Free The Zombie Adventures of Sarah Bellum by Lisa Scullard Page A

the
middle of nowhere."
    "Be vigilant,"
my zombie says in warning, and turns away, to lead me upstairs.
    "Exactly my
meaning," I mutter, but hang close behind, anyway.
    You never know. In my
housemate Wossname's case, quite literally. She falls for that macho
bullshit game every time…
    As we scale the next
flight, up to the second floor, the lights start to flicker in the
entrance-hall chandeliers, at our eye-line from the gallery. Although
aiming for steely determination in our climb, I still jump.
    "He will not be
successful in disabling the lighting," Crispin assures me. "It
is all supplied with back-up reserves…"
    Then he hesitates, and a
faint clicking noise reaches our ears – gradually getting
closer…
    "Against the wall,
Sarah Bellummm !" he hisses. "Do not step on the
carpet!"
    "What is this,
nursery games now?" I ask, incredulous.
    "You could say
that," he nods.
    To my alarm, he looks
terrified. I press myself likewise, against the flock wallpaper.
    The clicking becomes
louder. I look down at my feet.
    Dozens of glass marbles
suddenly roll past, in a steady stream. They carry on with their own
momentum, and start bouncing down the ostentatious staircase,
smacking and cracking loudly where they strike the actual marble,
either side of the carpet-runner.
    "We will proceed
with caution," he says at last, as the last few Dobbers and a
Thumbelina Milky trickle by. "Be careful to step only where I
step…"
    There is a sudden twang,
and he is flat on his face, prostrate on the rug.
    "…Except
there," he amends, as I help him up. "Hah! Tripwires…
a spell in cold storage has evidently done nothing to improve his
tactics…"
    At which point we both
have to duck abruptly, as a remote-control Spitfire zooms down the
corridor towards us. I feel my hair flatten in the downdraft, as it
whines overhead.
    "His aircraft are
occasionally armed," Crispin announces, as dumbstruck, I watch
the Spitfire do a circuit of the biggest chandelier, and hightail it
back, for a second assault. "Now, I suggest, we should run…!"
    He doesn't need to repeat
the idea. I hurtle after him, down the long corridor, lined with
doors. The cockerel bursts out of a cat-flap in one of them as we
pass, and joins us in our escape, flapping its panic-stricken wings,
squawking and scattering loosened feathers.
    "He has been
attacking my chickens!" Crispin rages. The Spitfire's
high-pitched whine seems to get higher, as it approaches from behind.
"One of these doors will be safe – the rest will be
booby-trapped…"
    "In what way?"
I pant, limping to keep up. I stumble, to the sound of a strangled
cluck. "I think I tripped over your cock…"
    Crispin yanks open a door
at random, and leaps aside as a large ironing-board pops out, with a
clang. Seizing it, he wrenches it loose, and hefts it in both hands.
    "Duck, Sarah Bellummm ," he orders.
    "No, definitely a
cock. I thought you only kept chickens?" I say, confused.
    He swings the ironing
board with a grunt, and I do indeed duck. There is the dull smack of
ironing-board cover against RC Spitfire, and the whine stops dead.
Bits of Airfix kit land in my hair, and slide down the collar
of my borrowed pyjamas.
    "I know where he
will be hiding," Crispin says, tossing the ironing board aside,
and offering his gray hand to help me up. "It is the same, since
we were children. Quickly – this way…"
    He drags me to the
turning at the end of the corridor, and we hurry into another
glamorous, expansive suite of rooms.
    They are decadently
decorated in pink and white silk, with a rose motif, and the scent of
lavender hangs in the air.
    "This isn't your
bedroom, is it?" I gulp, thinking about those 'fifty shades of
gay' again.
    "No," he says,
to my relief. He lets go of my hand, and almost strides into the
walk-in closet. "It is – or rather WAS – our
mother's room."
    He stops by the slatted
white wooden doors of the built-in wardrobes, running the length of
the wall. Seems to pause, to sniff out the immediate