Free Flaming Zeppelins by Joe R. Lansdale Page B

said.
    â€œAs how there’s little to jerk,” Bemo said, “I doubt that. And by the by, how did that happen, good man? The head business and the jar, I mean?”
    â€œCut myself shaving,” Cody said.
    â€œVery well, your business,” Bemo said. “No need to discuss it.”
    â€œAnd you’re not jerking me about Doctor Momo?”
    â€œI said as much. And beyond the physical, neither am I jerking you in a figurative sense. We are indeed on our way to see Doctor Momo.”
    â€œI suppose you two are great friends,” Annie said.
    â€œNo, actually, I hate the sonofabitch, but…” Bemo stood from his place on the couch, turned to reveal the back of his head.
    It was missing. A large chunk of hair and skull had been removed. There was a shiny bulb screwed into his brain, the gray matter around it pulsed.
    When Bemo turned to face them, he said, “You see, I’m in a bit of a pickle. Wrecked the
Naughty Lass
on his island once. I was grievously injured in the wreck. My crew was killed. Doctor Momo saved me. But, knowing who I was and what I could do for him, he cut out a bit of my brain, fastened in an apparatus that makes me submissive to him and in need of frequent bowel movements. I talk a little fruity, as well. I’m a kind of zombie.”
    â€œGood Lord,” said Cody.
    â€œYes,” Bemo said. “And in short time you will meet my master. And you won’t like it that much, I assure you. An absolute asshole, Momo. Absolute.”
    The rescued zeppelinauts spent the night in comfort in separate cabins, Cody’s head in the library on a shelf. In spite of Bemo’s disconcerting revelations about the zombie business and the comment about them not going to like Momo, for the first time in three days, mostly due to exhaustion, they slept well and awoke rested.
    During the night their clothes had been cleaned and dried, left folded at their bedsides before morning. Annie had been supplied with a large box of brushes, combs and hair pins. She used them minimally, looking lovely with little effort.
    Early morning, for their benefit, just before arrival at the island, Bemo had taken the
Naughty Lass
down. They stood at the great water shield and watched. Hickok held Cody’s jar. The sea foamed about the nose of the sub, then overwhelmed it. They dropped deep, burned a bright exploratory light that revealed all manner of fish and water creatures. They saw reefs. They saw shipwrecks.
    â€œI really would like to have shown you Atlantis,” Bemo said, “but, alas, we are nowhere near it, and I’m afraid I don’t choose for myself much anymore. You know how it is, the bulb and all.”
    An hour before they reached the island, a breakfast was provided. There was stewed kelp, salmon, fish eggs and kippers. There was a kind of coffee made from dried seaweed. There was bread ground from an underwater plant. It was all delicious. Cody, unable to eat, was the table centerpiece.
    A mile out from the island, they surfaced. The
Naughty Lass
entered the island of Doctor Momo via an inlet bordered on both sides by a monkey- and parrot-filled jungle.
    Bemo allowed them on the sea-slick deck of the
Naughty Lass
as they sailed in. Hickok carried Cody’s head. Bull watched the monkeys leaping and chattering with the same deadpan expression as always. Blue and red parrots exploded from the jungle, water birds burst toward the sky in blues, whites and grays. Huge water snakes were spotted.
    Bull blinked once, having thought he saw a female head poke from the water, but when he looked again, there was only a huge fish tail flipping up and dropping away.
    Annie had Ned the seal at her side. She had tried to pet and coo to him the night before, but the seal wasn’t having any until she explained the head in the jar was that of Buffalo Bill, the hero of the dime novels Ned loved. After that, the seal was her companion.
    Annie attempted to