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

area – and
flings the doors of the closet wide.
    "Homer…"
croaks a strange voice. "Home… home…"
    A single, gray finger
points out from the depths of the closet, reaching up to Crispin's
face in an unearthly appeal – for help, perhaps?
    "Yes, you are home,
Homer," Crispin sighs. "And you are in Mother's closet,
dressing up in her clothes, as you have done for the past forty
years."
    Shocked, I cannot resist
a peek past him, into the wardrobe.
    There indeed, is the poor
emaciated gray zombie – the billionaire Crispin Dry's brother,
Homer N. Dry – resplendent in a pink dress, white crochet
shawl, a blonde wig, and a rather fetching summer hat.

CHAPTER
THIRTEEN :
    THE GROANIES

    " M rs
Frittata is going to be very annoyed that you've taken her Sunday wig
as well," Crispin scolds his brother, while the transvestite
zombie cowers in the closet, attempting to hide his face in shame,
behind a bejewelled clutch-purse.
    "Who's Mrs
Frittata?" I ask, wondering if they refer to their mother so
formally in this house.
    "The housekeeper,"
Crispin groans. "She and her two sons, the Frittatas, form the
main hub of my staff here. Jerry Frittata is my driver, while Ben
Frittata is the gardener. There was a third Frittata brother, who did
odd jobs as handyman on the estate – but he fell down a well in
the sunken garden some years ago, and has never been quite the same
since."
    "Is he in care?"
    "No, still down the
well. He likes to try and entice female visitors to climb down and
kiss him, impersonating a cursed frog. Honestly. Like you say, as if
women persist in believing that you have to kiss a lot of frogs
before a prince appears, these days."
    "Quite," I
agree stiffly, thinking of my brainwashed housemate, Insert-Name-Here
– who was virtually born with a glass slipper between her legs
– and had been discussing the very same myth with me (in her
usual deluded fashion) earlier this evening. Before having her
boyfriend-amputated thumb reattached.
    The reminiscing is
interrupted by the 'DONNNGGG' of the impressive doorbell,
reverberating through the mansion.
    "Strange…"
hisses my host for the night so far. "Who would call at this
hour? I only ordered the one pizza…"
    "Er – which
you still haven't paid for!" I point out, hurrying after him, as
he leaves his mother's boudoir.
    With a squeak of
abandonment, I hear his brother Homer disentangling himself from
coat-hangers and designer footwear on the floor of the closet, and
shuffling quickly to keep up – jabbering 'Home…
home…' as he scuttles after us along the corridor, to the
second-floor landing.
    I risk a glance behind.
His progress is hindered, Pippa-Middleton-style, by the pink fishtail
wiggle dress.
    Well – he doesn't
look too dangerous… At least, not to humans, I think, as he
burps a chicken feather.
    We descend the two
flights of stairs to the ground floor again. Reaching the doors
first, Crispin answers it himself – just as he did when I first
arrived, with that pizza.
    I wonder how I'm meant to
ride the Pizza Heaven scooter back, now I'm only wearing his
loaned pyjamas.
    "Luke," Crispin
greets our Legally-entitled-to-work-since-1971 Nigerian
taxi-driver, from the hospital. "What brings you here?"
    "The young lady left
her mobile phone on the seat of my cab," Luke announces, holding
it out to me. "I was passing by on another passenger route,
thought I would see if you folk were home."
    "How kind!" I
say, although I'd barely missed it. The only calls I get are from my
housemate Twatface, when she has some new drama with Carvery
Slaughter…
    I pocket the phone, and
look up again, just in time to see another movement in the doorway
behind the taxi-driver…
    Fuck .
    Speak of the Devil…
    "Hey, this doesn't
look like The Astoria ," Miss Novelty-Tricks slurs,
staggering in behind Luke.
    "No – this is
way better," says another familiar voice, and – oh, no –
Ace Bumgang lopes in as well. "Where's the bar in this place?"
    Last and definitely
least,