Sadie Walker Is Stranded
Page 29
“So where to?” Whelan asked, looking out again at the blue, blue water surrounding us.
“That’s a good question.” I started up the short stairs to the deck, intent on asking Andrea and Nate where they thought we should go. A big, warm hand wrapped around my wrist, tugging. I looked back, felt a tiny internal gasp, like a sigh or a hiccup but nicer. I had a feeling that would be happening just about every time Whelan gave me that look.
“Yellow hat,” he said.
“Sorry?”
“You’re my yellow hat.”
“Thanks,” I said, starting back up the stairs. “I love you too.”
EPILOGUE
It had been almost a year since receiving the key. Maybe the vault would already be empty, looted or moved. But I had to know. We had to know.
“What are you waiting for?”
Beneath a wild mop of curling hair, Shane stared up at me, fidgeting.
“I just don’t want you to get your hopes up too high,” I said. The key felt inordinately heavy in my hand. I brushed at the thick layer of dust that had settled over the door. It looked like nobody had entered the lower levels of the bank for months, maybe not since Moritz had been there. Like an ancient, undisturbed tomb, the narrow halls lay under an almost snowy coating of grime. Finding the place untouched lit a warm hope in my chest. Nobody had been down here in a long, long time, and I had the cobwebs in my hair to prove it.
“It might not even be the right bank,” I added softly.
“Only one way to find out.”
Behind me, Whelan waited, tapping his boot toe impatiently on the linoleum. Shane mimicked him, and the combined force of their anticipation pushed me forward, toward the door. The key fit into the lock with a low, rusty squeak. It was a regular door, retro, not the round, max security ones you always see in comic book movies. With electricity spotty at best, it would have been too risky to use one of the electronically sealed vaults. Nobody wanted to sit around twiddling their thumbs, waiting for a generator, or worse—until the grid came up—to check on their cache.
“Holy shit,” I murmured, my breath ruffling the streaky cobwebs swinging in front of the door. “I feel like Indiana Jones.”
“Indiana Jones would open the damn door,” Whelan whispered.
“Yeah,” Shane added haughtily.
“Do I have to separate you two?” The key turned, grinding, but it fit. Finally. We drew in a loud, collective breath, months of searching hinging on this moment. Treasure hunting was glamorous until it was boring, frustrating and time consuming. Treasure hunting in a burned out city that was now the gaping asshole of civilization was also dangerous, but I was getting handy with a pistol. I felt like a regular Lara Croft but, you know, without the massive knockers and sexy accent. Recently Whelan, with that beloved chest holster and khakis, was starting to look much more Malcolm Reynolds than Indiana. Not that I was complaining.
“Any day now, Doctor Jones,” Whelan said with a nervous chuckle.
Those moments of disappointment would be worth it.
“Here we go,” I said, pulling. The door wouldn’t budge. Drat. It took all three of us to haul the thing open, the hinges screaming in protest as we forced it back. You always imagine these rooms to be vast, cavernous, glittering with jewels and riches, coins and necklaces and genies overflowing from chests stuffed too full to close. It was a narrow space, with the walls on either side lined in safety deposit boxes. It wasn’t filled with chests belching out strands of pearls, but there were paintings, dozens of them, and a heavy box that I could only imagine was filled with sketches and studies.
Whelan’s flashlight moved over the works of art. Some had been taken out of their frames, but all had been covered with a thin plastic sheeting to keep the dust and dampness from compromising the integrity of the canvases. “This is more than I expected,” I said.
“What were you expecting?” Whelan asked. Shane darted beneath my arm, skidding to a stop in front of a startling blue Monet.
“Not this.”
“What do we do with all of it?” Shane asked, crouching down to get a better look at the Monet.
“Get it somewhere safer, that’s what,” I said.
“Portland?” Whelan suggested, wandering into the vault. “’Couver? Colorado?”
“I say LV, but all three are possibilities.” I pulled a flimsy square from my back pocket. “I just hope they’re ready with the van.”
Whelan and Shane began shifting the paintings and boxes out into the hall. I knelt down beside one of the sketch boxes, lifting the dusty lid to find a ruffle of cigarette paper to catch the moisture. A layer of parchment paper waited beneath that, and underneath, priceless sketches, each protected from the next. Moritz had done an amazing job. That these had survived so long was incredible; that they had endured in such good shape was even more exciting.
“Good work,” I said softly. “Really amazing stuff.”
The wrinkled old Polaroid hadn’t fared as well as the sketches and paintings. Even so, I put it inside the box, right on top of the cigarette paper, and replaced the lid. He’d get to travel to our next destination in style, on a bed of lovingly preserved masterpieces.
“Yoo-hoo.”
I stood, turning to find Andrea jogging down the lower maze of the bank toward me. She was wearing her pink hat today and it slid to the side as she slowed to a walk. “Nate’s outside. You won’t believe the van we found. I think it used to have shag carpeting in the back. We hit pay dirt?”
“All ready to go,” I said. From inside the vault, Whelan and Shane began giggling.
“Probably found the booby paintings,” Andrea muttered, fixing her hat.
She was right. I reached back and banged twice on the vault door. “Come on, boys. It’s time to get the hell out of town.”
Who knows? Maybe Colorado would be pretty this time of year.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First and foremost, I want to thank my family, for their support and love and for putting up with me typing away on my laptop during holidays. Mom and Pops—thanks for calling and sending snacks. Tristan and Julie—thank you for taking me shooting. Trevor, thanks for cracking the whip and making me kebabs. I’m so glad we got that teaspoon/tablespoon thing sorted. Andrea, Jessy, and Louisa—thank you for reading my work and having the stones to be honest. The Beloit College Library provided a safe haven to work, and I thank them for letting me use their computers when mine died.
I also want to thank everyone at St. Martin’s/Macmillan for their hard work and dedication, especially Monique, Holly, and Mallika. To Kate McKean, the biggest thanks of all, for being a miracle worker and friend.
Also by Madeleine Roux
Allison Hewitt Is Trapped
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
MADELEINE ROUX received her B.A. in creative writing and acting from Beloit College. Shortly after, she began the experimental fiction blog Allison Hewitt Is Trapped. She lives in Wisconsin, where she is preparing for the zombie apocalypse. Visit her on the Web at www.madeleine-roux.com/blog/.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
SADIE WALKER IS STRANDED. Copyright © 2012 by Madeleine Roux. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
The Library of Congress has catalogued the print edition as follows:
Roux, Madeleine, 1985–
Sadie Walker is stranded : a zombie novel / Madeleine Roux. — 1
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-312-65891-5 (pbk.)
ISBN 978-1-4299-3842-6 (e-book)
1. Zombies—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3618.O87235S23 2012
813'.6—dc23
2011033801
e-ISBN 9781429938426
First Edition: February 2012
nbsp; Madeleine Roux, Sadie Walker Is Stranded