The Zombie Adventures of Sarah Bellum Read online

  The

  ZOMBIE ADVENTURES

  of

  SARAH BELLUM

  Lisa Scullard

  The Zombie Adventures of Sarah Bellum

  © Lisa Scullard 2012

  Category: FICTION/PARODY. Any similarity to real persons or events is coincidental. Original characters featured (O.C.s) © Lisa Scullard 2012

  All rights reserved. For permissions, contact [email protected]

  Cover design © Lisa Scullard

  Artwork mash-up © Brenton Lonkey 2012

  The moral rights of the author & the artist have been asserted.

  Formatted and edited with U.K. spelling

  Also by the author:

  LIVING HELL (eBook & paperback)

  ISBN 9781461055877

  TALES OF THE DEATHRUNNERS series:

  DEATH & THE CITY: Book One (eBook & paperback)

  ISBN 9781460954294

  DEATH & THE CITY: Book Two (eBook & paperback)

  ISBN 9781460954379

  DEATH & THE CITY: Heavy Duty Edition (eBook)

  DEATH & THE CITY: Cut to the Chase Edition (eBook, paperback edit)

  THE ZOMBIE CHRONICLES OF OZ:

  THE TERRIBLE ZOMBIE OF OZ with L. Frank Baum (eBook & paperback)

  ISBN 9781456514099

  CONTENTS

  INTRODUCTION

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CEMETERY ~ FILTHY SHAVINGS OF GRAY MATTER

  NINE AND HALF REAPS

  NINE AND A HALF REAPS, CONTINUED

  BODY OF CONDIMENTS

  PRETTY WARM ONE

  SCAR WARS

  PHANTOM OF THE OPERATING THEATRE

  TOMB BATHER

  DANGEROUS LACERATIONS

  BADMAN

  BLADE RUSTER

  E.T. ~ HOMER LONE

  THE GROANIES

  RADIALS OF THE LOST ARM

  GOBBLINGS OF THE LARYNX

  NECROMANCING THE BONES

  SLIPPED DISCLOSURE

  THE COCKERELS OF HERNIA

  STARGRAVE

  DROOL OF THE NILE

  REFLEX OF THE JEJUNUM

  QUIM OF THE DAMNED

  PRUDE AND PREPUTIUM

  THE GRANULATE

  PUMP FRICTION

  DIRTY HARRIDAN

  PYGANGLION

  UNDEATH ON THE NILE

  OCTOPULPY

  THE MAGNIFICENT SEPTUM

  THE LIFE OF BRAINS

  BIG TROUBLE IN RECEPTACULUM CHYLI

  THE MEN WHO STARE AT GLUTES

  THE LOST BONES

  INDEFINABLE BONES & THE TEMPLES OF GLOOM

  CROUCHING TIBIA, HIDDEN DUODENUM

  THE MALPIGHIAN'S NEPHRITIS

  SHALLOW GRAVY

  THE LEG OF EXTRANEOUS GENITO-URINARY MEDICINE

  THE HUNT FOR RECTAL OEDEMA

  CREMASTER TIED

  20,000 LEGS UNDER THE SEA

  SPLAT

  THE UVULA STRIKES BACK

  ILIUM RESURRECTION

  GNASHER NAIL TREASURE

  BEETLEJUGULAR

  HAIRY PALATE & THE CHAMBER OF SECRETIONS

  LOBULES OF AREOLA

  SECTS AND THE CITADEL, TOO

  CASABLADDER

  DIURETIC 13

  CARUNCULA ROYALE

  SORE

  FERMAT'S WOMB

  PARANODULE

  MEDIASTINUM IMPOSSIBLE

  GURNEY TO THE CENTER OF THE EARTH

  A TOWN CALLED PANCREAS

  JURASSIC PRICK

  DEATH FACE

  MENOPAUSE IN BLACK

  M*A*S*H*E*D

  GOOD MOANING, VERAMONTANUM

  DAD'S ARMLESS

  FULL METACARPAL JACKET

  APOPHYSIS NOW

  IT AIN'T HALF ARSED, MUM

  CHYME BANDITS

  THE WONDERFUL WRISBERG OF OESOPHAGUS

  SCARDUSK

  THE TOURNIQUET

  CHYLE & THE CHOCOLATE FASCIA

  TOMB BATHER ~ CRADLE OF AFTERLIFE

  COWBOYS AND ILEUMS

  FRANKENMINKY

  IRON MANDIBLE

  TRANSMOGRIFIERS

  PROSTATES OF THE CARIBBEAN

  THE RIDICULES OF CHRONIC

  BIG KNOBS AND BROOM CLOSETS

  TRUE LICE

  DÉJÀ VOODOO ~ FIFTY SHALLOW GRAVES

  BONUS SECTION ~ GREY MATTER, THE CTRLVQUEL: CHAPTER ONE

  GREY MATTER: CHAPTER TWO

  ROLL CREDITS…

  INTRODUCTION

  "You'll be hearing from our lawyers." W.D, film artisan empire.

  "And mine." Mr. Steven S, purveyor of moving pictures.

  "Our author has never read your books…" R.H, publisher.

  "Lisa who?" Q.T, film fanatic, writer and bon viveur.

  "I'll never hear the end of it…" Anonymous.

  "What's her name and Social Security Number?" A.J, United Nations Ambassador.

  "There better be stuff in it worth stealing…" A.L.S. Esq, lawyer.

  "I knew it was just a uniform thing." P. Harry, on tour.

  "More." Swaggers, Hastings.

  LIKED Mr. D. Hedgehog, on Facebook via BlackBerry.

  "I must finish my blog…" S. Neville, backpacker extraordinaire.

  "Delicious." Patricia Morgan, paintbrush wielder, 10th Dan.

  "Bums on seats." O. Cinemas, popcorn and hot-dog distributor.

  (The above quote widely misinterpreted in the United States).

  "Looks interesting…" P.E, satirist and commentator.

  "Which book is this one?" DS-10, demonic stats expert.

  "I was making it up as I went along." H. Gray, F.R.S.

  "We can confirm that 'Miss X.' worked for us between October 1996 and January 1997. However, we do not take responsibility for any loss or damage incurred by your relying on this as a reference." Safeways, no longer trading as a U.K. supermarket.

  "Carlsberg don't make nightclub bouncers. But if they did…" A. Customer, Southampton.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  The Zombie Adventures of Sarah Bellum started out as a blog parody of copyright law, having read something that gave me about three months' worth of uninterrupted déjà-vu and pattern-matching.

  The blog gathered momentum and fell into a great sucking vortex of movie scenes, dialogue, characters and settings, that folk had conveniently posted on YouTube for me to reference.

  It has been the most fun I have ever had on this sofa.

  I'd like to thank all those talented people who not only made the original films, but also the fans who posted their own edits, alternati
ve trailers, and mashed-up tunes, which I featured in my blog posts while writing this bloodthirsty monster.

  And also the professionals in writing, film, law, publishing and journalism whom I met and corresponded with this year – your time was much appreciated. Thanks for clarifying everything…

  When not enjoying long walks off short cliffs and walks on the wild side, I like to walk the path of least resistance. I have found that this involves a lot more effort than just sitting on the fence.

  lisascullard.wordpress.com

  voodoo-spice.blogspot.com

  www.screenkiss.co.uk

  on Twitter: aka_VoodooSpice

  For Caitlin

  CHAPTER ONE:

  CEMETERY ~

  FILTHY SHAVINGS OF GRAY MATTER

  I look in the mirror. I do it every day. Pretty much most people look in the mirror every day.

  I see a girl. That's a relief. A girl with hair, two eyes, a nose, one mouth, and as I push the hair back as I'm brushing it to check – yes, still got two ears. Phew.

  My housemate, whose name escapes me most days, has forced me into this, the reason I'm awake and brushing my hair at the ungodly hour of ten a.m. How dare she go for her abortion today, and pack me off instead to do her media studies homework? Couldn't she have had her termination some other time?

  "Mr. Dry," I say to my reflection, giving myself a momentary identity-crisis. I see the panic in my two eyes, and pull myself together. Rehearse, dammit! "I'm Sarah Bellum. Pleased to meet you…"

  I have to go for an interview with some vending machine business mogul. The company is called Dry Goods, Inc, and the owner, Crispin Dry, supplies our University with all of its vending machines. He's notoriously hard to get appointments with. When you ring his office, you have to press so many buttons on the phone to finally get through – only to be told that your selection is no longer available, and to choose an alternative.

  Miss Whatsername, my housemate, says that she's got to get this interview for the University paper. I don't know why, they only use it to wrap take-out cartons in the refectory. Maybe it's to promote a new drinks machine range.

  I think she's secretly fishing for a job too, as she's insisted I take along her school yearbook, and a set of twelve professional head-shots – which must have been taken some time between tooth-braces, and her recent foray into fertilisation.

  So I'm having to forgo my weekly visits to the Body Farm and the morgue for my own research project. I don't even know if I'll be back in time for work later.

  She's going to owe me big-time for this. If I don't get to see a corpse this week, I don't know what I'll do. There's one I'm rather fond of in a wheelie-bin under a silver birch tree at the Body Farm, where I like to sit and eat my sandwiches.

  He'll have changed so much the next time I see him…

  I leave Whatserface, my best friend, packing her nightdress for the clinic.

  "Good luck!" says Thingummyjig, as I head out. "Don't forget my C.V!"

  I struggle to guess what she means… Cervical Vacuum? Crazy Voodoo? Crotch Visor? Copulation Venom? Crinoline Vagina? Contraceptive Velcro? What kind of prophylactic is called a C.V?

  Perhaps if she'd remembered some of that sooner, she wouldn't be heading for a D&C now…

  "I'll bring you back some sanitary towels," I concede, and slam the front door.

  * * * * *

  It's a long drive to Seafront West Industrial Estate, but luckily I have my father's trusty bullet-proof Hummer in which to navigate the rain-soaked roads. I don't think my Pizza Heaven scooter would have made it. When I put my books in the insulated top-box, it always skids over in the wet. And sometimes nasty people put other things in there, when I'm doing a delivery.

  Dry Goods House is a huge monolith of connected storage containers, converted into offices on the seafront industrial park, an illegal immigrant's fantasy. Mirrored glass windows inserted into the corrugated steel keep out any prying eyes.

  The revolving doors swish as I enter the Customer Enquiries lobby. A brain-dead-looking blonde is sitting at the stainless surgical steel counter.

  "I'm here for the interview with Mr. Crispin Dry," I announce. "I'm Sarah Bellum. Miss Thing from the University sent me."

  "I'll text him," says Miss Brain-Dead, picking up her phone. "Have a seat."

  She eyes me as I sit down on the plastic chair between two vending machines, one for hot drinks, the other for snacks. I feel over-dressed. Maybe stealing my housemate's Christian Louboutin studded Pigalle pumps and Chanel suit had been taking it too far. The receptionist looks cool and comfortable, in turquoise blue overalls and a neon yellow hi-visibility industrial vest.

  "He's on his way down," she says, after a moment. She reaches under the desk. "You'll have to put this on."

  I get up again to accept the hi-visibility yellow vest she hands me, which has VISITOR stencilled on the back. I pull it on grudgingly over my borrowed Chanel.

  The adjoining door creaks, and I turn, still adjusting my Velcro.

  I know, the moment I see him.

  The black suit. The pallor of his skin. The attractively tousled, unkempt bed-hair. The drool. That limp… oh, God, that limp…!

  "Crispin Dry?" My voice catches in my throat.

  "Miss… Bellllummmm," he moans softly, extending a dirt-encrusted hand.

  My heart palpitates wildly, noting his ragged cuticles, and the long, gray, prehensile fingers.

  "My housemate," I begin. "Miss Shitface – she couldn't make it today. Got the uterine bailiffs in…"

  I grasp his outstretched hand in greeting. So cold… and yet so mobile… a tingle crawls deliciously up my forearm, and I snatch my hand away quickly, scared of showing myself up. His jet-black eyes glitter, equally cold, and his upper lip seems to curl in the faintest suggestion of a smirk, like a slow, private spasm.

  "Were you offered a refreshment, Miss Bellumm?" He gestures towards the famous vending machines.

  I shake my head, and he turns to glare at the receptionist. She cowers visibly, and I'm sure I hear him emit a long, low, guttural sound. The receptionist scrabbles in her drawer and holds out a handful of coin-shaped metal tokens.

  "I'm fine, really…" I croak, although in all honesty, my throat does feel terribly dry.

  "Very wellll…"

  My knees feel weak as he holds the door open, and beckons, his head at a quirked angle.

  "This way, Miss… Bellummm."

  How he rolls my name around his mouth makes my own feel drier than ever. I stumble hazily through into the corridor, hearing the door creak closed again behind me, and the shuffling, shambling sound of his footfalls in my wake.

  "Straight ahead, Miss Bellumm."

  His voice is like sandpaper being rasped over a headstone. It tickles my inner ear and the back of my throat, sends chills down my vertebrae. It resonates with my deepest darkest thoughts.

  Things I had not even entertained notions of while eating sandwiches under the silver birch tree, beside my dear Mr. Wheelie-Bin…

  His arm extends past me to swipe his security card in the lock of the next door, and a waft of his moss-like scent washes over my strangely heightened senses.

  "Go through, Miss Bellumm," he practically whispers in my ear.

  The door clicks open, and I do as bidden. Murky grey daylight filters through the tinted windows from the seafront, and I gasp.

  Another brain-dead blonde is banging her head repeatedly on the steel wall, not three feet away from the door.

  "Debbie," Mr. Dry says. Is that a tinge of disappointment, or disapproval in his voice? "Take Miss Bellummm's coat. You will not need the yellow site vest either while you are with me, Miss Bellummm."

  Debbie turns to look at us, her flat bleached-out bloodshot eyes registering nothing. She holds out her arms to accept the navy-blue Chanel and hi-visibility vest as I shrug them off, feeling exposed now in my Andy Warhol Marilyn Monroe t-shirt.

  Miss Brain-Dead Mark II takes my jacket with a soft grun
t, but goes nowhere, turning back to face the wall instead, contemplating the smear where her head had been rebounding off it just a moment before.

  Crispin Dry takes my arm to steer me past, the unexpected contact eliciting another gasp from me. Those long cold prehensile fingers, closing around the soft warm flesh of my tricep! I trip along the next corridor, trying to keep pace with his rolling, loping gait, like that of a wounded panther.

  "My office…" he hisses, swiping his security pass a second time, and ushering me through.

  It is black. Everything is black, from the desk, to the leather seating, to the vertical blinds. The only colour in the room is a giant white canvas, on the wall facing the long window, upon which a modern meditation in red is represented.