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Warm Bodies Home Warm Bodies. Isaac Marion. Version 1. A Verse Narrative by Herbert Mason. All rights reserved. Music Co.

Gasp in a ragged breath. Welcome back. I feel the carpet under my fingers. I hear the gunshots. I stand up and look around, dizzy and reeling. I have never had a vision so deep, like an entire life spooling through my head. The sting of tears burns in my eyes, but my ducts no longer have fluid. The feeling rages unquenched like pepper spray. I hear a scream nearby and I turn.

Julie is here, older now, maybe nineteen, her baby fat melted away revealing sharper lines and finer poise, muscles small but toned on her girlish frame. She is huddled in a corner, unarmed, sobbing and screaming as M creeps towards her.

He always finds the women. Their memories are porn to him. I still feel disorientated, unsure of where or who I am, but. I approach the girl. The urge to rip and tear surges into my arms and jaw. But then she screams again, and something inside me moves, a feeble moth struggling against a web.

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I let out a gentle groan and inch towards the girl, trying to force kindness into my dull expression. I am not no one. I am a nine-year-old boy, I am a fifteenyear-old boy, I am— She throws a knife at my head.

The blade sticks straight into the centre of my forehead and quivers there. But it has penetrated less than an inch, only grazing my frontal lobe.

I pull it out and drop it. She is fumbling through her jeans for another weapon. Behind me, the Dead are finishing their butchery. Soon they will turn their attention to this dim corner of the room. I take a deep breath. It rolls off my tongue like honey. I feel good just saying it. Her eyes go wide. She freezes. I put out my hands. I point at the zombies behind me. I shake my head. She stares at me, making no sign that she understands. I reach my free hand into the head-wound of a fallen zombie and collect a palmful of black, lifeless blood.

Slowly, with gentle movements, I smear it on her face, down her neck and onto her clothes. She is probably catatonic. I take her hand and pull her to her feet. At that moment M and the others finish devouring their prey and turn to inspect the room. Their eyes fall on me. They fall on Julie. I walk towards them, gripping her hand, not quite dragging her. She staggers behind me, staring straight ahead. M sniffs the air cautiously. Just the negativesmell of Dead blood. Without a word, we leave the high-rise and head back to the airport.

I walk in a daze, full of strange and kaleidoscopic thoughts. Julie holds limply to my hand, staring at the side of my face with wide eyes, trembling lips. After delivering our abundant harvest of leftover flesh to the non-hunters — the Boneys, the children, the stay-at-home moms — I take Julie to my house.

My fellow Dead give me curious looks as I pass. Because it requires both volition and restraint, the act of intentionally converting the Living is almost never performed.

Most conversions happen by accident: The rest of our converts arise from traditional deaths, private affairs of illness or mishap or classical Living-on-Living violence that take place outside our sphere of interest. So the fact that I have purposely brought this girl home unconsumed is a thing of mystery, a miracle on a par with giving birth. M and the others allow me plenty of room in the halls, regarding me with confusion and wonder. I lead her to Gate 12, down the boarding tunnel and into my home: Sometimes it even tickles my numb memory.

Looking at my clothes, I seem like the kind of person who probably travelled a lot. And then the fresh lemon zing of poisson in Paris. The burn of tajine in Morocco. Are these places all gone now? Silent streets, cafes full of dusty skeletons? Julie and I stand in the centre aisle, looking at each other. I point to a window seat and raise my eyebrows. Keeping her eyes solidly on me, she backs into the row and sits down. Her hands grip the armrests like the plane is in a flaming death dive.

I sit in the aisle seat and release an involuntary wheeze, looking straight ahead at my stacks of memorabilia. Every time I go into the city, I bring back one thing that catches my eye. A puzzle. A shot glass. A Barbie. A dildo. I bring them here to my home, strew them around the seats and aisles, and stare at them for hours. The piles reach to the ceiling now. M keeps asking me why I do this. I have no answer. Her lips are tight and pale. I point at her. I open my mouth and point at my crooked, bloodstained teeth.

She presses herself against the window. A terrified whimper rises in her throat. This is not working. I dig through my LP collection in the overhead compartments and pull out an album. She is still frozen, wide-eyed. The record plays. I can hear it faintly through the phones, like a distant eulogy drifting on autumn air.

Last night. I close my eyes and hunch forward. My head sways vaguely in time with the music as verses float through the jet cabin, blending together in my ears. Life was so new. The terror has faded, and she regards me with disbelief.

I turn my face away. I stand and duck out of the plane. Her bewildered gaze follows me down the tunnel. After weeks of staring at it, I figured out how to fill its tank from a barrel of stabilised gasoline I found in the service rooms. But I have no idea how to drive. Sometimes I just sit there with the engine purring, my hands resting limply on the wheel, willing a true memory to pop into my head. Not another hazy impression or vague awareness cribbed from the collective subconscious.

Something specific, bright and vivid. Something unmistakably mine. I strain myself, trying to wrench it out of the blackness.

Erotica is meaningless for us now. A distant echo of that great motivator that once started wars and inspired symphonies, that drove human history out of the caves and into space. M may be holding on, but those days are over now. Sex, once a law as undisputed as gravity, has been disproved.

The equation is erased, the blackboard broken. I remember the need, the insatiable hunger that ruled my life and the lives of everyone around me. But our loss of this, the most basic of all human passions, might sum up our loss of everything else. I watch M from the doorway. He sits on the little metal folding chair with his hands between his knees like a schoolboy facing the principal. There are times when I can almost glimpse the person he once was under all that rotting flesh, and it prickles my heart.

We sit against the tiles of the bathroom wall with our legs sprawled out in front of us, passing the brain back and forth, taking small, leisurely bites and enjoying brief flashes of human experience. The brain contains the life of some young military grunt from the city. His tastes are a little less demanding than mine.

I watch his mouth form silent words. I watch his face shuffle through emotions. Anger, fear, joy, lust. When he wakes up, this will all disappear. He will be empty again. He will be dead. After an hour or two, we are down to one small gobbet of pink tissue.

M pops it in his mouth and his pupils dilate as he has his visions. This one is different, though. This one is special.

I tear off a bite, and chew. I am Perry Kelvin, a sixteen-year-old boy, watching my girlfriend write in her journal. The black leather cover is tattered and worn, the inside a maze of scribbles, drawings, little notes and quotes. I am sitting on the couch with a salvaged first edition of On the Road, longing to live in any era but this one, and she is curled in my lap, penning furiously.

I poke my head over her shoulder, trying to get a glimpse. She pulls the journal away and gives me a coy smile. I lace my arms around her shoulders.

She burrows into me a little deeper. I bury my face in her hair and kiss the back of her head. The spicy smell of her shampoo— M is looking at me. He holds out his hand for me to pass it. I take another bite and close my eyes.

We lie on our backs on a red blanket on the white steel panels, squinting up at the blinding blue sky. I nod. I never got to do that anyway with Dad the way he is. I just miss airplanes. That muffled thunder in the distance, those white lines. My mom used to say it looked like Etch A Sketch. It was so beautiful. Airplanes were beautiful. So were fireworks.

All the indulgences we can no longer afford. She looks at me. We have to remember everything. I let it saturate my brain. I turn my head and kiss Julie. We make love there on the blanket on the Stadium roof, four hundred feet above the ground.

The sun stands guard over us like a kindhearted chaperone, smiling silently. M is glaring at me. He makes a grab for the piece of brain in my hand and I yank it away. I suppose M is my friend, but I would rather kill him than let him taste this.

The thought of his filthy fingers poking and fondling these memories makes me want to rip his chest open and squish his heart in my hands, stomp his brain till he stops existing.

This is mine. He sees the warning flare in my eyes, hears the rising air-raid klaxon. He drops his hand away. He stares at me for a moment, annoyed and confused. I leave the bathroom with abnormally purposeful strides. I slip in through the door of the and stand there in the faint oval of light. Julie is lying back in a reclined seat, snoring gently. I knock on the side of the fuselage and she bolts upright, instantly awake.

She watches me warily as I approach her. My eyes are burning again. I grab her messenger bag off the floor and dig through it. I find her wallet, and then I find a photo. A portrait of a young man. I hold the photo up to her eyes. She looks at me, stone-faced. I point at my mouth. I clutch my stomach. I point at her mouth. I touch her stomach. Then I point out the window, at the cloudless black sky of merciless stars. I clench my jaw and squint my eyes, trying to ease their dry sting. Her eyes are red and wet.

That fat fuck that almost got me? And then it hits me, and my eyes go wide. The room was dark and I came from behind. Her penetrating eyes address me like a creature worthy of address, unaware that I recently killed her lover, ate his life and digested his soul, and am right now carrying a prime cut of his brain in the front pocket of my slacks. I can feel it burning there like a coal of guilt, and I reflexively back away from her, unable to comprehend this curdled mercy.

Her first questions are for others. I am the lowest thing. I am the bottom of the universe. I drop the photo onto the seat and look at the floor.

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When I emerge from the boarding tunnel, there are several Dead grouped near the doorway. They watch me without expressions. We stand there in silence, still as statues. Then I brush past them and wander off into the dark halls. I look at my dad. He looks older than I remember. He grips the steering wheel hard. His knuckles are white. The gas station where I bought Coke Slushies is on fire. The windows of my grade school are shattered. The kids in the public swimming pool are not swimming.

I thought everyone comes back now. My voice cracks. No one comes back. Not really. Do you understand that? I try to focus on the windshield itself, the crushed bugs and tiny fractures. Those blur, too. We make her live. Not some ridiculous curse. Look at this. It bumps into a car and stumbles, slowly backs up against a wall, turns, shuffles in another direction.

Julie and I watch it for a few minutes. Its face displays absolutely nothing. Just skin stretched over a skull. It starts swaying a little harder, then it collapses. It lies there on its side, staring at the frozen pavement. She looks at me with wide eyes, then back at the crumpled body. I feel a wriggling sensation inside me, tiny things creeping down my spine.

I follow her back into the building. Breathe those useless breaths. Where are you? How long have you been here? Stop now. You have to stop. Squeeze shut your stinging eyes, and take another bite. In the morning, my wife finds me slumped against one of the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the runways. My eyes are open and full of dust. My head leans to one side. I rarely allow myself to look so corpse-like.

Something is wrong with me. There is a sick emptiness in my stomach, a feeling somewhere between starvation and hangover. My wife grabs my arm and pulls me to my feet. She starts walking, dragging me behind her like rolling luggage. I feel a flash of bitter heat pulse through me and I start speaking at her.

Actually spits on my shirt, snarling like an animal. But the look in her eyes instantly cools my eruption. Her lips quiver. What am I doing? I look at the floor.

We stand in silence for several minutes. She leads me to a gutted, burned-out gift shop and lets out an emphatic groan. Our kids emerge from behind an overturned bookcase full of best-sellers that will never be read. They shrug.

I turn to my wife. She grunts in annoyance, and my face falls, duly chastised. Is it possible to have a midlife crisis if you have no idea how old you are? I could be in my early thirties or late teens. I could be younger than Julie. My wife grunts at the kids and gestures down the hall. They hang their heads and make a wheezy whining noise, but they follow us. We are taking them to their first day of school.

As my family and I approach, we hear groans and screams from inside this arena. There is a line of youngsters in front of the entryway, waiting their turn. My wife and I lead our kids to the back of the line and watch the lesson now in progress.

Five Dead youths are circling a skinny, middle-aged Living man. The man backs up against the luggage, looking frantically left and right, his empty hands balled into fists. Two of the youths dive at him and try to hold his arms down, but he shakes them off. From zombie bites to starvation to good old-fashioned age and disease, there are so many options for dying in this new world.

So many ways for the Living to stop. But with just a few debrained exceptions, all roads lead to us, the Dead, and our very unglamorous immortality. He and his assistant lumber into the arena and tackle the man, forcing him to the ground.

The teacher kills him and stands up, blood streaming down his chin. The five children exit shamefaced, and the next five in line are prodded inside. My kids look up at me anxiously.

I pat their heads. The five youths inside are nervous, but the teacher shouts at them and they begin to move in. When they get close enough all five lunge at the same time, two grabbing for each arm and the fifth going for the throat. But the old man is shockingly strong. He twists around and flings two of them hard against the wall of luggage. The impact shakes the wall and a sturdy metal briefcase topples down from the top.

Death takes hold of him with retroactive finality. The whole school goes silent. The remaining four children back out of the arena. No one really pays attention as the adults rush inside to deal with the man. Whoever they are, they will forget their loss soon enough. By tomorrow the Boneys will show up with another boy or girl to replace this one. We allow a few uncomfortable seconds of silence for the killed child, then school resumes.

A few parents glance at each other, maybe wondering what to think, wondering what this all means, this bent, inverted cycle of life. My kids are next in line. Specific fears have become irrelevant.

I pace outside the boarding tunnel for about an hour before going in. Julie is curled up in business class, sleeping.

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She has wrapped herself in a quilt made of cut-up jeans that I brought back as a souvenir a few weeks ago. The morning sun makes a halo in her yellow hair, sainting her.

Her eyes slide open a crack. She just looks at me with tired, puffy eyes. I watch her for a moment. Her posture is a brick wall. I lower my head and turn to go. She is sitting up, the blanket piled on her lap. I look at her blankly.

Does she want an arm or leg? Hot blood, meat and life? Then I remember what being hungry used to mean.

I remember beefsteaks and pancakes, grains and fruits and vegetables, that quaint little food pyramid. Sometimes I miss savouring taste and texture instead of just swallowing energy, but I try not to dwell on it. The old food does nothing to quench our hunger any more.

Even bright red meat from a freshly killed rabbit or deer is beneath our culinary standards; its energy is simply incompatible, like trying to run a computer on diesel. There is no easy way out for us, no humane alternative for the fashionably moral. The new hunger demands sacrifice. It demands human suffering as the price for our pleasures, meagre and cheap as they are.

She mimes the act of taking a bite. Why are you keeping me here? I step to her window and point to the runways below. She looks, and sees the church service in progress.

The congregation of the Dead, swaying and groaning. The skeletons rattling back and forth, voiceless but somehow charismatic, gnashing their splintered teeth. There are dozens of them down there, swarming. There it is. It had to come eventually. You said my name, I remember it. How the fuck do you know my name?

No way to explain what I know and how I know it, not with my kindergarten vocabulary and special-ed speech impediments. So I simply retreat, exiting the plane and trudging up the boarding tunnel, feeling more acutely than ever the limitations of what I am.

As I stand in Gate 12 considering where to go from here, I feel a touch on my shoulder. Julie is standing behind me. She stuffs her hands into the pockets of her tight black jeans, looking uncertain.

I look around the hallways. Let me go with you to get food. I know she loves pad thai. I know she drools over sushi. But that knowledge is not mine to use. That knowledge is stolen. I nod slowly and point at her. I click my teeth and do an exaggerated zombie shuffle. I lumber around in a circle with slow, shaky steps, letting out an occasional groan. I gesture in each direction, indicating the small cliques of zombies wandering in the dim morning shadows.

I look her straight in the eyes. She has wiped much of the black blood off her skin, and through the gaps I can detect traces of her life-energy. It bubbles out and sparkles like champagne, igniting flashes deep in the back of my sinuses. I slowly spread this ink on her cheek and down her neck.

She is, at the bottom of everything, a very smart girl. She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, cringes at the smell of my fluids, then nods. She is overdoing it, overacting like high school Shakespeare, but she will pass. We walk through crowds of Dead, shambling past us on both sides, and no one glances at us. At a few points I catch her fighting a smile after letting out a particularly hammy moan.

This is. I take Julie to the food court, and she gives me an odd look when I immediately start moving towards the Thai restaurant. As we get closer she cringes and covers her nose. The warming bins in front are frothing with dried-up rot, dead maggots and mould. I head towards the burger joint. Julie gives me that quizzical look again and follows me.

In the walk-in freezer we find a few burger patties that are currently cold, but have clearly been thawed and refrozen many times. Dead flies speckle the white freezer floor. Julie sighs. The airport does have a sushi bar. Taken a human home alive? Call me an idealist. I raise a finger as if to stall her. I prise open a freezer door and a cloud of icy air billows out. I hide my relief. This was starting to get awkward. We step inside and stand among shelves stacked high with in-flight meal trays.

Thanks to whatever glorious preservatives they contain, the meals appear to be edible. I love. She points to the shelf. I try to steer her as far away from the School as possible, but we can still hear the wretched screams echoing down the halls. Is this for my benefit, or hers? We sit down at the cafe table and I set one of the meal trays in front of her.

She jabs at the frozen-solid noodles with a plastic fork. How long has it been since you ate real food? She looks me over. You look pretty good for a corpse.

I breathe deep and let it go. Hold on. She has forgotten her shamble, and her hips sway rhythmically. Carbtein tablets, Carbtein powder, Carbtein juice.

Jesus H. I notice she seems to be having trouble getting the clumpy, congealed noodles down her throat. Julie stops eating and looks at the bottle. She looks at me and smiles. No mindaltering substances allowed in the Stadium. Have to stay alert at all times, stay vigilant, blah blah blah.

I mean, anyone who appreciates a good beer is at least halfway okay in my book. She sets the beer down and leans forward a little.

Her lip curls in an amused half-smile. Your name is Rur? It starts with R? Dark amber emptiness. Lifeless piss. I accept the beer and take a long pull. I can feel it trickling through tiny perforations in my stomach and dampening my shirt. And to my amazement, I can feel a slight buzz spreading through my brain. Is it psychosomatic? Maybe a distant memory of the drinking experience left over from my old life?

If so, apparently I was a lightweight. Julie grins at my stupefied expression. I can taste her raspberry lip gloss on the rim. I find myself imagining her dolled up for a concert, her neck-length hair swept and styled, her small body radiant in a red party dress, and me kissing her, the lipstick smearing onto my mouth, spreading bright rouge onto my grey lips. I slide the bottle a safe distance away from me.

Julie chuckles and returns to her food. She pokes at it for a few minutes, ignoring my presence at the table.


I look at the ceiling. I gesture around at the airport in general, towards the distant groans of my fellow Dead. She looks at me hard. My eyes retreat. So, yeah. Thanks for saving my life. Or sparing my life. So again: I put a hand on my chest, over my heart. Does that pitiful organ still represent anything? It lies motionless in my chest, pumping no blood, serving no purpose, and yet my feelings still seem to originate inside its cold walls.

My muted sadness, my vague longing, my rare flickers of joy. They pool in the centre of my chest and seep out from there, diluted and faint, but real. I press my hand against my heart. Then I reach slowly towards Julie, and press against hers.

Somehow, I manage to meet her eyes. She looks down at my hand, then gives me a dry stare. Kidding me. She pulls an iPod out of her pocket and stuffs the earbuds into her ears. This date is not going well. Once again the absurdity of my inner thoughts overwhelms me, and I want to crawl out of my skin, escape my ugly, awkward flesh and be a skeleton, naked and anonymous.

Are there. I have got to get ahold of myself. The second earbud is still sitting on the table. Without looking up from her plate she casually offers it to me. She stops, looks at me, tilts her head in pleasant surprise. But nothing happens. Maybe it needs the violence of the bite. I watch Julie bob her head from side to side with eyes closed. Even now, here, in the darkest and strangest of places with the most macabre of company, the music moves her and her life pulses hard.

I smell it again, a white glowing vapour wafting out from under my black blood. What is wrong with me?

I stare at my hand, at its pale grey flesh, cool and stiff, and I dream it pink, warm and supple, able to guide and build and caress. I dream my necrotic cells shrugging off their lethargy, inflating and lighting up like Christmas deep in my dark core. Am I inventing all this like the beer buzz? A placebo? An optimistic illusion? Either way, I feel the flatline of my existence disrupting, forming heartbeat hills and valleys.

You keep almost running off the road when you turn right. The Mercedes lurches forward, throwing our heads back. Can you go easier on the gas? Julie rolls her eyes and forces patience into her voice.

Under her pressure, I smoothly exchange gas for clutch, and the car glides forward. I release a satisfied wheeze. We are cruising the tarmac, taxiing to and fro under the mild afternoon sun. Our hair ruffles in the breeze. They groan in protest and I shush them. Julie examines our dented front-end and shakes her head. This was a beautiful car. He slumps into the seat with his arms crossed, pouting. As we circle back towards our home terminal, I notice the congregation emerging from a cargo loading gate.

Like an inverted funeral procession, the Dead march out in a solemn line, taking slow, plodding steps towards the church. A clutch of Boneys leads the pilgrimage, moving forward with far more purpose than any of the flesh-clad. They are static.

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Quod tu es, ego fui, quod ego sum, tu eris. What you are, I once was. What I am, you will become. As we cruise past their line, some of the Fleshies glance at us with uninterest, and I see my wife among them. She is walking alongside a male, her hand woven into his. My kids spot her in the crowd and stand up on the back seat, waving and grunting loudly. Julie follows their gaze and sees my wife wave back at them. Julie looks at me.

I look at my wife, expecting some kind of rebuke. But there is almost no recognition in her eyes. She looks at the car. She looks straight ahead and keeps walking, hand in hand with another man.

I know you can talk; say something. Watching my wife fade into the distance, I put a hand on my heart. Are my words ever actually audible, or do they just echo in my head while people stare at me, waiting? I want to change my punctuation. Julie watches me a moment longer, then turns to face the windshield and the oncoming scenery. On our right: On our left: I cried every night for weeks.

Practically wore the binary off all my saddest Mp3s. Her eyes are far away. I feel things so hard sometimes. When that happened with Perry, I would have loved to be more. She runs a finger through her hair and twists it around a little. I notice faint scars on her wrists and forearms, thin lines too symmetrical to be accidents. She blinks and glances at me abruptly, as if I just woke her from a dream. I brake too late, and park the car with the bumper two inches into the grille of a Miata.

Later that evening we sit in the , cross-legged in the middle of the aisle. A plate of microwaved pad thai sits on the floor in front of Julie, cooling. I watch her in silence as she pokes at it. Even doing and saying nothing, she is entertaining to watch. She tilts her head, her eyes roam, she smiles and shifts her body.

Her inner thoughts play across her face like rear-projection movies. She starts digging through my stacks of records. Lot more trouble though. Is that when you died or something? One might try to deduce a timeline by looking at the crumbling streets, the toppled buildings, the rotting infrastructure, but every part of the world is decaying at its own pace.

There are cities that could be mistaken for Aztec ruins, and there are cities that just emptied last week, TVs still awake all night roaring static, cafe omelettes just starting to mould. What happened to the world was gradual. Each sequential step surprised us.

Then one day we woke up, and everything was gone. Stop shrugging, shrugger! Answer my question. Why the stunted musical growth? How can I possibly explain this to her in words? The slow death of Quixote. The abandoning of quests, the surrendering of desires, the settling in and settling down that is the inevitable fate of the Dead. Music is life! I find myself praying to the ghastly mouth of the open sky that Julie never changes. That she never wakes up one day to find herself older and wiser.

Out of morbid curiosity, I pull one off her plate and chew it. There is no taste at all. I turn my head and spit it into my palm. She seems far away again, and I watch the colours and shapes of her thought-film flickering behind her face.

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