The Dead Survive (7 page)

We took Skip to my house and settled him on the cushion beside my bed, and put full bowls of food and water nearby. While I sat there, stroking the velvet of those much-loved beagle ears, Quinn told me how he’d found him.

“We were on our way back, maybe six or eight miles down from the bridge.” He sat beside me, reached out, and gently stroked Skip’s front paw. “We heard voices and went to check it out, thinking it could be marauders. Turned out to be four homesteaders, out hunting.”

Homesteaders were what we called the small clans who refused to enter and join the Compound, believing their chances were better in remote locations with fewer people to attract attention. Most of them were pretty ragged, perpetually hungry, and I suspected all too often falling victim and becoming members of the zombie hordes.

“We stayed hidden and listened, till we figured out it sounded like they were tracking a dog.” He glanced at me apologetically, and I suppressed a shudder. I remembered what Mason had said about dogs being easy prey to some of the less scrupulous survivors.

“You know what?” I said, considering. “I honestly think I’d starve to death before I could bring myself to kill and eat a dog.” Maybe it wasn’t practical in this world, but it was how I felt.

“People say you’ll do what you have to do to stay alive, but I’m with you. I don’t know if I could do it. I guess it’s not really so different from killing a rabbit or a deer, but it seems a lot worse somehow.” Skip stirred and nuzzled Quinn’s hand, and Quinn cupped the dog’s chin a moment before continuing. “I sent Hector to misdirect them, pretend to just come across them and mention he saw a dog headed the other way. Then me and Marcus headed off the way the hunters had been headed before.”

He found Skip, limping badly and pitifully weak. He wasn’t positive, but based on my description and the circumstances of his disappearance, he thought it likely he’d found my dog. He wrapped him in a small canvas tarp he was carrying.

“I kept his head out, but when we hit that booby trap, I guessed there would be marauders nearby, and I know beagles. They bark. So I had to cover his head, hoping he’d be quiet till we were safe.”

All I could do was thank him over and over. And maybe kiss him a few more times.

Leaving Skip to rest, we went out to the kitchen to find Quinn something to eat. I made him a hardboiled egg sandwich, and he settled down with a can of warm beer to enjoy his meal. He popped the top, took a sip, and muttered something about what he’d give for a functional mini-fridge. I shook my head. Refrigeration seemed like a minor thing, until you didn’t have it.

I was looking in the pantry, deciding if we’d have dinner at home or go to the communal kitchen today, when Melissa passed us and went into my room. I left Quinn at the table and followed her, wanting to make sure she didn’t accidentally jostle Skip’s injured leg.

What I saw—and heard—when I entered the room stopped me in my tracks. Melissa was sitting by Skip, his head nestled carefully in her lap. And she was talking.

“You’re a good boy, aren’t you? I know you’re hurt and scared, but it’s going to be okay.” Her delicate hands stroked over his head and down his back, avoiding the bandage. “You’re safe now, I promise. Nobody will ever hurt you again.”

I stuck my head out the door and hissed, “Quinn, come here! You have to see this.” I hoped my voice carried to the kitchen, but wasn’t so loud it disrupted Melissa’s one-sided conversation with Skip.

Quinn joined me in the doorway and stared in amazement. “Does she know who he is?”

I nodded. “I think so. When I wasn’t reading to her, I told her stories. I told her about Skip, and made up versions of how I’d find him again someday.”

“Listen to her,” he whispered. “She’s saying all the things people have said to her, trying to help her.”

I was thrilled, grateful, and for the first time since we realized something had gone terribly wrong with the world, I thought I might be happy
.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The next few weeks flew by. Quinn didn’t take any more assignments outside the Compound, and he spent a lot of time with us. Melissa continued to talk to Skip, and eventually started giving one-word answers to our questions, such as her age—fifteen, as I’d guessed—and that her last name was Donato.

There were occasional skirmishes, but I barely noticed the smaller clashes anymore. There was one troubling rumor, though. Some of the scouts thought a few of the zombies they saw were different. They seemed to be faster and more clever than the ones we were used to seeing. If true, that was very disturbing. It could be the slower zombies, or ones who were for one reason or another less capable hunters, were more easily killed off by our patrols, leaving larger numbers of the quicker, more predatory ones. I didn’t know, but I was sure our scouts would monitor the situation closely.

Regardless, life went on. Skip healed, his limp improving every day. It was such a delight to have him with us, his white-tipped tail held high and waving as he accompanied us around the Compound, and sleeping on my bed at night.

Quinn and I did a lot of talking. He’d taken to holding my hand as we walked, and there were quite a few more kisses. He didn’t push me for more, and I appreciated his sensitivity more than I could say. Although I was finally seeing who he was, rather than who he appeared to be, I wasn’t yet ready for anything more intimate.

I did tell him everything I’d gone through at the hotel, though, and he listened. He showed anger at hearing what had been done to us, and sympathy, but he never displayed the one reaction which could have derailed my emerging trust.
Pity
.

He also told me about his early life, including some of the bad choices he made, and I began to 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 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. “Damn,” he said, his brows lowering as his expression turned to one of concern.

I heard it then. Shouting. A gunshot. Another. Quinn grabbed my hand, and we ran back in the direction we’d come. As we raced through the trees, real fear set in. It soon became clear there was a group of zombies between us and the others, and the battle was underway.

I counted at least a dozen, but it was hard to tell with them repeatedly disappearing and reappearing among the trees. Some were the mottled gray-green shade of those who had turned near the start of the plague, while others appeared to be newer recruits to Team Zombie. All had filthy, blood-stained clothing and bore gruesome wounds.

I had only a small handgun, but Quinn had his machete. He never went out without it. I fired once, but I was a poor shot, and we knew it was best to kill the zombies with silent weapons to avoid attracting others.

He left me beneath one of the larger trees. “Stay here,” he said. “I can take out the ones in the rear before they realize I’m behind them.”

I started to argue, but Quinn wasn’t having it. “I can’t concentrate if I’m worried about you. Stay here and be quiet.”

I reluctantly agreed, knowing he’d be much more help than I would, and he hurried into the fray. For a man his size, he moved with astounding speed and grace, cutting down zombies with stroke after stroke of his blade.

He’d eliminated most of the zombies in his vicinity, leaving only a handful still engaging our people near the trucks. He wiped his machete on the grass, and turned to check on me. I saw him focus off to my right, and whipped my head around. At first I saw only a flash of movement through the trees, but then two zombies came into sight, moving faster than I would have expected.

Quinn ran toward them, but I wasn’t sure if he’d intercept them before they reached me. I debated climbing a tree, discarded the idea, and started to run, but then did a double-take.

One of the zombies coming toward us was Mason.

I froze, my terror so absolute it felt as if I had turned to stone. Mason’s clothing was tattered, and ragged wounds spread over his torso and arms. One cheek flapped down along his jaw, revealing his teeth in a macabre, lopsided grin. He started in my direction.

Quinn reached the other zombie first, severing his head with two powerful swings of his machete. Meanwhile, Mason was closing fast.

“Quinn!” I screamed. “That’s him! That’s Mason!” I didn’t know why I thought the zombie’s previous identity mattered, but I felt he had to know. Somehow, I was
sure
this reanimated Mason knew who I was, and believed we had unfinished business. I thought so, too, but not the same kind.

Quinn sprinted, raising his blade. I had my gun, but my hand was shaking so badly I didn’t dare fire. Quinn was coming from an angle behind Mason, too close, and I couldn’t risk hitting him.

I found my legs and skittered backward, before turning to run. I heard impact behind me, and knew Quinn had taken my tormentor down. I heard the guttural groan of undead vocalization, as well as Quinn’s grunts as he fought.

I had to stop, had to turn to see what was happening. I had to help if I could. Quinn leaped to his feet, raised his machete, and brought it down with all his might, cleaving Mason’s forehead.

Relief washed over me. It was over.

Behind me, I still heard fighting, but the sound had diminished. I knew they had things under control. Then it truly would be over. Wouldn’t it?

Quinn raised his head, and his expression of overwhelming sorrow nearly staggered me. I was so used to seeing combatants covered in blood that at first I didn’t realize much of what I saw on Quinn was his own. One hand hung at his side, blood dripping from a large wound on his wrist, spattering the ground in a cruel mockery of the cherries lying all around.