If you’d like to see ‘The Zombie Adventures of Sarah Bellum’ featured in The Guardian…

The Zombie Adventures of Sarah Bellum

If you enjoyed The Zombie Adventures… parody novel, which I blogged here chapter by chapter last year (each post written straight off the top of my crazy head) you can now nominate it to be featured in this new Guardian series

Update: Until the end of July 31st 2013, you can download the eBook from Smashwords in their sitewide promotion for free using the promo code SW100

Tomb Bather – Cradle of Afterlife: A Zombie Parody

Prodigy vs. Beastie Boys – Voodoo Sabotage mash-up…

The pink glow becomes red as we take the exit almost on our side, and we remain at an acute angle as the chute becomes a twisting, accelerating helter-skelter downwards, pressing us back into our seats on board the boat.

Just when it seems like the hull is about to disintegrate, screaming in protest, we fly out of the far end, and plop neatly into a still, subterranean pool. The jolt almost knocks us overboard.

The high roof of the cave glimmers with surface reflections from the cool – and thankfully clear – water.

Are we in another Lounge?” Carvery asks, leaning over the side to squint down into the depths. “Looks like it’s seen better days…”

I follow his glance. Far below us, I can see walls and pillars, even broken statues and stone stairways, relegated to an underwater tomb. Small shoals of pale pretty fish dart between the wreckage.

My father did not frequent the Lounges,” Crispin replies, his zombie monotone echoing hollowly around the cave walls. “He was not a man of leisure, and only visited what he knew as the Boardrooms. Where munitions business was conducted.”

Doesn’t seem to have helped these guys,” Ace remarks.

Rumour has it that the Atlanteans declared war on Atum,” Crispin shrugs. “It was foolhardy of them, to say the least. I know my father spent many years trying to analyse their plans, trying to distil what they imagined would work – but of course they never stood a chance. One tiny earthquake, and they vanished without trace.”

Why would they declare war on a god?” I ask, curious.

Atum represents unfinished business in the creation of the world,” Crispin reminds me. “An advanced culture that wants to stay ahead of the game does not want to see progress elsewhere.”

Like running a monopoly,” says Luke, darkly.

Quite, Mr. Lukan.” If Crispin has taken offence at the remark, he doesn’t show it.

It’s rather melancholy, looking down into the ruins of the ancient city. I wonder if there were any undead survivors, and how they would exist for all these centuries…

A flash of silver tail and snake tattoo behind a pillar causes me to choke on my own tongue.

I saw something!” Ace announces, before I can speak. “Like a shark!”

Did I imagine it?

There should not be any danger, Mr. Bumgang,” says Crispin. “But we will have to swim our way out…”

Not more Hermit Squidmorph eggs?” I say, warily.

No, they are not indigenous to this region,” Crispin reassures me. “The mature adults are too big to nest here. They need direct access to the Deep Ocean Trench.”

Gooood,” Homer approves, obviously as relieved as I am.

The best way out is from the feeding sites of the Great Flatulent Clams,” Crispin continues. “They come to filter microbes from the underwater lichens, which is why the water here is so clear. But they return to the shallow seas to convert the dormant chlorophyll to sugars in the sunlight. If we catch them at the right time, we should each be able to hitch a ride out of here.”

Can I be the one to say…” Carvery begins. “…Flatulent?

They continuously emit bubbles of oxygen, Mr. Slaughter,” says Crispin. “Which is how I imagine you will all breathe underwater, without scuba apparatus.”

We exchange looks.

Follow me,” he says, and steps ashore, onto a rocky outcrop.

Nervously, I follow.

There might be no sharks down there… but there might be a harpoon-gun-toting fishtailed-man-babe, whose motives are not as clear as the water is…

Hey,” Luke says, as we pick our way over the rocks, around the perimeter of the cave. “Do you think there is any Atlantean treasure lying around? Anything of archaeological value?”

If there was, I’m betting that the Dry family beat you to it,” Carvery replies. “You’re more likely to find it buried back in that dusty old mansion of Crispin’s, than anywhere here.”

It does look as though what remains of the great city is now just bare stone foundations, and the occasional ruined statue. Not so much as a broken urn or piece of crockery is visible.

I don’t know what Luke was expecting to discover… brass-bound chests? Giant pearls? The kind of thing you see in a dental surgery waiting-room fish-tank… well, the diving-suit would be useful, come to think of it.

We will have to climb the wall here to the next part of the caves,” says Crispin, pointing up towards a narrow gap near the roof, where a rock-fall has divided the underground air-space. “Homer – jump onto my back, and hold on tight.”

Hooome.”

Yes, Homer – eventually…”

The rock wall gives Ace and Carvery no issue at all, and even with Homer piggybacking along in his peacock-blue prom dress, Crispin navigates the handholds deftly. Luke grumbles about the prospect of arthritis.

I’m not as young as I look, you know,” he says, as his slipping foot finds my ear for the second time.

Working legally since 1971?”I remark, recalling the chase across the rooftops of the Eight a.m. Lounge. “From that, I’m guessing you can bend the truth in more ways than one.”

Somehow I keep up, my fingers blistered and bleeding, and crawl after the others through the vertiginous gap, to the far side.

Down there,” Crispin points, to where a slight bubbling is visible on the surface of the water. “We are in luck, Sarah Bellummm – the clams are grazing.”

We scramble back down the rock-fall to the water’s edge. I find myself scanning the depths, looking for any sign of tattooed, silver-tailed merman – imaginary or otherwise…

They are quite safe to approach,” Crispin is saying. “The oxygen is emitted from a clear respiratory tube near the hinge of the shell. You should be able to grip either side. When they decide to move, allow them to lead. They always take the shortest route to the open sea outside.”

As if to demonstrate, Homer wades happily into the shallows, fully-dressed, and disappears beneath the surface.

Okay – at least it doesn’t look as though clothing will be a hindrance this time. I glance regretfully at Ace and Carvery, who have only rolled up their Stetson hats and shoved them into their boots.

Then I swallow the ball of nerves and bile threatening to rise up the back of my throat, and follow Homer into the water.

The weight of my clothes soaking through drags me down easily, and I blink, into depths which are remarkably clear. I can see Homer hugging a great frilled bivalve, and I paddle my way forward to the next, following the trail of bubbles.

The respiratory tube looks remarkably like a snorkel mask, pointing slightly upward of a shell about three feet wide. I find handholds in its ridges, and tentatively move my face near to the tube’s outlet.

I get a shock, as it strikes out, clamping to my face. Suddenly I’m breathing pure air, deep underwater.

Maybe they need the carbon dioxide to activate the chlorophyll in their diet? It’s most bizarre. I feel as though I’ve been attached to an artificial lung…

One by one, I see the others joining us, and just after Crispin enters the water, I feel my ride twitching, and pushing off from the bottom.

Here we go, I think. Should I close my eyes? Kick my legs? No – let them lead, Crispin said…

Homer overtakes me, his fatter mollusc pumping out a jet of water to propel itself through the caves, and we leave the rocky ledge and head deeper.

I can feel my panic rising up again. This can’t be right – not deeper underwater, surely?

What if it’s a trick? What if they’re dragging us back to a nest of hatching Squidmorphs?

Out of the corner of my eye, I swear I see the flash of silver tail again…

We enter a tunnel of pitch darkness, and my fear is now on full Red Alert. I’m already imagining tentacles emerging from every crevice. I shake my sleeve upward a little, so that the glow from the clockwork hand around my wrist gives out some reassuring light to see by.

Even worse, my Flatulent Clam seems to be flagging…

Breathe, I will it along. But it starts to slow to a drift, and worse – the air-flow drops.

Damn! Just my luck to pick one that’s on a diet!

And then I feel it hiccup – with a definite waft of Sloe Gin Sling.

Oh God – I’m the first human to get a Great Flatulent Clam drunk, on my own breathalyser-breath!

I can see daylight at the far end of the tunnel, and both Ace and Homer now way ahead of me. Luke shoots by, a trail of seaweed flying from the side of his buff clam, as it jets past smoothly.

I kick my legs desperately, but then even the adhesion of the respiratory tube fails, and my ride is suddenly a dead weight.

Holding my breath, I have to let it go, and try to swim forward on my own.

Without the clam’s propulsion, it suddenly seems like a very long way indeed. And the enchanted clothes I’m wearing feel like ballast, dragging me down and holding me back. I close my eyes in defeat.

I’ll never make

An arm locks around me abruptly, knocking the last of the air out of my lungs, and I shoot forward once more.

How?? Not – the merman…?

I feel a respiratory tube pushed in front of my face, and take a blessed gulp of air before it moves away. My hand is guided to grasp the back of another clamshell. Has the mysterious merman brought reinforcements…? But as I turn to look at my rescuer, the shock is even greater than that.

Carvery Slaughter??!

I almost cry out all of my precious breath again, and looking irritated, he gives me another slug of oxygen from the respiratory tube. I take one, and push it away quickly, knowing the fate of my last steed to be my fault.

I’m never drinking again…

Fortunately, Carvery’s bivalve is a speedy one, and we quickly exit the tunnel.

A few exchanges of air-supply later, we break the surface of the sea, as the clam arrives at its basking-beds, in the shallows of an idyllic shoreline.

I can’t even look at it, backing away from Carvery in the waist-deep water, in shock.

The word you’re searching for is ‘Thanks’,” he prompts me, pulling his cowboy hat from his boot and straightening it out, shaking the drips off before putting it back on.

What?” I gasp. “You can’t stand me. Why did you save me – again?”

Do you want the honest answer?” he says. “For later. The only set of spare female donor organs we seem to be able to hang onto around here are inside you. Keeping you alive is the best way of keeping them fresh.”

I take it back. I’m going to drink and drink until my organs are pickled…

Good, we all made it,” Crispin’s voice interrupts our awkward stand-off, before I can threaten to tear up my donor card. “We should head inland, where we will be less exposed.”

Exposed to what?” Luke asks. “Where are we?”

Up on the rust-coloured sandy beach already, Ace Bumgang points.

Look,” he says. “The Five a.m. Lounge.”

We all look. On the horizon, the unmistakeable outline of the pyramids are jutting heavenward, like an omen of our future.

The time-line has been corrupted,” Crispin says. “Potentially, we could encounter anything…”

Tomb Raider: Cradle of Life trailer – Enjoy 🙂

More mindless mayhem: The Zombie Adventures of Sarah Bellum

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

Pyganglion: A Zombie Parody

Britney vs. Ke$ha – Piece of Blah Blah Blah mash-up…

“Where are the others?” Ace asks, as we reach the bottom of the steps, heading back up into the giant pyramid shrine aboard the barge.

Carvery shrugs.

“Never touched ‘em,” he grins.

Uh-oh. I wonder if that means the crocodiles have had an early breakfast…

A figure appears at the top of the stairs, silhouetted against the flickering torchlight. The outline of a regal headdress stops my heart dead in its tracks. My kneecaps file against my body for divorce.

“How the Hell did she do that?” Ace gulps. “Next time, I’m bringing ketamine as well…”

The figure takes two paces towards us, and raises an arm imperiously, to point in our direction. I clutch the mechanical clockwork hand to my chest – but it is dormant, no sign of helpful magical activity coming to our rescue from within it at all…

Gooood,” the distant shape groans.

Then trips over its skirts, and falls flat on its face. A very impressive stair-tumble follows, shedding bangles, headddress, pendants, and unravelled silk.

“Homer!” we all shout, as the now semi-naked gray zombie arrives at our feet.

“Ouuuuuch…”

“Well, we know what he’s been up to,” Carvery remarks, as we help the bedraggled, undead transvestite Dry brother to his feet. “Found his mother’s closet again, by the look of it.”

“Do you think we could use this?” Ace suggests, picking up a tail-end of embellished white sari, or toga, or whatever it is. “Seeing as Homer likes to dress up as his mother already. Could be our ticket out of here.”

Home!” cries Homer, and we have to stop him, as he spots the distant bath-tub.

“Risky,” Carvery replies, shaking his head. “The guy can’t stay upright and facing in one direction all at the same time. But I reckon Sarah could do it.”

If my mouth could drop open any further, I’d be obliged to fit it with a manhole cover.

“Cool.” Ace holds out the toga and headdress, towards me. “Get your pyjamas off.”

Again – not the way this fantasy about Ace Bumgang was meant to happen!

“No!” I cry, more in frustration with the way my imaginary future love-life seems to be getting bulldozed at the moment, than in response to the request.

Which, under other circumstances, I’d have no problem with at all…

“Come on, Sarah.” Carvery waves the shotgun in my general direction, gesturing up and down. “It’s not like we haven’t seen it all before. Like, when you’re asleep. Or sending Ace Bumgang pictures of it, playing Draw My Thing online.”

Does this guy stop at nothing??!

“They were good drawings,” Ace nods in agreement. “All I had to do was colour them in.”

“For the last time, it was a picture of a taco!” I nearly scream at him. “Didn’t the clue ‘you eat this’ give you any ideas?”

“Yeah,” he says. “But not food-related ones. And I guessed the letters C and T, remember?”

“Wasting time, Sarah,” Carvery reminds me. “Time in which we might all get eaten, by zombies and crocodiles and stuff.”

He’s right. The zombies at the far end of the great hall by the marble bath-tub are trying to organise themselves, bumping into one another and attempting to haul the black onyx body of their zombie queen, Lady Glandula, out of the water. They’re like honey-bees, prioritising their queen first – luckily for us…

“Okay,” I relent at last. “But you guys have to turn around. No peeking.”

“NOW you don’t want us to look?” Carvery chuckles, as he and Ace, smirking, turn their backs. At least now, they can keep an eye out for danger.

Oh, God, how does this sari-toga thing work? Maybe I could just wrap it around over the pyjamas… but Homer joins in once he sees what I’m doing, flinging the fabric expertly around me, over a shoulder and under and through, pleated here and tucked in there – and in the process, my borrowed pyjamas from Crispin Dry drop discreetly onto the floor.

Phew. No more work for the lawyers of Angelina Jolie and Lara Croft: Tomb Raider at the Mutual Film Company today, then…

And now the bangles and headdress… strange. The bangles have the same sort of surface engravings and gemstones in as the golden clockwork hand. Maybe it was procured to co-ordinate with the queen’s wardrobe, when it was being made in Switzerland?

“You done?” says Carvery Slaughter, and I realise he’s been peeking all along. “Let’s go. Try to act classy. That means – not like a pizza-delivery girl. Or an alcoholic, sexually-frustrated, closet necrophiliac.”

“And Lady Glandula isn’t one, I presume?” I retort.

“Good point,” Ace agrees. “Just march right up there and ask if anyone wants to see your Thing.”

“In a classy accent,” adds Carvery.

“Just you wait, Carvery Slaughter,” I scoff at both of them. “And you, Ace. When we get back – just you wait…”

I turn around, head held high – and with Homer attending carefully to the longer bits of my gown, which would have made Pippa Middleton professionally envious – I start to ascend the grand stairs, back up into the pyramid.

“You know she rolls around naked in the cheese before they put it on your pizza?” I hear Carvery telling Ace, behind me.

…And if I ever find out who invented the idea of keeping a ’secret’ diary, I am going to travel back in time and give them a big piece of my mind…

Restored Audrey Hepburn vocal on ‘My Fair Lady’ version of ‘Pygmalion’ – Enjoy 🙂

More mindless mayhem: The Zombie Adventures of Sarah Bellum

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

The Granulate: A Zombie Parody

Leftfield vs. Prodigy – Poison Inspection mash-up…

“What do we do now?” Luke wants to know. “Are we going to get the treasure back?”

“And the diary?” I add, with more empathy in my voice for poor Mr. Dry Senior than I was expecting. I try not to make eye contact with Carvery Slaughter. “She can’t just go around stealing other people’s diaries for God knows what diabolical reason…”

Crispin Dry nods, gloomily, while his brother Homer wanders off to dance around a hieroglyph-covered pillar – humming to himself, shedding red sequins and the occasional ostrich feather.

“I think you may be right, Sarah Bellummm,” Crispin’s zombie monotone agrees. “That clockwork hand allegedly contains other powers, which if unlocked could permanently alter the fabric of the Universe itself. My father was obsessed with trying to analyse the hand’s potential, as he believed it could cure the curse of the zombies… but in the wrong… hands, he knew that its potential as a weapon would be exploited.”

Homer does a pirouette, and attempts the splits, up against the pillar. It’s like watching an X-rated deleted scene from Michael Jackson’s Thriller.

“So we need a plan,” Luke prompts.

“Don’t look now, Ace,” Carvery remarks. “But I think your bath is ready.”

Two zombies – in the token loincloths and red leather chaps – are approaching from the far side of the huge pyramid shrine, both bearing folded towels, and scattering rose petals.

“Really?” Ace sighs. “That nymphomaniac zombie queen was serious?”

“That’s the Dry dude’s mother you’re talking about!” Luke says, giving him a thump on the arm. “But as I recall – she did mention you needed a wash…”

“Yeah – you’ve got to take one for the team,” Carvery tells him. “Here’s your chance to distract her.”

“Catch her off-guard,” Luke nods in approval. “I like it.”

“It is an idea…” Crispin ponders. “All we need to do is recover the golden hand and the diary while she is – preoccupied.”

“I have a few rules I like to live by,” Ace announces. “Never do a bro’s ho’s, mo’s, or pro’s. Especially if they’re over four thousand years old. No granny fanny. Or tranny fanny. No offence, Homey.”

Ouuuuch…” Homer tries to hang upside-down from the pillar, and collapses head-first, in a heap.

“Come on, fella,” Carvery urges. “She’s not that dusty. And in the bath, you’ll barely notice the squeak. Look at it this way – if you had to choose between her and Sarah, who would you do – if your life depended on it?”

My mouth drops open. The nerve! But a small part of my ego wants to know the answer…

Ace shrugs.

“Good point,” he concedes. “How long do you guys think you’ll need?”

NOT the answer I was hoping for… my shattered ego crawls back under its rock.

The zombies stop in front of us, and indicate for him to join them.

“She may retain the diary close at hand,” Crispin warns. “Keep your eyes peeled.”

“Crispin, the only thing my eyes are going to stay peeled for, is keeping a look out for if she tries to sneak up on me with any Stone Age whips and dildo shit,” Ace tells him. “My job is the distracting. Yours is the snooping around. All right – let’s get this horny bitch-demon seen to.”

And he heads off with the two zombie attendants, shoving one of them aside, as it tries to shower him with rose-petals.

My ego, peering out from under its rock of shame, sees a narrow margin of opportunity.

“I could follow,” I suggest. “And see if I can pick up any clues there, while the rest of you search the surrounding rooms.”

“Pervert,” Carvery mutters.

I’m as mysterious as mud to him, obviously.

“Excellent idea,” Crispin concurs. “We will meet back outside on the main deck of the barge in an hour, should we all become separated.”

An hour? The thought burns into my brain, as I scurry after Ace Bumgang and his zombie escorts. What on Earth will he find to distract the Lady Glandula de Bartheline with, for an hour?

The zombies lead Ace down some more steps, by appearances heading deeper into the bowels of the humungous ship, and along a wide pillared hall. Hundreds of candles illuminate it – on every available surface, and hanging from chandeliers in the ceiling.

I try to stay in the shadow of the pillars as I follow, attempting to keep within earshot. But no conversation occurs between Ace and the zombies, en route.

At the end of the great hall is a mysterious room divided only from the rest by gauzy silk drapes, and beyond the drapes is the biggest sunken marble bath-tub I’ve ever seen.

The water ripples invitingly over the edges, featuring more of those red rose-petals. And the scent of roses, citrus and vanilla is heavy in the moist air, rather like having Turkish Delight forced up your nasal cavity until you start to go unconscious…

The zombies hold aside the silk drapes for Ace to pass through, and emboldened by the patches of shade in the folds of the translucent fabric, I creep closer.

The Lady Glandula appears from the far side, swathed only in a strip of similar silk voile, sari-style, also attended by two zombies.

One of whom has in his possession the leather-bound diary – and the other, the clockwork hand.

So it looks as though she doesn’t plan to let either out of her sight.

“How good of you to join me, Ace Bumgang,” she greets him, in her catlike purr. “Can I offer you a refreshment?”

She gestures towards the bar, flanking the side of the room, where thousands of crystal decanters are displayed, containing a multitude of differently-coloured liquids.

“I’m good, thanks,” says Ace. “I already puked a rainbow this morning.”

“So I see,” she smiles. “I find alcohol such a wonderful disinhibitor of preliminary niceties, don’t you?”

And she drops the scrap of silk sari – another of Angelina Jolie’s Lara Croft impersonators, I note, and scold myself for having enacted such a contrived scene already – and she steps slowly down into the tub. Displaced water gently rolls over the sides and down the shallow lip, like a decadently slow-motion Victoria Falls.

“Mrs. Bartheline, are you trying to seduce me?” Ace asks.

“Is that what you want me to do, Ace Bumgang?” she croons. “Seduce you? I may simply see a man who needs a wash. Join me.”

“All right,” he grunts. “But only because I know you older birds can’t reach your own backs to scrub them…”

And then I nearly scream out loud.

Because a long tentacle whips out of the tub, showering the silk curtain between us with water droplets – and snatches Ace Bumgang off his feet, dragging him bodily into the sunken bath with the zombie monster queen.

“You men always give in so easily,” she smiles, as the tip of the tentacle curls lovingly around Ace’s ear to tickle it.

I notice in perverse horror and revulsion that the alien appendage is covered in rose-petal-shaped, lip-like suckers, which make kissing noises wherever they touch his wet skin. Both of her arms rest along the edge of the tub at her sides, not touching him at all.

“I’m not going to ask what part of you this is attached to,” Ace replies, bracing himself against the marble in turn, as the tentacle tugs him closer. “But you know they do plastic surgery for this sort of thing, if you’re interested. Or Carvery Slaughter will do it for free, after you’ve had a few pints.”

I thought they were making that kind of surgery on women illegal in most of the world now? I struggle to keep my thoughts on track. Concentrate! Focus on the clockwork hand and the diary, Sarah!

The attendant zombies stand like sentinels at the four corners of the room, motionless, going nowhere.

“Just relax and enjoy yourself, Mr. Bumgang,” Lady Glandula continues, in a sing-song tone. The tentacle is making short work of Ace’s clothing. I hope some of those flying buttons land close enough to make it into my Ace Bumgang souvenir box. “Technically, I am a widow now – if that helps.”

“Yes, and your kids are happily playing upstairs too,” Ace agrees, trying to detach a sucker from his left nipple. “I think I’ll take that drink now, if you’re still offering.”

Abruptly, she snaps her fingers at one of the attendant zombies who led us down here, and it turns away to the bar to comply.

I crawl to his former position and hide in a fold of the drapes, hoping for a clearer view… er, of the diary and the golden clockwork hand, of course…

Classic scene from The Graduate (1967) – Enjoy 🙂

More mindless mayhem: The Zombie Adventures of Sarah Bellum

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

Tomb Bather: A Zombie Parody

Reaps007 remix of ‘I Feel Loved’ by Depeche Mode…

“How nice to see you,” the psychopath continues, dripping sarcasm like hydrochloric acid. Which I bet he already keeps stockpiled, in his own bathroom. “Are you still stalking guys, pretending to deliver pizzas for a living?”

“Carvery,” I greet him coldly. “And are you still pretending to be the love of my housemate’s life?”

“You look a little bit worse for wear, Sarah,” Ace Bumgang says, tilting his nearly-full pint glass towards me. “How many have you had so far?”

“Not enough to have my beer goggles on yet,” I answer haughtily.

Even though, confronted by Ace Bumgang and the equally delicious-looking Carvery Slaughter – my forgettably doomed housemate’s current psycho-with-benefits – I feel as though both of my ovaries are racing to hatch the first available egg.

Damn my traitorous hormones! Faced with the two most pheromone-loaded specimens of live masculinity at the University’s Masquerade Summer Ball, my eligible dream zombie Crispin Dry, lurking silently at my side, seems no more than a cardboard cut-out in comparison.

“You could have fooled me,” Carvery cuts in slyly, indicating my companion, on cue.

I wish Crispin would do something to defend my honour, fly into zombie rage action… but he’s too genteel, too eccentric. Edward Scissorhands meets Michael Keaton’s Batman incarnation, without the art of a director like Tim Burton to hold it together. Those ‘fifty shades of gay’ that I suspected earlier are looming again – in contrast to the overwhelming testosterone now evident in the room.

“Seriously,” Ace continues, to my own surprise, with a hint of concern in his voice. “You’re actually drooling, Sarah. It’s kind of creepy. And your right eye is all wandering and squinty. I’m sure you were limping as you walked in. To be fair, I thought it looked like you’d had a stroke. I remember what it was like when my old dear had one. You should go to the hospital, get checked out – if it’s honestly not the alcohol this time.”

“No, I’m fine, really.” I shudder, ignoring my ongoing light-headedness, and the numbness now obvious in my right hip. The hospital is the last place I want to be right now…

“Or maybe your pay-as-you-go date is just more lively in the sack than he looks?” Carvery suggests. “I’ve seen more than a few girls hobbling around and dribbling, after a good session in my company.”

“And the rest are under your floorboards, I imagine?” I reply, trying to match him, snark for snark.

He shakes his head.

“That’s the benefit of having my own paving business,” he smiles nastily. “They’re all under everyone else’s property.”

My mouth drops open, like an unsecured loft hatch. The nerve! He could get sued for use of sub-standard foundation materials… everyone knows that human remains don’t retain their structural integrity, even when buried in concrete…

My voice refuses to co-operate, as some announcement comes over the Conference Hall tannoy, about an imminent World Poverty lecture by Bono from U2, in the main amphitheatre. Partygoers in fancy-dress costume and masks start to gravitate towards the theatre doors.

“Ten minutes have passed, Sarah Bellummm.” Finally! Crispin interrupts, coming to my rescue – like a Speaking Clock in shining armour.

“I’m afraid I will have to leave you, gentlemen,” I say, striking out for the use of courtesy as a weapon. But the way I’m currently slurring, I note it sounds more as though I was declaring my undying love to them both, in drunken Bavaria-dialect German.

At least I have the satisfaction of seeing some disappointment mingled with their repulsion. Although disappointment at what, I’m not sure – depending on what they just heard me say.

“Not staying for a drink, then?” Ace observes, as I link my arm with Crispin once more.

I hesitate.

“Perhaps you’re right,” I say, rebelliously.

I take Ace Bumgang’s pint of Snakebite & Black out of his hand, and down it almost as fast as stand-up comic Billy Stephens. Christ. How does he do that? It feels as though it’s going to whoosh straight out of my ears…

I act as if to hand the empty glass back, letting it slip through my fingers before Ace can grasp it, intending it to smash dramatically on the floor. But I’d forgotten the red carpet laid out especially for the Masked Summer Ball. The pint glass merely bounces, and delivers me a crack on the shin.

Ow…

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Ace queries, sounding even more doubtful.

“Of course,” I retort. “And you shouldn’t be drinking anyway. I’m sure they can find a new Stig to replace you, on Top Gear.”

“Well, would you drive that fast sober?” Ace calls after me, as I turn away, head in the air – now finding out what it’s like to limp with both feet.

I wish I had a clever parting shot to deliver over my shoulder… Jeremy Clarkson would have thought of one… instead I allow Crispin Dry to guide me back down the many steps of the Conference Hall, to the magnificently-decorated, open-air quad outside, still ringing with the sound of the fireworks display. Where I promptly join several Freshers in their celebrations, by throwing up the Snakebite & Black all over my own feet.

*  *  *  *  *

I don’t know how Luke did it, but there is no sign of the night security guard at the gates of the Science block. We hurry through, and I point out the abandoned ambulance by the Anatomy & Physiology Department.

“They must have taken her up to Pathology,” I say. The thought of my housemate being subjected to zombie torture isn’t as terrifying as it had been, just fifteen minutes earlier. Perhaps seeing her current real live psychopath, who attempts to put her through the meat-grinder on a regular basis, has put the thought into subjective context.

She’d probably compare a zombie rampage to having a Swedish Massage, measured up against one of her booty-calls from him.

At least here the electricity is still functioning, unlike at the hospital. We rush past signs directing us to the laboratory, although they’re kind of negated by the trail of blood, and infrequent bits of abandoned zombie.

At last, we find the dissection bay, and burst in.

“Oh, no!” I cry. Both my eyes and mouth are competing with each other, over who wants to be covered up first. “We’re too late…!”

Crispin lurches over to the gurney and puts the Human Tissues box onto the steel counter, suddenly all businesslike and professional. My housemate, Zero-for-Brains (pretty accurate description, right now) is lying there with all her incisions exposed, and bloodied instruments scattered around, some of them still half-inside her like a game of Operation.

The zombies themselves have apparently long gone…

“It is just a matter of replacing the components in the right order,” says Crispin, the epitome of calm confidence. “And not crossing the streams.”

“Not crossing the what?” I ask, bewildered. So much gore – it can’t be possible…

“The bloodstreams, Sarah Bellummm,” says Crispin. “You have to ensure that you don’t confuse the veins and the arteries.”

“I knew that,” I snap, irritated, wondering why I’m suddenly craving giant marshmallows. “You insert, and I’ll stitch up.”

We work feverishly. Or maybe I just work feverishly. Crispin works methodically, as if servicing and replenishing any old vending machine. In due course, we have a complete and watertight cadaver on the gurney between us. A cadaver that used to be my housemate. My best friend. Aaargh! I’ll have to think of a pet-name for her. This is ridiculous.

“Well?” I say. “How do we wake her up?”

Crispin stares at me, with his inky black eyes.

“Oh,” he says, crestfallen. “You wanted her alive?”

“Of course ALIVE!” I yell. “What do we have to do? Invoke a special god? Say some magic words? Take her to a forbidden temple? Sacrifice an illegal immigrant? Tell me how we bring her back to life, dammit!”

“I can do that,” interrupts a sardonic voice, and the evil outline of Carvery Slaughter appears in the doorway. “Wondered where you had to be in such a hurry.”

He saunters in, the laboratory spotlights glistening off his hard, unyielding musculature. Oh boy. Would I sperm-jack him… Posthumously, of course. After I’d bumped him off, and figured out how to dispose of the body.

“So,” he continues, looking impassively down at the shape of his hitherto punch-bag. At least most of the swelling has gone down, since being shanghaied and pillaged by zombies. She’s barely recognisable from how I usually see her, except for being black-and-blue still. “What trouble did Wank-Tits get herself into this time?”

Phew. At least it’s not just me, who never remembers her real name.

“She became a live organ-donor,” I say, scowling at Crispin, who has the sense to look suitably pensive. “We’ve fixed her up, but I don’t know how to re-animate her. I only perform on dead people.”

“Yeah, I had heard that about you,” Carvery sighs, and peels up one of Miss Numb Nut’s eyelids. “Yeah, it’s not too late. I have to carry one of these. Girls conk out on me all the time. It’s a tough life, being such a stud.”

He walks around to the foot of the gurney, and takes out a Taser. I’m just quick enough to leap away from the metal trolley, as he stabs the contacts into the sole of her foot.

Her whole body arches off the trolley. After a few seconds, the psychopath disconnects the current, and she slams back down again, scattering the remaining instruments.

After what seems like a millennium, she suddenly takes a long, shuddering breath.

“She’s alive!” I cry, relief flooding through me, like the effect of mild bladder weakness on the underpants.

“Yay,” says Carvery Slaughter, deadpan. He twirls the Taser in his hand, and puts it away again.

Crispin takes the professional attitude. He prods her shoulder.

“Can you open your eyes, Miss…?” He looks at me for a prompt. Carvery and I exchange a look, and both shrug.

“My eyes are open,” she mumbles. Phew. At least she can still talk. That tongue was very fiddly to insert.

“I think you have your eyes wide shut at the moment, Miss,” Crispin confirms. “Can you tell me your name?”

We all lean in, hopefully.

“Er…” Fuck. Maybe that was too much to hope for. “My boyfriend… I think he knows. Something beginning with N… Nim… Nymph… I think it might be Nymphette…”

“Nympho,” Carvery corrects her. “But only if you’re good, then I call you Nympho.”

She bolts upright on the trolley, tears streaming down her face, her bloodstained arms outstretched.

“Carver!” she cries. “I knew you’d come to my res… res… resuscitation…”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles, and helps her off the trolley. “Come on, Punk. I’ll take you home. Unless you want to come back to the party with me first. You make a good Autopsy costume impression, in your current state…”

“Punk…?” I query, wondering if it’s something I’d recognise as printed on our tenancy agreement. “Is that an abbreviation?”

“Short for Pumpkin, I guess,” Carvery tells me. “Because usually she looks like one, if you get my drift.”

With an unpleasantly meaningful wink, which puts thoughts into my head of both sex and shovels, he leads her out. I hear her apologising to him for being so useless as usual, as their footsteps fade away down the passage.

“We should go too, Sarah Bellummm,” Crispin says, interrupting my thoughts of sperm-jacking and justice.

Dumbly, I nod. Maybe there’ll be another Gin Sling in it for me tonight, after all.

*  *  *  *  *

Luke, the taxi-driver, meets us outside.

“Back to the hospital,” Crispin orders. “My Cadillac is there.”

“Sure thing,” Luke nods.

“What happened with the security guards?” I ask. We go over a speed-bump leaving the Science block, and I hear a thud and a knocking sound coming from the trunk. “Is your car all right? It’s making a bit of a funny noise back here…”

“I just pretended to need a little roadside assistance,” Luke chuckles. “They were very co-operative. I didn’t even need to use the force.”

*  *  *  *  *

The zombies had moved on from the hospital car-park, so we were able to retrieve the Caddy easily, and drive back to Crispin Dry’s mansion, in silence. My Pizza Heaven scooter is still where I left it, on the palatial driveway.

He turns to me, and sighs. It has been a long night.

“Can I offer you a nightcap, Sarah Bellummm?” Crispin says quietly.

“Thought you’d never ask!” I leap promptly out of the passenger door. I’m parched.

“You can use the bathroom and shower, if you wish,” he says, as we enter the huge abode. I look down at my housemate’s blood all over my work uniform. Good point. Some of this might be infectious. “I will make the drinks.”

There is a large gold-and-marble en-suite bathroom in an apartment on the first floor. I scrub my skin all over with a loofah until I am bright red, then turn the water to cold and wait until I am pale blue.

Hopefully nothing serious could survive that. I wonder if I should get myself checked for radiation at the Physics department as well tomorrow, just in case. You never know what else Twat-Face might be carrying, a little voice says in my head.

I emerge from the shower in a white towel. Strange. My uniform isn’t where I left it. I head out of the bathroom, into the bedroom of the luxurious suite of rooms.

“I put your uniform in the incinerator,” Crispin greets me apologetically. Thank goodness, he is standing there with a tray of drinks. I grab the nearest glass and knock the contents back in one, before reaching for the second. “Only your underwear was free of bloodstains. I can lend you some clean ones belonging to my household staff, along with some other clothes…”

“No thanks,” I say, plonking the second empty hi-ball glass back on the tray. “I don’t think I want to wear any of your other tarts’ trophy knickers.”

I turn away, summoning all of my pride, and hear him gasp as I drop the towel on the floor dismissively, in a blatant impersonation of Angelina Jolie in Lara Croft: Tomb Raider. Even though she didn’t win an Oscar for that one, it’s still one of her most-Googled scenes. Hah! He’s not immune to my charms either, then…

I give him a triumphant glance over my shoulder, before striding over to the bed, and reaching for my own underwear.

The effect is completely ruined, when his pet cockerel runs flapping across the duvet. Meaning I have to spend the next hour and forty-five minutes chasing it around the suite, while it panics, the gusset of my knickers wrapped around its leg.

The original above (excerpt). Enjoy (if you can, in such a short space of time!) 😉

More mindless mayhem: The Zombie Adventures of Sarah Bellum

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

50 Shades of Gray Matter: A Zombie Parody ~ Chapter One (Extended)

I look in the mirror. I do it every day. Pretty much most people look in the mirror every day.

I see a girl. That’s a relief. A girl with hair, two eyes, a nose, one mouth, and as I push the hair back as I’m brushing it to check – yes, still got two ears. Phew.

My housemate, whose name escapes me most days, has forced me into this, the reason I’m awake and brushing my hair at the ungodly hour of ten a.m. How dare she go for her abortion today, and pack me off instead to do her media studies homework? Couldn’t she have had her termination some other time?

I have to go and interview some vending-machine business mogul. The company is called Dry Goods, Inc, and the owner, Crispin Dry, supplies our University with all of its vending machines. He’s notoriously hard to get appointments with. When you ring his office, you have to press so many buttons on the phone to finally get through – only to be told that your selection is no longer available, and to choose an alternative.

Miss Whatsername, my housemate, says that she’s got to get this interview for the University paper. I don’t know why, they only use it to wrap take-out cartons in the refectory. Maybe it’s to promote a new drinks machine range.

So I’m having to forgo my weekly visits to the body farm and the morgue for my own research project. I don’t even know if I’ll be back in time for work later.

She’s going to owe me big-time for this. If I don’t get to see a corpse this week, I don’t know what I’ll do. There’s one I’m rather fond of in a wheelie bin under a silver birch tree at the body farm, where I like to sit and eat my sandwiches. He’ll have changed so much the next time I see him…

I leave Whatserface, my best friend, packing her nightdress for the clinic.

“Good luck!” says Thingummyjig, as I head out. “Make it a good interview!”

“I’ll bring you back some sanitary towels,” I concede, and slam the front door.

*  *  *  *  *

It’s a long drive to Seaford West Industrial Estate, but luckily I have my father’s trusty bullet-proof Hummer in which to navigate the rain-soaked roads. I don’t think my Pizza Heaven scooter would have made it. When I put my books in the insulated top-box, it always skids over in the wet. And sometimes nasty people put other things in there, when I’m doing a delivery.

Dry Goods House is a huge monolith of connected storage containers, converted into offices on the seafront industrial park, an illegal immigrant’s dream. Mirrored glass windows inserted into the corrugated steel keep out any prying eyes.

The revolving doors swish as I enter the Customer Enquiries lobby. A brain-dead-looking blonde is sitting at the stainless surgical steel counter.

“I’m here to see Mr. Crispin Dry,” I announce. “I’m Sarah Bellum. Miss Thing from the University sent me.”

“I’ll text him,” says Miss Brain-Dead, picking up her phone. “Have a seat.”

She eyes me as I sit down on the plastic chair between two vending machines, one for hot drinks, the other for snacks. I feel over-dressed. Maybe stealing my housemate’s Christian Louboutin studded Pigalle pumps and Chanel suit had been taking it too far. The receptionist looks cool and comfortable, in turquoise blue overalls and a neon yellow hi-visibility industrial vest.

“He’s on his way down,” she says, after a moment. She reaches under the desk. “You’ll have to put this on.”

I get up again to accept the hi-visibility yellow vest she hands me, which has VISITOR stencilled on the back. I pull it on grudgingly over my borrowed Chanel.

The adjoining door creaks, and I turn, still adjusting my Velcro.

I know, the moment I see him.

The black suit. The pallor of his skin. The attractively tousled, unkempt bed-hair. The drool. That limp… oh, God, that limp…!

“Crispin Dry?” My voice catches in my throat.

“Miss… Bellllummmm,” he moans softly, extending a dirt-encrusted hand.

My heart palpitates wildly, noting his ragged cuticles, and the long, gray, prehensile fingers.

“My housemate,” I begin. “Miss Shitface – she couldn’t make it today. Got the uterine bailiffs in…”

I grasp his outstretched hand in greeting. So cold… and yet so mobile… a tingle crawls deliciously up my forearm, and I snatch my hand away quickly, scared of showing myself up. His jet-black eyes glitter, equally cold, and his upper lip seems to curl in the faintest suggestion of a smirk. Or is it my imagination?

“Were you offered a refreshment, Miss Bellumm?” He gestures towards the famous vending machines.

I shake my head, and he turns to glare at the receptionist. She cowers visibly, and I’m sure I hear him emit a long, low, guttural sound. The receptionist scrabbles in her drawer and holds out a handful of coin-shaped metal tokens.

“I’m fine, really…” I croak, although in all honesty, my throat does feel terribly dry.

“Very wellll…”

My knees feel weak as he holds the door open, and beckons, his head at a quirked angle.

“This way, Miss… Bellummm.”

How he rolls my name around his mouth makes my own feel drier than ever. I stumble hazily through into the corridor, hearing the door creak closed again behind me, and the shuffling, shambling sound of his footfalls in my wake.

“Straight ahead, Miss Bellumm.”

His voice is like sandpaper being rasped over a headstone. It tickles my inner ear and the back of my throat, sends chills down my vertebrae. It resonates with my deepest darkest thoughts.

Things I had not even entertained notions of while eating sandwiches under the silver birch tree, beside my dear Mr. Wheelie-Bin…

His arm extends past me to swipe his security card in the lock of the next door, and a waft of his moss-like scent washes over my strangely heightened senses.

“Go through, Miss Bellumm,” he practically whispers in my ear.

The door clicks open, and I step through. Murky grey daylight filters through the tinted windows from the seafront, and I gasp. Another brain-dead blonde is banging her head repeatedly on the steel wall, not three feet away from the door.

“Debbie,” Mr. Dry says. Is that a tinge of disappointment, or disapproval in his voice? “Take Miss Bellum’s coat. You will not need the yellow site vest either while you are with me, Miss Bellumm.”

Debbie turns to look at us, her flat bleached-out bloodshot eyes registering nothing. She holds out her arms to accept the navy-blue Chanel and hi-visibility vest as I shrug them off, feeling exposed now in my Andy Warhol Marilyn Monroe t-shirt. Miss Brain-Dead Mark II takes my jacket with a soft grunt, but goes nowhere, turning back to face the wall instead, contemplating the smear where her head had been rebounding off it just a moment before.

Crispin Dry takes my arm to steer me past, the unexpected contact eliciting another gasp from me. Those long, cold, prehensile fingers, closing around the soft warm flesh of my tricep…! I trip along the next corridor, trying to keep pace with his rolling, loping gait, like that of a wounded panther.

“My office…” he hisses, swiping his security pass a second time, and ushering me through.

It is black. Everything is black, from the desk, to the leather seating, to the vertical blinds. The only colour in the room is a giant white canvas, on the wall facing the long window, upon which a modern meditation in red is represented.

“You like my art, Miss Bellummm?” he murmurs, seeing my open gape at the piece.

“It’s yours?” Wow – now I’m really intimidated. The only art I see is on custom car bodywork when passing the breaker’s yard, hoping to catch a glimpse of the fit mechanic. “It’s beautiful…”

“I call this one… ‘High-Velocity Spatter’,” he confides in a husky voice. “Sit.”

I plant my quivering haunches onto the soft leather, and start to take out my notes. The only sound otherwise in his office is the eerie call of gulls, from the windswept pebble beach outside.

Crispin Dry watches me, calculatingly. He circles around the sofa opposite, not yet seated.

“Would you like something to drink, Sarah Bellumm?” He moves languidly towards the huge, black, state-of-the-art vending machine in the corner.

The sound of my full name on his lips is like the opening of a beautiful white lily…

“I am a little parched,” I admit. “Yes, please, Mr. Dry. Thank you.”

“What would you like?” His hand hovers over the illuminated keypad. “Tea, coffee, hot chocolate? Iced water? Chicken soup? Gin and tonic? Bubblegum? Breath mints?”

Mmmm – a vending machine with everything!

“A chicken soup would be lovely,” I hear myself say, and my stomach grumbles in agreement, recalling the last slice of cold Pizza Heaven pizza I ate for breakfast, many hours ago.

“Chicken noodle, chicken and sweetcorn, Thai chicken and lemongrass…?”

“Yes please – the last one…”

I watch as his clever fingers dance over the keys. There is the faintest hum from the machine. In a trice, a large fine china mug appears, steaming, on its own saucer, garnished with fresh chives and coriander. There is even the traditional porcelain soup-spoon on the side, intricately decorated.

I wonder what sort of businesses he supplies this particular machine to. All that the University ones dispense, is various colours and temperatures of pond-water à la Styrofoam. We must be at the very bottom of their budget range.

He brings it to the low onyx table in front of me, and presents it with the gallant flourish of a red napkin. Something of the gesture, and the way he arranges himself laconically on the sofa opposite, makes my heart sink slightly.

Oh no. He’s so gay…the way he’s fidgeting his earlobe in that I’m-ready-to-listen way and stroking his knee with his other hand – that’s at least fifty shades of gay…

I struggle to focus on the list of questions that Knobhead has written out for me. I’m starting to worry that maybe I won’t enjoy finding out the answers to some of them.

“It’s very hot,” he says, in a warning tone. It startles me.

“Hmmm?” Am I always this jumpy?

“The soup, Miss Bellummm.” His mouth twitches in the corner, and his black eyes crinkle slightly. It’s as if he can see into the dark shadows at the back of my own mind.

“I can get started with the questions while it cools down,” I say, brightly, batting away the shadows in my head at his curt nod. Definitely gay. I look down at the sheet of paper. “Now… the first question. Is it true that you employ foreign child labour in the construction of your vending machines?”

“No.” The answer is as cold as ice, and as solid. “There are other ways of manufacturing our machines to a budget that is mutually beneficial, to the product consumers, and the workforce.”

“Right…” I scribble this down, in my best pizza-order shorthand. “And is it also true that you sub-contract your perishable goods supplies, for human consumption, out to companies who deal in black market foodstuffs and out-of-date stock?”

“Our sub-contractors are fully vetted,” he assures me. “If any sub-standard products are finding their way into my machines, it is usually the fault of the site owners, outsourcing to cut-price vandals who access the machines without our endorsement. Quality control is of paramount importance in this business.”

The aroma drifting up from the soup is certainly backing up his argument. But still…

“Are you saying that the recorded cases of food poisoning at Cramps University, and at other sites, is the faculty’s fault?” I ask.

“I am not saying anything, Miss Bellumm,” he muses, his eyes still faintly entertained, his head still quirked. “But you are, it seems.”

I stare down at the page. Twat. That last question was me, my stupid mouth running away with me. Not one of Miss Fucktard’s questions at all. Double twat.

“Moving on,” I say swiftly, aware that his eyes are mentally dismembering me. I look at question number three. “How do you explain your current one thousand percent increase in profits in the current financial climate, Mr. Dry?”

“With excellent book-keeping.”

I look up at him, uncertain whether this is merely a stab at humour. He is still lounging on the sofa, the jet black of his eyes resting on me steadily. My own eyes follow the line of his jaw, and the rumpled Bohemian mane of hair, still intact. His square shoulders in that black suit make me feel weak. What’s wrong with you, girl? He’s still walking around and talking! You’d be bored sick of him within minutes, same as all the others…

I press on with the questions, covering the various charges of tax evasion, pollution, carbon footprint, and illegal immigration, and he has a cool answer for every single one. I’m relieved to turn the page, and find the closing questions are brief.

“…Finally, Mr. Dry. Can you tell me your favourite colour?”

He indicates the décor of the office.

“Black,” he confirms. “With a little fetish for red, occasionally. And sometimes…”

His face darkens. He looks away.

“White?” I suggest, thinking of the painting.

“When black meets white, there is a certain shade – a very delicate and vulnerable shade – that illustrates humanity in its most primitive state.”

“You mean gr…”

He puts his finger to his lips.

“Best left unspoken.” Those black eyes burrow into my head. “A colour for the mind. Not for the lips. Only… under very special circumstances… should the matter pass the lips.”

He’s bonkers. Just what we need right now. Another gay eccentric. I return to the final questions.

“And what music do you listen to?”

“Soul.”

“And last question. What car do you drive?”

“I have a number of cars, all black, and a chauffeur, who drives very sedately. You must allow me to take you on a tour of the rest of my complex some time. I may have an opening for a new PR girl soon.”

Outside the window behind him, something turquoise blue and neon yellow crashes wetly onto the pebble beach from above. Without looking around, he produces a remote control, and closes the vertical blinds. Automatic halogen lights phase on overhead, so there is no change in illumination inside the office.

“Thank you, Mr. Dry.” I’m on my feet in that instant, suddenly wary of being in an enclosed office alone with him. Those dark shadows have all sprung to attention in the back of my mind, at the closing of those blinds. “You have been very accommodating, but really I mustn’t keep you any longer.”

“Indeed?” he asks in turn, rising out of his seat. For the first time I notice how tall and manly he is… was, I correct myself angrily. “Keep me for what purpose, I wonder?”

So arrogant!

I just nod, blushing fiercely, and head for the door.

“I will have to show you out,” he reminds me, taking out the security pass again, and lurching forward to accompany me. “It has been a pleasure, Miss Belllummm.”

His voice is driving me crazy. And his hand on my arm again, guiding me out of the door and into the corridor. I practically scamper ahead, snatching my coat back from Brain-Dead Blonde Mark II.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Dry,” I say, back in the near-safety of the lobby. There is no sign of Brain-Dead Blonde the receptionist, and I can’t wait to get away. “It has been very educational.”

“I’m sure it will be,” he agrees, with a courteous nod. “Au revoir, Miss Belllummm.”

I run to the Hummer in my pointy Pigalle pumps, and lock myself in. I can see gulls flocking to the spot on the beach outside his office, on the far side of the building.

Those shadows in my head – I fight to control them. How dare he hijack my fantasies, my pure and innocent thoughts of the dead? How dare he make a mockery of it all by walking around in broad daylight and touching me??! There ought to be a law against that sort of thing…

As I drive home again, all I can see through the rain bouncing off the road in front of me, is his gray and amused, sardonic and demonically attractive face.

See the movie ‘Secretary’ (trailer above) for the original Mr. Grey, if copyright law is what lights your candle… and you may find a few more movie tributes, amongst those in the following zombie parody… 🙂

To read on, see the opening chapter ‘Filthy Shavings of Gray Matter’ in The Zombie Adventures of Sarah Bellum:

The Zombie Adventures of Sarah Bellum

Available on Amazon Kindle worldwide – click for Amazon.co.uk, Amazon.ca or Amazon.com

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

~ Only 77p (0.99c) ~