now! How about something exotic? Something what harks back
to your roots in the Sahara Desert?"

"Sahara Desert?"
I mutter. "'
Working legally as a taxi-driver since 1971
'?"

"That means an
encore, Mr. Lukan!" Corporal Punishment hisses. "Be careful
not to overstrain your voice! The General is –
very
demanding!"

Luke beams and turns to
Crispin at the piano for a musical prompt, whose shoulders are
slumped, at a loss.

"Toto?" Luke
suggests.

"Where?!"
Sister Jaundice shrieks, looking down and snatching her feet up off
the floor either side of the cello, and unwittingly displaying her
striped woollen nunnery stockings, under the long skirt.

Crispin nods, flexes his
hands, and launches into the opening bars of
'Africa'.

Oh, dear. I hope all the
keyboard exertion doesn't wear down those talented undead fingers of
his…

"More like it, more
like it…" mumbles the General, and the rest of the
audience heaves a collective sigh of relief.

A sudden breeze flaps the
stage curtains, and the scenery-hands hurry to secure them.

Funny… I didn't
think the audience sighed THAT hard…

Homer and Miss December
sway rhythmically beside the piano, taking up the backing vocals.

"Corporal
Punishment," I whisper. "What were you just saying to
Crispin?"

"A family matter,
Miss Bellum," replies the Corporal gravely. "The discovery
of the armour here potentially solves an old mystery."

"What mystery?"
I ask. I'm all too aware of the chafing inside the stolen
breastplate, under my medical scrubs.

"The mystery of what
happened to the last person wearing it, Miss Bellum."

"What…"
I begin, but then I remember the rows and rows of burial mounds
beyond the cabins. "Oh, dear…"

"Yes, Miss Bellum."

"One of the Dry
family?" I venture.

"The finest Swiss
watchmaker, Miss Bellum."

I gasp. No wonder the
clockwork hand had been pinching me, and wringing and squeezing so
painfully! With the body of its maker lying right here –
somewhere…

I wonder what horror and
torture the poor watchmaker had endured here in the Cult of Atum,
under General Foramen Winslow's ruthless regime – whether he
was forced to sing himself hoarse, tap-dance to death, strip-tease
down to the bone…

My bladder shrinks
another two centimetres, as I glance at Ace and Carvery in the wings
beside me, dressed in their Chippendales' cowboy outfits.

Suddenly, I feel as
though I now know the meaning of the phrase '
Danse Macabre
'…

…
And
I don't even speak Swiss…

"You!" the
General is shouting, over the music. "Sister Bandy-Legs! Is you
playing a cello or trying to light a fire?! Stop sawing away like a
lumberjack! Put some soul into it, damn you!"

Sister Summer Jaundice
blanches, and tries to sit more elegantly.

"I imagine it's not
an easy task, with two feet of wood wedged between your legs…"
I murmur.

Ace and Carvery look at
me.

"No different from
riding a horse, Miss Bellum!" replies Corporal Punishment.

"That's what I
always tell them," Ace remarks.

"No point telling
them," Carvery says. "They're usually too busy screaming to
listen. Just wear ear defenders instead."

"If the General had
ear defenders, he wouldn't know if she was playing along badly or
not," Ace agrees.

"Exactly."

General Winslow glances
down at his wrist, and I note the ornate watch he is consulting.
Stolen
, the indignant thought occurs to me…

The wind springs up
again, yanking one of the curtains free from its ropes. The nearest
stage-hand leaps to tame it, and ends up swinging ineffectually on
the end of the gilt cord against the rising gale.

"That's quite a dust
devil," Ace grimaces, holding onto his Stetson.

"It is no dust
devil," says Corporal Punishment. "It appears that Mr.
Lukan is hitting the right notes."

The General is rising
slowly to his feet, as Luke starts the chorus.

"That's right, my
boy…" murmurs General Winslow. "Keep singing…"

Behind him, on the
horizon, I see a gyrating whip-like shape also rising out of the
dust, gradually gathering mass and speed, as it approaches the river
– directly towards us.

Distant trees and shrubs
are torn from the ground in its wake…

"It's a cyclone!"
I cry. No-one in the audience seems to be taking notice. "We
have to get to shelter!"

Corporal Punishment stops
me, with a hand on my arm.

"What are you
doing?!" I demand. "Are you mad?"

"No, Miss Bellum,"
he tells me. "Wait and see…"

He's crazy… but I
stand firm – or as firm as my jelly-legs permit – while
the weather phenomenon towers above us, blotting out the sun.