Free Forever Between (Between Life and Death Book 2) by Ann Christy Page B

one that details the area around the base. Inside the confines of the base, there’s nothing but green blankness on the map, but all that surrounds it—commissary, exchange, medical, visitor center, etcetera—are laid out in meticulous detail.
    Heads together over the section, we both look down and then back up at the real world around us, trying to marry up the two visuals. I already know what we’re going to do, but I’ve mentioned before that Charlie is rather thorough about things, so I hold off.
    “So, we need the old road that goes around the base, past the houses Emily talked about in that old neighborhood, and then onto the access road. From there, we just join up with the road that goes directly to the hospital. That sound about right?”
    I nod and say, “We’ll be able to see the base near the flight line during part of our ride. I want to see if there’s anyone around.”
    We share a drink of water, both of us tense now that we’re getting close to our goal. I’m afraid and I know Charlie is too, but we’ve come this far so there’s no going back. I’m not so much afraid of coming up on deaders or in-betweeners, because that’s our daily life. What I’m afraid of is what I might find. What if the hospital has burned to the ground? What if it’s occupied with a thousand deaders? What if the military is there and doesn’t feel like sharing any nanites?
    We come upon the first pile of burned bodies a mile before we get to the turn off. It’s almost a little mountain really, at least two stories tall. It’s old, no longer stinking of decay, and only carrying the faintest traces of scent from the long finished burning. The forms inside the piles are black and gray and still, mercifully still. All of us know that burning works, but the amount of burnable fuel required and the resulting smoke means we don’t do that downtown. It’s not like there’s a fire department to come to the rescue if a fire gets out of hand.
    Every block or so there’s another pile. Some are bigger than others, but even the smallest one must have a hundred bodies in it. I’m not stopping to count or anything, but that’s the impression I get. Charlie keeps searching the area as we ride, his lips pursed and eyes vigilant, but I can’t stop myself from staring at the piles. Who were these people? Were they from the neighborhood we’re coming up on or were they people who came here for shelter? Are they military members or civilians? The piles invite so many questions. At any rate, these piles explain why I’m seeing so few deaders.
    Before we cross the main intersection that leads into the older housing development ringing one side of the base property—one that had been involved in many court cases over jet noise over the years—we settle our weapons more readily for drawing and check our loads to be sure nothing is hanging off or easy to grab.
    “We go fast through this area. Okay?” I confirm, my nervousness showing.
    Charlie gives me a grim nod, just one single dip of his head, and looks toward the street we’ll be going down. He’s readying himself for whatever gauntlet we’ll have to get through. I don’t think it will be thick with deaders or in-betweeners—thanks to those piles—but there could be people around. That’s what I’m worried about.
    The neighborhood street ahead is lined with crepe myrtle trees. They usually bloom all summer here, making old neighborhoods like this amazing to see, covered in color. Even from where we are, I can see hints of hot pink. Though mostly green, the lack of tending and pruning means that they’ve gone wild and a few spots are blooming early. From here I can see piles of old leaves covering the sides of the road, masking any debris that might be waiting to pierce our tires or, even worse, rise up and try to grab us.
    We hit our pedals at the same time, working up speed as we cross the once-busy five lane main drag. A rustling train of leaves lifts behind our