The Zombie Adventures of Sarah Bellum Read Free Page B

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