Dangerous Lacerations: A Zombie Parody

DM’s ‘Precious’ remixed by Reaps007…

Finally dressed once more – having retrieved my underwear from the escaped pet cockerel, and been loaned a set of Paisley pyjamas by the ever-gentlemanly zombie Crispin Dry – I assert my decision to head home.

His mansion feels so large, so empty – so imposing… I feel the need for my home comforts – like cold pizza, and even colder, slippery, undergraduate sleeping bag.

“But you have had too much to drink to ride your scooter, Sarah Bellummm,” Crispin moans.

“I’ll push it if I have to,” I reply, rolling up the over-long pyjama sleeves. “No offence, but I’ve seen quite enough undead action for one night.”

…Not to mention Ace Bumgang action, the thought creeps up on me. I shiver involuntarily under the thin silk. I wonder if he’s still at the University Masquerade Summer Ball? If I push the scooter halfway, until I’m near-sober, and ride the other half, could I make it back there in time to catch the end, and see if he leaves with anyone…?

Although of course, that would also risk the possibility of running into my stupid housemate, Miss Ladygargle, and her GBH-qualified boyfriend, the lethally charismatic Carvery Slaughter. And maybe the likelihood of more zombies, along the way…

I realise that Crispin is looking yearningly at his nightwear, on my comparatively alive frame.

“There does not have to be undead action, as you say,” he says, a little sensitively.

“Really?” I remark. “Then why offer me just pyjamas to wear? And I don’t have a headache as an excuse either, if that’s what you’re hiding those painkillers in your hand for.”

I just about spot the pharmacy box, as Crispin swiftly moves it behind his back.

“I would feel much better if you stayed, Sarah Bellummm…” he says, hopefully.

“I think we’ve done plenty enough for one night,” I tell him. “We’ve played blind-tasting food games, and Draw My Thing With Something on my own skin, been to hospital, nearly made out in an elevator – and on a grand piano – had a close encounter of the reckless kind with an immigrant taxi-driver, found my housemate kidnapped by zombie surgeons, performed a reverse autopsy, and bumped into probably the last two fit guys alive on Earth – one of whom is most definitely carrying a jaw-dropping collection of STDs and a chainsaw in the trunk of his car. If I have any more excitement tonight, I’ll probably explode with life-affirming overindulgence.”

“It was life-affirming indulgence that I was thinking of, certainly,” Crispin muses, taking a step closer.

I take one back in turn, pointing at what he’s attempting to conceal in his other hand.

“And you can put that camera down for a start,” I warn him. “I don’t know what cruel intentions you had on your mind by trying to sneak up on me with that… but there’s enough porn on Facebuddy already, without adding zombie-necrophilia to the mix.”

“I was worried you might not come back again, if I let you leave so early.” Crispin sighs, and puts the camera and the pharmacy box down on the bed, showing me his empty hands, in supplication. “I just wanted a little souvenir of your visit.”

“I hope by that, you mean a photo of me wearing your jammies,” I say warily, thinking of the empty Human Tissues transport box, left abandoned back at the University. “And not any actual physical parts of me. You still haven’t explained what you were doing, stealing those organs from the hospital…”

He reaches out and takes hold of my hands, in his cold gray ones.

“No, no, Miss Bellummm,” he says. “I was thinking of your needs… and of mine…”

“You’re thinking of Gin Sling cocktails… and human brain vending machines?” I hazard, confused by his change of tack.

He shakes his head, in that endearing, wonky fashion.

“No, Sarah,” he groans. “Not that…”

I hear the hiss and rattle of his lungs, as he inches that little bit closer. The tension in the bedroom cranks up another notch.

“You can depend on me to keep your confidentiality,” he continues. “If you are honest with me.”

“About what?” I ask, wondering what I might want kept secret. And if I’ve been inappropriately disclosing information about myself, all my life so far.

“Would I be right in believing that you are… a virgin, Sarah Bellummm?”

Shocked, I laugh.

This reaction has got me into trouble many a time. In fact, without the nervous laughter reflex, I might not even still be a… whatever he’s implying.

And there’d be a few less grouchy pizza-delivery boys around, carrying inferiority complexes.

“A what?” I chuckle, trying to use the laugh to brush the accurate assumption off. “Don’t be silly! Those guys we bumped into earlier? I’ve had them both. At once, in fact. Lots of times. Before the violent one caught all sorts of lurgy off his girlfriend…”

Crispin leans in a little closer still, causing me to stop, and gulp my giggles back down. I hear him sniff slowly, at my throat.

“Hmmm,” he muses. “I think you may be wrong, Sarah Bellummm. And I am correct, in this instance.”

“What about it?” I shrug. “Nothing wrong with waiting for Mister Right.”

“Supposing…” he begins thoughtfully. “Supposing your Mister Right, as you call him… had a certain condition, that could be cured, by your own – condition?”

Oh, no. This sounds familiar. It’s been addressed in our Anthropology lectures, for a start.

“Have you been taking sexual health advice from West African witch-doctors?” I ask, disapprovingly.

He looks surprised, then down at himself resignedly, with a broad sweeping gesture of both arms.

“You think?” he says, and it’s the first time I’ve detected sarcasm in his tone. “You’re talking to a damned zombie, may I remind you?”

“You can’t cure diseases by sleeping with virgins!” I shout at him. “That’s the kind of stupid dumb-ass Medieval thinking that starts pandemics! Do you see people in the third world bouncing around on TV, the picture of health? Do you see academics heading over there to find out why they live so long, instead of going to do their research in Okinawa? No! It’s because it’s not the cure! For anything!”

“I don’t have a disease, Sarah,” he says, quietly. “I’m dead.”

“In which case, how about I call up my retard housemate’s boyfriend Mister Slaughter, and ask if he’ll give YOU the Taser treatment as well?” I snap. A mental image of Carvery Slaughter with his shirt off arrives uninvited into my mind, which makes me wonder immediately where I could get a hole dug, six feet deep, at short notice. “Because I can assure you, a massive electric shock is more likely to affect your current situation, than my considerably debatable cherry is!”

“You don’t understand,” he moans. “Where do you think all those rumours started? Because it IS the cure for a zombie…”

God, I’ve heard some bad pick-up lines in my time, but this one takes the biscuit. It takes the whole barrel…

“No, it’s not a cure for zombies. It’s a cure for princes, who have been turned into frogs and hideous beasts, by the Brothers Grimm and Hans Christian Anderson,” I correct him. “And those were all fantasy too. Probably to persuade pretty girls to date ugly dudes in the first place.”

“So think of me, as such a cursed prince,” Crispin murmurs. His hand brushes my cheek lightly, rather like the tickle of a falling autumnal leaf.

“I was thinking more along the lines of ‘depraved’ than cursed,” I scoff.

“As a zombie, I assure you that depravity is something I can only aspire to, in my current situation.” He echoes my own words again, in typical NLP brainwashing-style.

“You’re going about this entirely the wrong way, I hope you realise,” I tell him. I move to one side, aiming to get a clear run to the doorway. “What self-respecting woman wants an emasculated hero with a sob-story? Most women would just see the sob-story, and worry that if he was stupid enough to get himself into such a mess in the first place, he isn’t likely to be able to help out if she’s ever in a crisis herself. It’s like guys on dating sites, who don’t drive. They might as well put on their profiles ‘Kicked out by Mother aged forty-seven, needs regular clean laundry and taxi service’.”

Crispin heaves a sigh, and looks at the floor. He knows he’s losing the argument. What an idiot. If he’d only kept the drinks coming, and said a few choice things like “You’re very pretty” and “You smell nice” – this could all be going so differently right now…

I catch myself before I start to feel any sorrow for the poor dead guy, and sidle a little more towards the door. I remind myself that Ace Bumgang is probably still at the Summer Ball, getting himself drunk. He and Carvery Slaughter probably have an entertaining wager on, regarding the outcome of their night.

Which I could be making interesting use of, instead of hanging around this place.

“You are right, Sarah Bellummm,” Crispin agrees at last. “I see I will have to prove myself in many ways, before becoming worthy of your… charms. I will lend you a coat.”

I nod, dignity regained. Before I can turn away, he takes my hand again, gently.

“Before you leave…” he says, and I glance back at him. Something seems to flare in his hypnotically black eyes. “Just one kiss.”

“Sure,” I concede, warily, and offer him my cheek.

He strokes it with a fingertip.

“Not here,” he whispers. “But… here…”

And his fingertip continues to trail, downwards…

Re-cut trailer of the original above – Enjoy 🙂

More mindless mayhem: The Zombie Adventures of Sarah Bellum

Also available for all other devices, and online reading, on Smashwords