The Zombie Adventures of Sarah Bellum (4 page)

But no. Just an
entryphone beside the studded oak door. I press the buzzer, wondering
if there is a camera as well, and if they'll insist I remove my
George and Mildred
peaked crash helmet before responding. The
one I still wear because I love Ace Bumgang's face as he tells me the
horrors of fixed-peak open-face headwear in an RTA. Sort of a mixture
of caring, considerate, concerned, and 'get out of my site office,
you deluded stalker…' While he pulls a sweater over his tight
t-shirt, hiding those delicious-looking biceps and pectorals from my
hungry gaze…

Expecting an intercom
reply to my buzz, I get a shock when the door is opened silently in
front of me – and for the first time I fully understand the
meaning of the famous phrase 'the world dropped out of my bottom.'

For standing in front of
me, his matt-black tie undone and just-dead hair hypnotically
dishevelled, is Crispin Dry – vending machine magnate,
entrepreneur, and the sexiest corpse I've recently seen – since
4:23p.m.
last Thursday, in a wheelie-bin under the silver
birch tree at the Body Farm…

"Mr. Dry!" I
squeak, terrified – and immediately thrust the pizza box under
his nose. Hoping to avert the smell of nervous pizza-delivery girl.

"Miss…
Belllummm
…" he slurs. "What a pleasant
surprise. Do come inside. The kitchen is just this way."

And he turns in the
doorway and shambles off into the opulent entrance hall, beckoning
for me to follow. It looks as though I have no choice. I pull the
gigantic door closed behind me, feeling as though I now know how
Gretel
felt, upon entering the gingerbread house…

The kitchen is vast –
like a bowling alley. When he opens the giant refrigerator, and
starts selecting his condiments, I half expect to see the bottles
deposited mechanically onto the shelf in front of him, like a set of
ten-pins.

"I'll just leave it
right here, shall I?" I suggest, sliding the box onto the
glassy-smooth granite counter-top. It sparkles with quartz and mica –
not superheat-treated granite then, I find myself thinking… my
mind wanders like this unpredictably at times…

"Join me, Sarah
Bellummm
," he says, unexpectedly. "I believe you
might be famished, after your long day…"

Damn. That will scupper
my usual Friday plans, of waiting outside
Bumgang & Sons'
Breaker's Yard
with a Chinese Meat Feast. Ace always pretends to
be surprised, which is sweet, and sometimes he even takes it with
him. He's usually in a big hurry to meet up with his friends at the
boys' club,
Gentlemen Prefer Poledancers
– which is
endearing, as it means he's telling me in his own special way that
he's not settled for anyone important yet…

"Well – I
think the last thing I ate, was a sip of chicken soup, from the
vending machine at your office earlier…" I admit timidly.

"
Toooo
long,"
he agrees, with a devastatingly wonky nod. "Take a seat. And
close your eyes. I have a surprise for you."

I slip off my
George
and Mildred
and try to make the most of my helmet-hair as I
arrange myself on the seat at the counter. He darts me a meaningful
look, still foraging in the refrigerator, and obligingly I close my
eyes.

Gosh, I hope this means a
big tip.

"Is that your
Cadillac outside?" I ask, to pass the time with small-talk,
while I hear him putting dishes on the counter in front of me.

"It is just a
courtesy car," he says, dismissively. "The Bugatti and the
Maserati are away for servicing, and I only use the Diablo on holiday
weekends, when I go hot-air ballooning."

"Hmm," I
murmur, only half-believing him. Probably only got a
Ford
Out-of-Focus
, or a common-or-garden
Vorsprung Dork Technique
in his garage… I make a private bet that the Cadillac is
rented, just for show – utilised to pick up innocent girls when
he's in town. I mean, guys like Ace Bumgang, you expect them to have
a couple of sports cars, a racing bike and a speedboat, I mean,
petrolhead mechanics always do… but not a businessman. A fleet
of cheap
1.2L
commuter compacts, if anything…

"I hope you are
hungry," Crispin Dry says, rather darkly, interrupting my
fantasy that Ace Bumgang is
The Stig
, which would explain why
he's always so elusive. "I have an idea of your tastes already.
Open wide."

I promptly rearrange
myself on the seat.

"I meant your
mouth," he croons, and I slam my knees together again, like a
barn door in a tornado.

Nervously, I let my mouth
fall open, in a textbook Q.

"Put your tongue in,
pleeeaase
," he moans softly.

The Q becomes an O, as
requested.

Something tickles my
lower lip, sticky, and fragrantly barbecued. Mmm – chicken
wings! My stomach rumbles immediately in response, and I chew
enthusiastically.

"You approve?"
he asks, and he sounds hopeful.

"Yum," I nod.
"Is there more?"

"Nine more, I
believe," he confirms, as I run my tongue around my teeth to
dislodge any gristly bits. I cough on something dry, and remove
something curved, cartilaginous, almost fingernail-shaped from my
cheek, which he quickly brushes aside from my own fingertips. "I
think we have found your acquired taste exactly."

"Do you have
anything to drink?" I ask. My eyes are still rapturously closed,
all thoughts of the tanned, toned and droolworthy Ace Bumgang
forgotten.

"Be patient, Sarah
Bellummm
," my dream zombie whispers. "I am sure I
have a cocktail worthy of you."

I am shocked by his
intimate tone.

"It's as if you were
expecting me," I gasp, feeling myself blush.

"But of course,"
he says, so close to my ear, I nearly swoon off the chair. "I do
still need a new secretary, of which I'm sure you must be aware.
Which means we have our interview process to complete. I even made
sure to re-stock the vending machine in my bedroom, right before you
arrived…"

CHAPTER
THREE
:

NINE AND A HALF
REAPS, CONTINUED…

The intensity in the
atmosphere is excruciating. I can hear Crispin Dry (vending machine
CEO of Dry Goods Inc.,
nouveau morte
and
bonne bouche
)
still moving around me in the vast kitchenette of his Grade II-listed
mansion. Chopping, dicing, blending, and possibly mixing up the
previously-mentioned cocktail, which he says is tailored especially
for me.

Me: Sarah Bellum –
mild-mannered pizza delivery girl by night, ambitious Forensic
Anthropology student by day, and incurable romantic. Apart from the
very much alive Ace Bumgang, who I like to watch from a distance
through the chicken-wire fencing of
Bumgang & Sons' Breaker's
Yard –
especially when he's outside his site office with
his shirt off – the only male bodies I ever see are in various
stages of decay, on the Body Farm.

I'm lucky if I get five
minutes a week there to study, recently. Or at the Body Farm. What
with Miss Wotsit, my best friend and housemate, being so demanding –
with her delayed birth control plans, and electronically-tagged
boyfriend, with whom she seems to be smitten.

Actually, her situation
would be more accurately described thus:
'By whom she seems to be
smashed up, on a regular basis.'

No wonder I never even
remember her name. She comes home with a different face every few
days.

With a great pang of loss
I wonder how much my dearest one at the Body Farm, Mr. Wheelie-Bin
Under The Silver Birch Tree, will have progressed the next time I see
him. Apparently he was a domestic violence victim too. You could tell
particularly in the early stages, by the way his scalp was hanging
off like a bad toupée…

…
But
the sound of Crispin Dry sliding something along the counter towards
me dissolves that thought, as quickly as an acid bath.

"No peeping,"
he murmurs, and I nod, confirming that my eyes are still obediently
closed. "Perhaps we should retire to the other room, where you
will be more comfortable. Take my arm."

"Where are we
going?" I ask, sliding off the seat at the counter.

I had been enjoying the
food game. My stomach was still hinting that it had room for more. I
feel the cold cloth of his sleeve under my fingers as I reach out,
and the even colder press of his flesh underneath, as he tucks my arm
into his side to guide me along.

"Just across the
hall," he confides. "There is a very nice late evening
lounge."

"You have a lounge
for different times of day?" I ask, making careful effort to
keep pace with his attractive, undead pimp-limp.
What do they call
it? Crap walk? Crabstick walk?
I'm glad Ace Bumgang can't hear my
thoughts, sometimes. Although the look he gives me when he espies me
through the boundary fence of the breaker's yard suggests he does
know exactly what I'm thinking, and it comes with the words
'restraining order' attached. He's so cute. He just knows I'm a
sucker for threats like that…
Cripple walk…?
Hmm.
Maybe I made it up…

"I have a room for
every time of day, Miss
Bellummm
," Crispin Dry assures
me, heavy with implied meaning.

My kneecaps try to switch
places, while my tongue tries to hide behind my epiglottis and escape
up the back of my nasal cavity.

"Turn around,"
Crispin's voice whispers against my ear, his other hand on my
shoulder, pivoting me to face him. I feel him testing the sleeve of
my
Pizza Heaven
work fleece. "Would you like to take this
off?"

"Er, well,
actually…" I cough, trying to sound nonchalant. "I
kind of had a nap before work tonight, so this is all I have on. Er.
Underneath. Just me."

"Intriguing,"
he says, and I can hear his approval. I gulp.

He moves forward just
enough to help me take a backward step, and I feel the soft give of a
cushioned seat at the back of my legs.

"Make yourself
comfortable," he says, and for my wandering kneecaps' sake, I
plop thankfully onto the velvet cushions. "I will return with
the drinks. And still no peeping."

"I promise," I
nod, my anticipation at his own promise of
drinks
already
building again. I'm parched. I could go for a fish-tank cocktail
right now, never mind a fish-bowl cocktail.

"I think I will take
out a little insurance on your promise," he remarks, and I hear
the swish of silk. "I will use my tie to blindfold you. Do you
mind?"

"Is it another
game?" I ask, accepting the strip of material as he places it
gently across my eyes.

"Another sensory
game," he agrees. "Not taste, this time. I think your
tastes are well-established."

"Good," I say,
relaxing a little. "Because blindfolds and food combined could
create a potential choking hazard."

As he departs, I wonder
what he could possibly mean.
Smell?
I take a few experimental
sniffs once I hear his footfalls crossing the marble hall floor
again, receding away back to that food-court of a kitchen. I don't
smell anything in this room. Not even a joss stick, or deodoriser
designed to mask the scent of a personal hygiene problem, or
anti-social habit. Strange.
Sound?
I strain to hear anything
other than the clink of glassware on a tray, and before I know it,
the shambling footfalls are approaching again.

I lean into the embrace
of the couch, trying to appear relaxed. It's only slightly spoiled by
the fact that the back of the couch is a lot further away than I
thought, so I fall through the loosely-heaped pillows in slow-motion,
until I am nearly prone.

"I see you are
getting comfortable, Sarah
Bellummm
."

He teases me with the
sound of my own name. Maybe he knows that all I get called at work is
'Cheese-Bag' or at University, 'Bell-End'. I never thought that the
ink printed on my birth certificate could sound so sexy.

I feel the couch dip
beside me, as he sits down.

"We are going to
play a game of touch," he says.

"Soccer?" I
ask, puzzled. "Blindfolded?"