The Zombie Adventures of Sarah Bellum (62 page)

"
Goood
,"
says Homer, bouncing up and down excitedly in his seat.

I grip the side of the
lifeboat, just in time, as we hit the brink of a fall, and plummet…

The lifeboat spins, out
of control, hurling us deeper into the Earth, and the strobing pink
darkness.

I can still make out the
various exits as they flash past, some of which are even signposted:

Cold War.

French Revolution.

War of Independence.

McDonalds v. Wimpy…

"Oh, Crispin,"
I murmur, reaching out to squeeze his hand.

"
Yesss
,"
he agrees, distantly. "My father kept his business channels
open…"

"What the Hell is
that noise?" Carvery asks.

I strain my ears. Over
the rushing of the water, an electronic tinkling can be made out, a
tootling and parping, oddly familiar and yet out-of-place.

"My apologies,"
Crispin coughs, clearing his throat. "One of my father's major
sponsors was
The
Library of Elevator Muzak
."

"Psychological
warfare?" Ace scowls. "That's below the belt."

"Does anyone even
know what a
Samba
is?" Carvery scoffs.

"The lion king?"
Luke squeaks in terror, trying to hide behind Homer's prom skirts.
"Where?"

We experience the
G-forces as we hit bottom and level out, still rocketing forwards. My
stomach is informing me that travel-sickness is imminent, and I wish
I had a boiled sweet handy.

Maybe one of those pink
ones…

"Here, Sarah
Bellummm
," says Crispin, appearing to sense my
discomfort, and he hands me a chocolate-coated cinder toffee bar from
inside his jacket. "One of my vending machine empire's most
popular snacks."

"Thank you." I
tear the wrapper eagerly and bite into the crisp sugary centre,
salivating with relief. Mmmm – so crunchy and delicious…

"As I recall, you
liked your nibbles crunchy," he hints in a low voice.

Ohhh
,
my…

"Is it far now?"
Carvery asks.

"If it's a pee break
you want, we're sliding down the biggest toilet in the world,"
Ace tells him. "Go over the side – I just did."

We're not showing any
sign of slowing down.

War of the Roses
.

Falklands Conflict
.

Safeways v. Morrisons
…

"Look for an exit
marked in red, Mr. Bumgang!" Crispin shouts.

"We just passed
Woolworth's
…" Ace reports. "I see it –
Strategic Occupation of Atlantis?
"

"That is the one,
Mr. Bumgang!"

And the lifeboat lurches
again, meaning I nearly see the snack bar twice…

CHAPTER
SEVENTY-FOUR
:

TOMB BATHER ~
CRADLE OF AFTERLIFE

The pink glow becomes red
as we take the exit almost on our side, and we remain at an acute
angle as the chute becomes a twisting, accelerating Helter-Skelter
downwards, pressing us back into our seats on board the boat.

Just when it seems like
the hull is about to disintegrate, screaming in protest, we fly out
of the far end, and plop neatly into a still, subterranean pool. The
jolt almost knocks us overboard.

The high roof of the cave
glimmers with surface reflections from the cool – and
thankfully clear – water.

"Are we in another
Lounge?" Carvery asks, leaning over the side to squint down into
the depths. "Looks like it's seen better days…"

I follow his glance. Far
below us, I can see walls and pillars, even broken statues and stone
stairways, relegated to an underwater tomb. Small shoals of pale
pretty fish dart between the wreckage.

"My father did not
frequent the Lounges," Crispin replies, his zombie monotone
echoing hollowly around the cave walls. "He was not a man of
leisure, and only visited what he knew as the
Boardrooms
.
Where munitions business was conducted."

"Doesn't seem to
have helped these guys," Ace remarks.

"Rumour has it that
the Atlanteans declared war on Atum," Crispin shrugs. "It
was foolhardy of them, to say the least. I know my father spent many
years trying to analyse their plans, trying to distil what they
imagined would work – but of course they never stood a chance.
One tiny earthquake, and they vanished without trace."

"Why would they
declare war on a god?" I ask, curious.

"Atum represents
unfinished business in the creation of the world," Crispin
reminds me. "An advanced culture that wants to stay ahead of the
game does not want to see progress elsewhere."

"Like running a
monopoly," says Luke, darkly.

"Quite, Mr. Lukan."
If Crispin has taken offence at the remark, he doesn't show it.

It's rather melancholy,
looking down into the ruins of the ancient city. I wonder if there
were any undead survivors, and how they would exist for all these
centuries…

A flash of silver tail
and snake tattoo behind a pillar causes me to choke on my own tongue.

"I saw something!"
Ace announces, before I can speak. "Like a shark!"

Did I imagine it?

"There should not be
any danger, Mr. Bumgang," says Crispin. "But we will have
to swim our way out…"

"Not more Hermit
Squidmorph eggs?" I say, warily.

"No, they are not
indigenous to this region," Crispin reassures me. "The
fully mature adults are too big to nest here. They need direct access
to the Deep Ocean Trench."

"
Gooood
,"
Homer approves, obviously as relieved as I am.

"The best way out is
from the feeding sites of the Great Flatulent Clams," Crispin
continues. "They come to filter microbes from the underwater
lichens, which is why the water here is so clear. But they return to
the shallow seas to convert the dormant chlorophyll to sugars in the
sunlight. If we catch them at the right time, we should each be able
to hitch a ride out of here."

"Can I be the one to
say…" Carvery begins. "…
Flatulent?
"

"They continuously
emit bubbles of oxygen, Mr. Slaughter," says Crispin. "Which
is how I imagine you will all breathe underwater, without scuba
apparatus."

We exchange looks.

"Follow me," he
says, and steps ashore, onto a rocky outcrop.

Nervously, I follow.

There might be no sharks
down there… but there
might
be a harpoon gun-toting
fishtailed man-babe, whose motives are not as clear as the water is…

"Hey," Luke
says, as we pick our way over the rocks, around the perimeter of the
cave. "Do you think there is any Atlantean treasure lying
around? Anything of archaeological value?"

"If there was, I'm
betting that the Dry family beat you to it," Carvery replies.
"You're more likely to find it buried back in that dusty old
mansion of Crispin's, than anywhere here."

It does look as though
what remains of the great city is now just bare stone foundations,
and the occasional ruined statue. Not so much as a broken urn or
piece of crockery is visible.

I don't know what Luke
was expecting to discover… brass-bound chests? Giant pearls?
The kind of thing you see in a dental surgery waiting-room fish-tank…
well, the diving-suit would be useful, come to think of it.

"We will have to
climb the wall here to the next part of the caves," says
Crispin, pointing up towards a narrow gap near the roof, where a
rock-fall has divided the underground air-space. "Homer –
jump onto my back, and hold on tight."

"
Hooome
."

"Yes, Homer –
eventually…"

The rock wall gives Ace
and Carvery no issue at all, and even with Homer piggybacking along
in his peacock-blue prom dress, Crispin navigates the handholds
deftly. Luke grumbles about the prospect of arthritis.

"I'm not as young as
I look, you know," he says, as his slipping foot finds my ear
for the second time.

"
Working legally
since 1971?
" I remark, recalling the chase across the
rooftops of the Eight a.m. Lounge. "From that, I'm guessing you
can bend the truth in more ways than one."

Somehow I keep up, my
fingers blistered and bleeding, and crawl after the others through
the vertiginous gap, to the far side.

"Down there,"
Crispin points, to where a slight bubbling is visible on the surface
of the water. "We are in luck, Sarah
Bellummm –
the
clams are grazing."

We scramble back down the
rock-fall to the water's edge. I find myself scanning the depths,
looking for any sign of tattooed, silver-tailed merman –
imaginary or otherwise…

"They are quite safe
to approach," Crispin is saying. "The oxygen is emitted
from a clear respiratory tube near the hinge of the shell. You should
be able to grip either side. When they decide to move, allow them to
lead. They always take the shortest route to the open sea outside."

As if to demonstrate,
Homer wades happily into the shallows, fully-dressed, and disappears
beneath the surface.

Okay – at least it
doesn't look as though clothing will be a hindrance this time. I
glance regretfully at Ace and Carvery, who have only rolled up their
Stetson hats and shoved them into their boots.

Then I swallow the ball
of nerves and bile threatening to rise up the back of my throat, and
follow Homer into the water.

The weight of my clothes
soaking through drags me down easily, and I blink, into depths which
are remarkably clear. I can see Homer hugging a great frilled
bivalve, and I paddle my way forward to the next, following the trail
of bubbles.

The respiratory tube
looks remarkably like a snorkel mask, pointing slightly upward of a
shell about three feet wide. I find handholds in its ridges, and
tentatively move my face near to the tube's outlet.

I get a shock, as it
strikes out, clamping to my face. Suddenly I'm breathing pure air,
deep underwater.

Maybe they need the
carbon dioxide to activate the chlorophyll in their diet? It's most
bizarre. I feel as though I've been attached to an artificial lung…

One by one, I see the
others joining us, and just after Crispin enters the water, I feel my
ride twitching, and pushing off from the bottom.

Here we go
,
I think. Should I close my eyes? Kick my legs? No – let them
lead, Crispin said…

Homer overtakes me, his
fatter mollusc pumping out a jet of water to propel itself through
the caves, and we leave the rocky ledge and head deeper.

I can feel my panic
rising up again. This can't be right – not deeper underwater,
surely?

What if it's a trick?
What if they're dragging us back to a nest of hatching Squidmorphs?

Out of the corner of my
eye, I swear I see the flash of silver tail again…

We enter a tunnel of
pitch darkness, and my fear is now on full
Red Alert
. I'm
already imagining tentacles emerging from every crevice. I shake my
sleeve upward a little, so that the glow from the clockwork hand
around my wrist gives out some reassuring light to see by.

Even worse, my Flatulent
Clam seems to be flagging…

Breathe
,
I will it along. But it starts to slow to a drift, and worse –
the air-flow drops.

Damn! Just my luck to
pick one that's on a diet!

And then I feel it hiccup
– with a definite waft of Sloe Gin Sling.

Oh God
– I'm
the first human to get a Great Flatulent Clam drunk, on my own
breathalyser-breath!