Sadie Walker Is Stranded Read online

  If it wasn’t fucking zombies in the woods or zombies in the water, it was zombies on the dock. I have had it with these motherfucking zombies on this motherfucking island. Despicable reference aside, I think I’d really actually deal with snakes on a plane than a zombie period.

  It became a sort of morbid dance—Danielle jumping up and down frantically, squealing while Andrea ripped at the rod and I switched from the scrabbling, bony hands to the now emerging skull, more or less curb stomping the thing while trying not to die from the pain shooting up my leg. Fear and pain mixed, firing up my heart rate until that was painful too. And the hook dislodged, helpfully, allowing Danielle and Andrea to reel back, nearly toppling off the other side of the dock as they were suddenly let free. All in all it involved an embarrassing amount of shrieking and ended with the work boot splattered in goo, shards of skull imbedded in the all-terrain treads.

  Breathless, in agony, still doing internal somersaults from sheer shock, I hardly registered when Whelan and Nate came thundering up the dock together to see what all the commotion was about. I’m told they found me sitting on the ground, shaking, staring blankly at the destroyed head still on the dock and the arms and legs of the zombie twitching as its gray matter dripped down off my boot.

  “I think I ruined these boots,” is the first thing I remember saying. Spilled coffee seeped into the wood near my hand.

  “Aaand up we go,” Whelan mumbled, pulling me up by the armpits. “If I didn’t know better,” he said in a private undertone, slinging an arm under my shoulders and helping me hobble down the planks toward shore, “I’d say you were trying to keep those feet mangled just to have a reason to shove them in my face.”

  “There will be no shoving, sir,” I whimpered, “no shoving of any kind.”

  “Tender feets?”

  “Mildly put, yes.”

  “Thank you for helping Danielle,” he said. The hand against my right side squeezed in a sort of hug. The volcanic level of heat radiating off of his body was number three on my list of priorities, right after ouch and yeesh.

  “It was my pleasure,” I wheezed.

  “Yeah, I know it wasn’t. You didn’t have to do that.” His arm slid lower, to my hip, squeezing me there too.

  “Yes,” I said, losing sensation in my right foot. “I did.”

  FIFTEEN

  Submitting to bed rest must be what a decorative throw-pillow feels like.

  People start to treat you like vaguely amusing scenery. Oh, look, the settee is talking again! Which summarizes most of the next day—I wasn’t allowed to move much, my right foot banished of all footwear except for Whelan’s expertly applied bandages. I had at least one victory to gloat about—I had sworn not to end up carried in his arms again and had returned to the cabin on my own two feet. Hobbling on them, sure, but upright, which is the important part. (I maintain that the piggyback ride he gave me through the woods was spent on his shoulders and therefore does not technically qualify as being carried.)

  Andrea helped me move from the cabin to the dreary, overcast clearing to stand with the others while they put what was left of Cassandra into a shallow grave. Whelan had been saddled with the unpleasant task of removing her head from her skeleton, a paranoid but thoughtful measure to make sure Cassandra didn’t rise again. Danielle assured us it was Cassie—she recognized a few scraps of pink T-shirt and insisted this was evidence enough. It was good enough for the rest of us, who didn’t want to admit that there was too little left to make an accurate identification.

  Danielle did most of the talking, telling us that Cassandra was shy and troubled, but loved children. Nothing was said about the grisly way in which she had gone or her possible motivations for going all Human Torch on the food bin. I suggested we bury her carpet bag and old bloody scrubs with her but Whelan wasn’t thrilled about the idea of letting anything, even dirty old clothes, go to waste.

  Everyone threw a bit of sand onto her corpse and waited while Nate and Whelan refilled the grave. Shane clung to my hand, giving a short pull. When I glanced down he was staring fixedly at the tree line. Then he pointed, indicating a moving shape in the canopy of trees. It was too dark to make out, but the lumbering stance made me think our watchers were already dead. Why they didn’t leave the safety of the woods and come for us left me shifty and nervous. It wasn’t like a zombie to pass up a chance at a meal. We were armed and could’ve easily defended ourselves, but still … why wait like that?

  Whelan seemed to shrink when I explained later what I’d seen. “I’ll take a second watch,” he said, “I’m not sure what else we can do.”

  The rest of that cruddy day was devoted to restocking the fish and clam supply. But we were having bad luck—first with Danielle’s unfortunate catch and then with a general lack of fish altogether. Whelan made assurances that it would get better and that if it didn’t he would take the rifle into the forest and rustle up some game. It was odd, I decided, to be taken care of. I wasn’t used to that. When it was just me out on my own I looked after myself, and then after The Outbreak it was me looking after Shane until Carl came along. It made all those organizations, all those whacko clubs and factions that sprung up more understandable. The Repops were crazy town, but I’m sure the feeling of a shared purpose made surviving each day easier. The few churches left standing in Seattle were flooded every Sunday, and other denominations not lucky enough to have a physical building would congregate in empty lots and pray over a shabby wooden cross or simply stand in a circle holding hands and praying. Having someone reliable and capable there to take charge and declare that everything would be all right made it seem, improbably, like it really would be. And quite possibly Shane thought of me that way. Oh lordy—no pressure.

  Staring at the mounding sand and dirt, sand and dirt that soon turned into a legitimate grave site, I remembered that first instance of not-giving-a-fuckitis. It’s a common condition these days, the morose but ultimately numb sensation of just not caring. You know you should, you know that the mound in front of you holds a dead human body and that tears should be screaming down your face like coaster cars down Wild Thing, but they’re not. And you don’t know why. And it’s jarring and then flat-out scary. I didn’t know Cassandra. Pretending I did, pretending I knew more beyond “she was a nurse and she liked kids and had a thousand-yard stare” would be a lie. Everyone there, except Danielle, was feeling it too. Shane was the next closest to showing some raw empathy, but I suspect that’s only because of his uncanny ability to look severe and reflective at even the most lighthearted of moments.

  Shiff, sheef, shiff … Sand and dirt, then the thump of the shovels flattening and compacting the earth. Nothing. Not a single tear, and this coming from the person that still, as an adult woman, cried every single time she watched Homeward Bound. I swear I’m not callow, none of us are, but we had all seen so many strangers and brief acquaintances go to their doom that it just didn’t strike anymore. Heart strings that were once catgut are now hardened iron and you began to wonder just what it would take to make you human and emotional again.

  Survival 101: If the random schlub beside you bites it, don’t stop to weep, just keep running.

  In the end, I just hoped nothing did happen to trigger those long-lost real, hot tears. Seeing those figures hovering on the fringes of the forest renewed something, revitalized a part of me that forgot the fight was twenty-four/seven. With Shane in hand I turned, left the others, and stalked back to the huts on throbbing feet. I needed to make more arrows for the bow. Shit, I needed to learn to actually get good with it. I needed to teach Shane to survive, really survive, not learn by watching some bumbling nincompoop take advantage of luck and chance. So I plopped us down in front of the fire and showed him how to make arrows. Yes, logically I understand that teaching an eight-year-old to make projectiles probably violates some innate rule of parenting, and that he shouldn’t be handling knives or crossing the street alone or fucking breathing without supervision, but too much complacency, too
much inactivity bred the sort of unprepared meatbags that were bound to end up zombie fodder.

  I explained as much to Shane, in politer terms, of course.

  “Survival, Shane,” I said in closing. “That’s what we’re here for. It’s not a game, it’s not a vacation.” Oh God, I was beginning to sound like all those annoying reality TV bobbleheads I had heard shriek “I’m not here to make friends!!!” over and over again, as if that were a good thing.

  “And we can make friends,” I said, just in case. “Friends are fine. But you and I getting through this? That’s the most important thing. Survival. Say it back to me.”

  He nodded. Fair enough.

  “You sure that’s all?”

  Long, imposing shadow. Shit-eating, self-amused tone. Whelan. The sky was just bright enough to make squinting up at him painful. He crossed his arms over his SPD polo, a fresh one and this one white, sweat ringing the crumpled collar from digging and filling Cassandra’s grave. Somebody explain to me why those over the chest gun holster things are so damn attractive. I don’t get it, but I do have to feel the effects. I hadn’t seen Whelan with it before, but maybe three disappearances and/or deaths had planted a seed of paranoia.

  “Please,” I said, lifting a skeptical brow, “regale us with your folksy cop wisdom.”

  “No, hey, don’t let me interrupt.” He turned, idling with one toe digging into the sand. “Though I could teach you to shoot … Maybe show Shane too.”

  “I am not letting you teach an eight-year-old to handle a firearm.”

  But Shane had already hopped to his feet, scattering the half-finished arrows in his lap and sending them tumbling into the fire. Ouch.

  “Shane!” Gah. I hate scoldy voice, but apparently even legal guardians develop it. “Watch what you’re doing!”

  Shane frowned, taking one tiny, irritating step toward Whelan. Fine. Great. Throw your hat in with Officer Jackass and make me look like a fussy killjoy. Carefully—deliberately—I put my bundle of arrows on the ground, making a big show of it to … I don’t know, make a belabored point or something. Already Whelan was leading Shane away, adding another layer to the betrayal, acting as if he didn’t need my permission or supervision to hang out with my—my sister’s—kid.

  “I’m coming,” I said, trundling along with all the grace of a three-legged elephant.

  “Of course you are.”

  Smug! Smug, smug, smug. And for what? For knowing how to shoot a gun? Of course he could shoot a gun. What else is a fucking cop good for? That’s what they do. The recriminations went on and on in my head, building speed and bitterness there because giving voice to them would prove just how deep Whelan’s talent for pushing my buttons went.

  Whelan took us back to the clearing, my mangled feet and stuttering gait meaning I had the very bad luck of falling behind, putting me at the perfect vantage to get a glimpse of Whelan’s backside in khaki pants that were, in my opinion, much too fitted for island wear. Just seeing him show Shane how to position himself twisted a bundle of nerves in my stomach. And then when he handed him a gun … It just looked huge, comically so, and terrifying, as if the recoil would rip Shane’s little arm right out of its socket.

  “He’s going to be fine,” Whelan said, kneeling behind Shane and steadying him.

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “Yeah, but you were thinking it.”

  “What do you want me to do? He’s eight. Jesus Christ, my sister would disembowel me with her bare hands if she could see this…”

  Shane glanced over his shoulder and Whelan’s, too, giving me one of those long, menacing stares, one that was way too cold for his age. It all looked disturbingly out of whack, Whelan’s huge hands on Shane’s shoulders, the gun that looked heavy enough to make Shane tip right over onto his side. I found myself bunching up, twisting inward, bracing for the first shot. But Whelan went on and on, explaining every single part on the gun, its purpose, how to handle it, what to expect. And when the firing finally started, Whelan stayed there the entire time, his finger over Shane’s, his arms still supporting the brunt of the weight and taking most of the recoil.

  And after the first loud pop, Shane exploded with giddy, nervous laughter. He looked up at me and smiled. Smiled! That made it not so hard to ignore the stinging in my feet, to stand when I wanted to sit, to stay quiet while Whelan did his thing and showed his expertise and took Shane under his wing with the kind of male influence I knew I was never very good at giving. I could show Shane comic books and even knew the basics of throwing a football or explaining checkers, but that didn’t seem to replace the missing ingredient that had been his father. Maybe if he hadn’t known his parents at all filling both roles would have been easier for me. But here it was, like the last piece of a puzzle, discovered under a shoe on the carpet, missing but not really gone.

  Heaven help me, I was going to get emotional.

  “Any questions?” Whelan asked, taking the gun from Shane and standing. The smell of gunpowder and sweat hung around us like a fog.

  “Ever fired your gun whilst jumping through the air?” I asked.

  “That’s a joke, right?”

  Shane giggled. Oh, God, this was like a real thing now, Shane could actually laugh! Display merriment! Let go. It was almost too good to believe. And yes, showing Hot Fuzz to a child is probably negligent parenting and could get him booted over to child services or something—if it still existed—but he asked to see it, repeatedly, and not many DVDs survived the carnage. He’d only ever seen it on a little handheld video screen, but at least it was something.

  “What’s so funny?” Whelan asked, watching as Shane and I dissolved into a fit of laughter together.

  “A cop who doesn’t watch cop movies?”

  “I hate cop movies,” Whelan muttered, holstering the pistol Shane had been using. And again with the chest holster. I looked at the sand. “They never get any of it right.”

  “So that’s a no, then? To the firing a gun whilst jumping through the air?”

  Shane stared up at Whelan, teetering on his heels, his lower lip tucked under his teeth. The poor kid’s life was practically hinging on the answer.

  Smiling, Whelan shrugged and patted the gun locked safely in its cradle. “I never said that, did I?”

  Whether I liked it or not, I was going to be seeing a lot more of Shane and Whelan together. With that one little clever response, the man had become Shane’s hero. Mine, too, to be honest, if he was telling the truth. And even if he wasn’t, Shane was enamored.

  Before I could explain to Shane that Whelan was probably just being silly and that it was nothing to get worked up over, Andrea was banging away on a pot, signaling lunch. Shane scampered off, a cloud of sand kicking up in his wake. I hadn’t seen him that excited since before The Outbreak … when he still had parents … when he didn’t need me.

  “I’m going to say two things right now,” Whelan began. I turned at the waist, waiting for him to go on. He had entertained Shane for a solid hour and lifted his spirits. He at least deserved my attention. “One is that I have a bad, bad feeling and I need you to keep your eyes open.”

  “For what?”

  “For anything weird … anything … that doesn’t fit.”

  “And the second thing?”

  “I want to see you tonight.”

  “I … Oh.” I think I maybe choked a little on my own voice.

  “Alone,” he added in an undertone.

  “Yeah … I sort of worked that out for myself.”

  “So?”

  “Wouldn’t that qualify as weird?” I asked, stalling because I didn’t have an answer for him and the one I did have that was jumping to get out was … not welcome. “I mean … would that fit?”

  “Oh. I see what you mean. Ha. I suppose so. If you’re not comfortable being alone with me that’s understandable.” He flinched. “Maybe not understandable, but … It’s tense … everything is. If you’d rather not then I get it. Or, you know, we could
always ask Banana to chaperone. I’m sure she’d be delighted.”

  You know that feeling where you suddenly know that someone or someones are staring at you? Like their eyes are actually little laser beams cutting into your head? Well we had a bit of an audience now. Everybody gathered around the fire pit for lunch was staring, bowls and plates abandoned in favor of watching our little drama play out. With burning cheeks I forced myself to ignore it, to look away and up into Whelan’s bright blue eyes.

  Big mistake.

  “No … let’s.”

  “So that’s a yes?”

  “That’s a yes.”

  “I have a confession to make,” he said, catching my arm before I could leave.

  Oh, dear. Those were never good.

  “I’ve never actually discharged my weapon while jumping through the air.” Sheepishly, he scratched the back of his neck, a pretty pink suffusing his cheeks as he glanced away. “There were several times where I jumped and then fired or fired and then jumped, but never simultaneously.”

  “I don’t know what’s worse, Whelan. That you lied to Shane or that you lied to me.”

  The blush faded, his dimple curving around a crooked smirk as he murmured, “I’m contrite.”

  “How contrite?” Oh, God. This is not me. I am not the person who says things like that. No more pulp novels for this classy little dame. Now I was making myself blush.

  “Hell, if you don’t show up tonight then you’ll never find out.”

  SIXTEEN

  “You’re a lifesaver.”

  Noah blushed, looking up from the little figurine he was whittling. I had seen him futzing with wood and a knife before, but this was the first opportunity I’d had to see his work up close.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said, shrugging. “Shane’s a good kid. It’s no trouble watching him.”

  “Are you sure? I feel bad asking.”

  “You shouldn’t.” Noah turned the figurine in his hands, brushing off a few stray curls of shavings. “I like hanging out with him. Reminds me of my brothers.”