Free The Dead Survive by Lori Whitwam Page A

understand the reasons behind them. He talked about sitting in prison, seeing all the ruined lives, and vowing that when he got out, he wasn’t falling back into that life.
    One morning after breakfast, I was sitting in the back yard watching Bethany and Melissa weed our garden, while Skip dug furiously at a mole hole near the fence. I’d just finished washing the dishes, and knew I’d soon have to go help with the gardening. I sighed. It was already hot outside, and would only get worse. The previous night’s light rain had done nothing to break the week-long heatwave.
    I pushed to my feet and started across the yard, resigned to a couple of hours of sweaty work, but stopped when I heard the gate open. I turned and saw Quinn fastening the latch behind him. He wore the customary jeans, a faded green t-shirt with the sleeves cut off, and a broad smile.
    He met me at the edge of the patio and kissed me lightly on the cheek. “Morning, darlin’.”
    “Good morning to you too.” Quinn often stopped by to check on us before going to his shift at the motor pool, but he didn’t seem to have his tool box with him. “Not working today?”
    He dropped onto the bench where I’d been sitting previously and pulled me down beside him. “Nope. I switched with Hector so he could take tomorrow off for his girl’s birthday.”
    My own birthday had come and gone during my week of hard labor after my assault on Amelia. The twin of my recent garden-weary sigh escaped me. “Do you think it’s weird we still bother with birthdays and holidays and stuff? I mean, do they even matter anymore?”
    He took my hand, his calloused thumb tracing across my knuckles. “Of course they matter, Ellen. Everything does.” Sincerity shone in his deep brown eyes. “We’re still here, still living our lives, doing what we can to make things better.”
    After a moment’s thought, I conceded. “Yeah, I guess so. But sometimes it seems pointless. All we do is work and fight.”
    “Now, that’s where you’re wrong.” A corner of his mouth lifted in a sly smile. “I’m here to take you away from all this.”
    I let out a small chuckle. “Jetting off to Paris?” I wondered inanely if French zombies sounded different from ours.
    “I think France is out of the question, but my plan is pretty good.” At my raised eyebrow, he continued. “Have you ever been to the cherry orchard out on Old Braddock Pike?”
    I shook my head. “No, I don’t go outside the walls much.” I knew I should, but the lingering fear of being captured again made me find excuses to stay in.
    “You’ll love it. The scouts came in last night and said the cherries are ripe, and if we don’t pick them before it storms—and Marcus is sure it will by tomorrow night—they’ll end up rotting on the ground.” He stood and pulled me to my feet.
    “Doesn’t that count as work?”
    “Yeah, it does count toward our weekly hours, but I thought it’d be fun, so I volunteered. Do you want to go?” He voiced his question gently; he knew why I didn’t go out very often.
    I thought about it for a moment. “Yes, I do. My grandparents had cherry trees in their yard when I was little. I used to love climbing up and picking them for Gram.” I smiled at the recollection of a simpler time. “Though I’m sure I ate as many as I put in the bucket.”
    Quinn laughed. “Be ready in a half hour. The volunteers are meeting outside the community building, and we’ll leave from there.”
    I agreed, then went to tell Bethany of my plans. She said she’d stay with Melissa today, and they would start preparing our latest crop of tomatoes for the drying rack she’d built in the cement block shed. There was no question of Melissa going with us; she wasn’t ready to venture outside the walls yet.
    We met the other volunteers and departed in high spirits in the backs of three pickup trucks, surrounded by dozens of five-gallon buckets…and several armed guards. We weren’t crazy, after