Sadie Walker Is Stranded Read Online Free PDF

converged on one tiny strip of land, like Ellis Island, if Ellis Island—at its peak—had been wreathed in flames. One woman ran by in a bathrobe and hiking boots, a tiny baby bouncing in her arms. Nobody was in charge. Here and there someone would bellow an order or try to conduct the flow of foot traffic, but the panic had set in. Months of carefully managed fears meant nothing now, not when a hoard of hungry flesh eaters had you surrounded.
    Then someone seemed to get the idea to head for the ferry and suddenly everyone was heading for the ferry. I’d seen that kind of behavior before, in September, when a crowd of strangers all at once came to a conclusion together and nothing, not common sense or a rifle could stop them. Andrea pushed against this current, leading me north up the sidewalk and away from the surging crowd. For a moment I questioned her sanity, noticing that going north also meant facing about three times as many undead stragglers. Empty fish-and-chips diners and seaside hotels broke out along our left like jagged teeth. We tore ourselves away from the main body of citizens and tumbled out onto an empty strip of pavement. It was easier to simply bat the undead aside with our heavy packs; stopping to actually decapitate them would take too long.
    The thin masts of sailboats appeared, stabbing upward from the docks, limp sails fluttering on the boat decks like huge, white feathers. Gray morning gave way to silver as Andrea veered left, down a sloping cement embankment to a staircase and the docks themselves. The boards were slick. A cluster of people stood at the far end of the dock, their backs to us. Andrea sped up, clattering down the dock with her messenger bag bouncing and rattling. Close on our heels, dragging themselves down the embankment, came a handful of the undead, moaning as if to complain about our pesky ability to outrun them. That boat had better be ready to launch because, one way or another, Shane and I were getting on it. The choice between staying on the dock and shoving out onto the water was not much of a choice at all.
    “There better be room,” I muttered, mentally taking a head count of the people on the dock. There were eight, not including us, and the boat in question didn’t look big enough for that many passengers. Andrea grunted something under her breath. She elbowed to the front of the crowd, me close on her heels. Shane clasped his little arms around my neck more tightly, whimpering. A short, stocky man was piling up a stack of ration cards in his stubby hands. Bribes. Apparently Uncle Arturo was as enterprising as his drug-dealing niece. He glanced up from his counting and frowned.
    “ Tio ,” Andrea said, slipping into Portuguese. She nodded to her bag full of drugs. His small black eyes twinkled in response. He reached up and scratched his scalp and adjusted his newsboy cap. Incredible. He didn’t seem to notice or care that the zombies shambling down the dock were gaining ground. The old Portuguese sailor nodded and stuck his thumb over his shoulder.
    “Sadie and Shane,” Andrea said, pointing at me. “This is Uncle Arturo. Everything’s kosher.”
    Everything? That was one way to put it.
    Stuck in the uncomfortable emotional wasteland between relief and terror, I sighed and followed Andrea onto the boat. Shane squirmed, sharing my unease about being out on the water. The boat was in remarkable condition, the wood still gleaming, the navy and white paint fresh and bright.
    “Fifty-one-foot Formosa center cockpit Ketch,” Andrea announced, running her hand along the polished wood railing, admiring it like a piece of fine art. A Portuguese thing, I guessed. “Isn’t she beautiful?”
    She was, but it seemed odd to be discussing this as if we were going out for a pleasure cruise, especially when the shouting started. Andrea, Shane and I had displaced passengers who had already bribed Arturo for a ride. What he planned to do with ration cards on a boat, I