Free The Dead Survive by Lori Whitwam Page B

all. Nobody ever went outside the walls without weapons, but having some dedicated guards wearing body armor and carrying both firearms and melee weapons was a necessity in this world.
    We traveled several miles, our guards perched in the backs of the trucks and braced on the cabs, eyes constantly scanning our surroundings.
    Regular patrols had kept the local zombie population down, thank goodness, and we only saw one small group across a creek, and a pair on the far side of a field, crouched over something on the ground, eating. Their entree didn’t appear to be a human, but I still shuddered when one of the animated corpses lifted its head and looked right at us. Long, stringy hair hung in clumps from its rotted scalp, and entrails hung from its mouth like a gory beard. It apparently subscribed to the “bird in the hand” theory, as it quickly lost interest in us and returned to its meal.
    A few minutes later we turned onto a dirt road and passed through a rusted metal gate, dangling on one hinge and pulled to the side. Rounding a turn, the orchard came into sight, and I smiled and squeezed Quinn’s hand. It was lovely, and I was glad he’d suggested I accompany him.
    The guards moved through the orchard before signaling it was safe to start gathering the abundant fruit. “But keep your eyes open,” a female guard said. “There were reports a few small clusters were moving this way from Lexington. We haven’t seen them yet, which bothers me because I thought they would’ve been here by now.” She slung her rifle over her shoulder and waved us into the orchard once she was convinced we’d heed her warning.
    The limbs were heavy with ripe cherries, and more decorated the grass beneath the trees. The air was sweet with the fragrance, reminding me of cherry pies and cobblers. I decided to check our library for books on canning, hoping to make some cherry preserves to brighten the winter if I could locate some jars and canning lids. Gone were the days of jumping into Matt’s truck and popping over to the grocery store to pick up jar of jam and fork-split English muffins.
    We spread out through the orchard, some of us picking from lower limbs, while others climbed to reach the fruit higher in the boughs. Relaxed conversation floated between the trees, and Quinn and I chatted comfortably about everything and nothing, the shade of the orchard helping to ease the sweat of our work.
    I put a full bucket down, knowing one of the men would haul the heavy container to the truck, and found an empty one. As I savored a cherry and spit the seed in the grass, I felt something pelt my shoulder. I turned to find Quinn grinning, in the midst of launching another cherry at me. It struck me in the forehead. I reached up to the point of impact, and my fingers came away with a tiny smear of bright red juice. I looked at Quinn. “Oh, it’s on now,” I said, laughing.
    When was the last time I’d laughed? Far, far too long ago.
    I dropped my bucket and scooped a handful of fruit from the ground, chasing after Quinn and hurling small, juicy projectiles at his fleeing form. We darted in and out of the trees, slipping on the over-ripe fruit beneath our feet, and laughing so hard it was a wonder we could run at all.
    He swung around, turning the tables on me. He caught me around the waist, looking down into my face. I pushed my hair back with cherry-stained fingers and tried to catch my breath.
    Joy danced in Quinn’s dark eyes. How had I ever thought he was frightening? Surely I should have seen that only goodness dwelled behind that intimidating mask. I silently berated myself as every possible kind of idiot.
    “Guess we should get back to work, huh?” he asked.
    “Maybe. I don’t see anybody else goofing off.” As the words passed my lips, I realized I didn’t see anyone else at all. In our game, we’d found ourselves near the far side of the orchard.
    Beside me, Quinn stiffened and raised a hand to indicate I should be quiet.