The Zombie Adventures of Sarah Bellum Read Free Page A

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