Sadie Walker Is Stranded

by Madeleine Roux

  Birds tittered down at me from the trees; I saw a few chipmunks and plenty of insects, but everything else fled before I came in glancing distance. Whatever I was tracking must have gotten wise to my game. It continued moving, carving a swerving path, pausing less and less. Still, I could see where the branches were broken and sagging—it was real, living, and sooner or later I would find it.

  Finally, the animal stopped and I knew I had it. There was a flash of brown low beneath the branches, like fur, and I had a good line of sight. Now or never, I thought, you came to dance so get on the floor.

  I pulled back the arrow, let out a long, calming breath and let fly.

  Thunk.

  The good kind of thunk. My arrow had flown true. The rustling of branches around the animal intensified and I heard a sad kind of grunt. That made me frown, but it was part of the experience, part of hunting. Circle of life, I reminded myself, you’re going to save us all, my delicious furry friend.

  I realized then that I had been hunting for hours, just trying to kill one stupid animal, and now I had done it and it was just about as easy as sawing through a steak with a gummy worm. All that remained was to collect my prize. I took out the knife, knowing the hard truth—that I might have to finish it off with a stab. I had to think of Shane, of the others, of food and not the gruesome reality of what getting that food actually meant.

  “Where are you?” I whispered, pushing aside branches and ferns. It had fallen somewhere in the trees to the northwest. At least, that’s where its dying noise had come from. I rounded the edge of a huge, snarled dead tree and just about dropped out of my own skin.

  There was my prey. Oh, it was dead all right.

  “Shit.”

  I backed up, quickly, back through the ferns as fast as my little legs would carry me. I didn’t want to turn. I was absolutely not about to put my back to that thing, not for a million cans of baked beans. It lurched after me, arms stretched out as if it wanted to give me a big, sloppy bear hug. There would be no hugging of any kind, I promised myself, aiming another arrow. If I could get it through the head I might have a chance of bringing it down. That whole aiming thing got a lot tougher when you were no longer predator and had become, unmistakably, prey.

  The smell rolling off this thing was cataclysmic. Bad, overpowering, like a moose in a sweat lodge. It was a man, or had been, and my arrow stuck out of its shin at a straight-on angle. What I had mistaken for fur was brown corduroy. He looked like a woodsy fellow, with a red flannel shirt and hiking boots. I had never been this close to a zombie before in my life, except maybe in the water. I was never much of a rubbernecker, which was good for me because the people who ran out into the streets during The Outbreak, determined to satisfy their curiosity, tended to die. I also don’t have much of a stomach for gore; even tame horror movies make me queasy. The blood starts flowing and the limbs start flying and I’m seeking out the nearest toilet.

  The creature slowed down, rasping at me through a jagged gap in his throat. The black hole of his mouth was ringed with fresh blood. Then he stopped altogether. I aimed. He made a strange sound, like a “huh?” and, knowing I had to, I glanced over my shoulder. Oh, no. This was not a solo affair; it was a dinner date for two. His date looked hungry, or rather, her skull looked hungry. Most of her skin and the fleshy hollows of the cheeks and chin were gone, hanging in rubbery loops from her jawbone, as if she had stepped out of Madam Tussaud’s and into a blast furnace.

  I ran. Yes, I know I said I would never, ever turn my back on that zombie, but now there were two. Two is not nearly the same as one. I fled, right past the female with the melting face, and wove through the trees as best I could. Part of me wanted to drop the bow, to just say fuck it and get rid of the cumbersome thing. But they would keep chasing me, I knew that, and eventually I’d have to face the music. It was not a happy tune. There was one arrow left, unless I somehow found a way to get the other one back from Tim the Tool Man Flesh-Eater.

  A different clearing opened wide in front of me, not a den this time but a glade where dead trees had fallen, rotted and left the ground squishy and dark. I stopped there, knowing that I might actually be able to get off a clear shot without so many trees in the way. My friends arrived, stumbling through the undergrowth, their faces thick with flies. Without breaking stride they came for me. I chose to aim for the man. He was bigger and if I had to face one of them with the knife, then I would rather take his companion.

  Apollo or Paris or the spirit of Errol fucking Flynn was with me in that moment, because I hit him square in the face. The arrow stuck in so far I thought it might fly clean through. He paused, moaning again, and swayed. Then he crumpled to the ground, straight down, like a balloon deflating. This didn’t even put a hitch in his girlfriend’s step. I backed away and heard a new sound, an unexpected sound. Water. I must have run northwest and back toward the edge of the island. I might be near the wrecked boat or farther north. Too far north. Way, way too far from camp and Shane. What if there were more? What if they were heading to camp right now? I had to get back and sound the alarm.

  These thoughts spurred me, and I crashed through the trees toward the sound of rushing waves. The bow was growing slick in my grasp and my hair and clothes were soaked with sweat. The zombie kept after me, giving chase, and she was gaining. Out of breath, with the beach visible through the trees, I whirled to face her head on. I dropped the bow and brandished the knife. Then I saw a fallen log and had a better idea.

  Heaving and grunting, I shouldered the branch. It was wide, four inches around, and waterlogged, heavy as a motherfucker. I wound up and wound up some more. This Bud’s for you, Bear Jew. I let the log go, swinging with every ounce of strength left in my sweaty little body. I’m sure I made a terrible shrieking noise.

  Her head was as soft as a Christmas pudding. I had to drop down quickly to avoid the spray of blackish blood and fleshy goo that exploded up and out. That was enough of that. I didn’t need to stay and examine my work. I took up my bow and knife and ran for the beach, lungs bursting, ignoring the stitch in my side as I thought desperately of a way to reorient and get back to camp. Breaking through the trees and feeling the salt air on my face was heavenly. There was nothing better, nothing sweeter, than knowing I had just faced death and kicked it squarely in the balls.

  But I was crying. It was sweet and terrible. I looked at my hands. The log had chewed them to bits and they were raw from holding the bow for so long. I reached for my back pocket to take out the white bread. I would eat that delicious square of stale crap and love every bite. I would drop down on the pebbly beach, kick out my legs and just enjoy the sun on my face and live. Then I would head south and get back to Shane and next time I wouldn’t head so deep into the forest.

  The water here was shallow, with a rocky shore shielded from the wind, like a tide pool.

  I pulled the bread free of the tarp scrap and looked out at the surf, ignoring the stinging in my hands. Time enough for a brief snack and then I would be on the move again. But I stopped with the bread halfway to my mouth. There was a sharp figure rising from the horizon. A man was in the water, the sun silhouetting him in black, and he didn’t look dead. No, he looked very much alive and he was staring right at me.

  NINE

  I should qualify that last statement. He looked alive, but not for long. Suddenly his entire body jerked and his arms shuddered. In a flash he disappeared beneath the water. Something had pulled him under. I thought of the boat, of Arturo.

  Well, shit.

  It had to be the excess adrenaline freewheeling through my veins. I can’t think of anything else that could explain my next act of heroism (read: Stupidity). In one motion I dropped the bread and bow (kept the knife), threw off my shoes and sweater, and waded into the water. Dry shoes and a warm sweater would seem inviting later because it was ice cold. I had forgotten that bit. There was another round of splashing on the horizon, water flinging up and spraying like Jaws was on the hunt.

  It
couldn’t be that deep, right? Wrong. The water rose quickly to my waist and then my chest. My clothes were dragging me down but I was getting nearer the commotion. I saw a flicker of a hand appear above the water. There was still a chance I would get there in time.

  It sounds awful, but I actually half-hoped it was a shark attack. A person could recover from a shark bite. Not so much with a zombie.

  It’s amazing how fast you move when motivated by fear. I had gotten close enough to feel the spray of the splashing water on my face. But then there was a shooting pain in my feet, a sensation like walking on hypodermic needles. I screamed, hopping up and down, which only made things worse. Prick—prick—prick. What was that? Limping forward, I kicked my feet up to swim a little and avoid the stabby hell-carpet underwater.

  This was an even worse situation than I had initially thought. Now I was injured and returning to my friends would be an absolute nightmare. No food from the hunt and now this … what a waste of time and energy and, I thought with a gulp, potentially my life.

  When I finally got to the flailing, struggling stranger I had gone up on tiptoes. The piercing needles along the rocky seafloor disappeared, but the pain lingered. My feet felt like ground chuck. I was in tears as I reached for the stranger’s hand and yanked. I don’t know what good I expected to do, but seeing someone in trouble, in agony … I couldn’t just stand and do nothing, not when Arturo had been taken from us so swiftly. And I was riding on a high—I had just taken down two zombies by myself. I was Superwoman.

  He started shrieking. It was awful, but there was no blood so I pulled harder, trying to bring him back toward the shore and shallower waters. He was dragging me beneath the water, his arm and torso too big for me to handle. The screaming changed pitch. I struggled to see his face, to determine just what exactly had hold of him. Whether it was the Kraken or just a cramp from swimming too soon after a meatball sub, he was going down fast. I was about to dive beneath the water to find out for myself, and I had even tucked the knife into my mouth, when I noticed he was no longer screaming. He wasn’t shrieking in pain, he was laughing. Giggling.

  I reeled back, taking the knife out of my mouth to make room for gaping at him. He stood up, not in trouble at all. Perfectly fine. I glared up at him, and then up some more. He was tall, immense. With the sun blazing over his shoulder I couldn’t make out his face. I glared at it anyway, frozen with rage.

  “What?” he said, laughing. “Is there something on my face?”

  “Yes. Your eyeballs. I’m about two seconds away from stabbing them.”

  “I wanted to see you up close,” he said. His voice was deep, booming. “And here you are.”

  He slicked the water off his face, some of it landing on mine. I slapped him, fast, with an open palm. He laughed again. The prickly, agonizing heat flickered through my feet and I winced. I bent at the waist, contorting from the pain. And that’s when I saw it.

  “What?” he asked. “What is it?”

  He was of course referring to my pain dance, but my eyes were widening in response to a hand, withered and white, just a few inches below the surface of the water. It rippled in the iridescent dance and play of the waves, but I knew what it was. I slashed at the hand with my knife, but the damn thing’s other arm was already around the man’s ankle.

  He screamed. He screamed a real, genuine and panicky scream. I almost said: “Serves you right, moron.” What I actually said was, “Lean forward!”

  The bloodless, severed hand floated to the surface. I could see the zombie’s face now and it was going for the stranger’s ass. This was the third one in an hour. Christ, I thought, this was becoming a regular thing (zombies obviously, not asses). I crouched down into the water and stabbed at its face. That was enough of a distraction for me to take a chance, extend my arm and cut at its other hand. I saw the mouth, the broken, jagged teeth just centimeters from my wrist.

  “Hold still!”

  Even though it was rotting, the zombie’s wrist bone was giving me trouble. I hacked for all I was worth and—with a final push—the hand finally came free, still grasping the man around his ankle.

  Two hands locked around my arms and then I was sailing through the air before I could get a scream out. Water filled my nose and mouth. I landed a safe three or four feet away and immediately scrambled back to the light. My face broke the surface in time to see that the zombie had reared up, enraged and standing. But it was a fairer fight now. The stranger lunged for the zombie, grabbing it by the right arm with both hands. I tried to wade forward and give him the knife, but I realized it was gone. Somehow, it had slipped right out of my hand. But it didn’t matter. With one wrenching jerk, the man had pulled the zombie’s arm clean off at the shoulder.

  And then, with almost nonchalant ease, he clubbed the zombie to death with its own arm.

  I stood five yards away and watched, openmouthed, feet blazing with the fury of Satan and all his fiery minions. When he was done, the zombie didn’t have much more than a meaty stump on its shoulders.

  A burst of painfully obvious inspiration told me it would be best to get out of the water. There could be more of those things. I waded back to the beach, cursing every step. Suddenly, I was exhausted. I wished with all my heart that I could magically transport back to our camp and lay next to the fire. Andrea would have painkillers—beautiful, beautiful painkillers. Just the thought of them made me swoon. I made the mistake of looking down at my feet. A trail of blood followed me up onto the rocky beach, my blood. I could see raw, angry pink flesh curving up around the outside of my toes. Jesus.

  I would never make it back to camp on my own at this rate.

  I’m not proud of it, but at the sight of my own blood I lost some time. I blacked out.

  When I came to I was bouncing along in the air. Upon further and scrabling examination, I realized I was being carried. It wasn’t a pleasant way to wake up. After all, I didn’t exactly trust this man, whoever he was. He had nearly gotten us both killed, and for what? For all I knew he could’ve been a cannibal and I was the main course. The water bobbed along over his left shoulder. We were traveling down the beach.

  “Put me down!”

  He started at my outburst and then grinned. It was blinding.

  “Welcome back,” he said. His voice was low and relaxed, amused. It rumbled against me where my arm touched his chest. For someone who had just beaten a zombie to re-death with its own arm he seemed remarkably calm.

  “Put me down.” I wriggled and kicked.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes!” I started batting at his arms. If he was a cannibal then he was being awfully casual about his next meal.

  “Are you sure you’re sure?”

  “For God’s sake, yes!”

  He swung out his left hand and I dropped down to the ground. As soon as my feet skimmed the pebbles I was jumping back into his arms.

  “No!” I shouted. “Okay, okay, pick me up!”

  He did so without argument and smiled again. I was hoisted into the air like a sack of feathers. He had tied my shoes together and slung them over his shoulder. My sweater was wrapped tightly around my middle. Something clinked against his side, a big mesh bag filled with what looked like stones.

  It was embarrassing to be carried like that. Husbands and wives did this on the threshold of their wedding night, and at that moment I couldn’t imagine a scenario more inappropriate. There are, of course, worse things than being lofted around by a big strong man. But he was a stranger, I reminded myself, even if he was an obliging one. And it was his fault I could no longer walk. I thought about slapping him again, on behalf of my feet, but decided to save that for another time. If he dropped me I wasn’t sure I could stand the pain.

  Running back to camp and raising the alarm was the right thing to do—the only thing to do—but with my feet ripped to shreds I wasn’t going anywhere without, well, being carried. Or crawling. Being carried was the slightly less repugnant option. An image of Shane, frighte
ned and alone, nagged, vivid enough to make my cheeks flame with shame. I had abandoned him. That wouldn’t stand.

  “Stop! Just stop and let me think.” My head lolled back on my shoulders as he came to a halt. “Fuck! Goddamn it…”

  “You’ll walk again,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “It’s not that,” I said, although that was weighing heavily on my mind, too. “My nephew … My friends will think I’m dead. I have to get back. You have to take me back.”

  “There are more of you?”

  The knife. Their only protection against zombies. It was gone. I didn’t need to look to know that. Somewhere in the tidal pool the knife sat, forgotten and never to be found again. I noticed a taught string around his shoulder right next to my shoes. He had brought my bow.

  “My friends are at the southern beach. I have to go back, tonight. You have to take me there.”

  “So that’s where you came from,” he said. “I thought we might have riled the natives.”

  “I know this is going to sound idiotic in every conceivable way,” I said, drawing a deep breath, “but I will kill you with my bare hands if you don’t turn around right now and take me back.”

  “Sorry,” he said with a shrug. “I’ve got to get back to my own camp.”

  “Then put me down,” I said, sighing. I didn’t like how sad and resigned my voice sounded. It was probably going to kill me, but it didn’t matter. I wasn’t going to leave Shane defenseless. Crawling might be the only option if he continued to refuse, but then I would just have to find some way to survive that. He gave me a studying look.

  “I thought we established that was not a wise idea.”

  “Says the boy who cried zombie.” I didn’t exactly have the upper hand in the conversation, being luggage and all. I tried a different tactic. “I know, and it sucks, but I can’t leave them without a knife. They’re expecting me back, and if I don’t show up they’ll really start to worry. Please … You don’t know me, that’s fine, you can leave me here. I just have to go back. Tonight.”