The Burning World (Warm Bodies #2)(104)

I retreat to the cargo ramp and close it and run to the wing. They’re still firing.

“Stop!” I shout at them.

“We can’t, R!” Nora says between shots. “They’re swarming the plane!” She sights a young man climbing up the nose wheel and picks him off.

“They . . . can’t get in!”

“You know they can,” M grunts. “Tight swarm, pile up, break windows . . . remember that bus we did in Olympia?”

He unloads a volley into the advancing swarm, stripping away the front row.

I grip my face in my hands. What happened to my act of kindness? How did it become this? I have catalyzed two massacres in a single week. What is the flaw in me that turns my noblest efforts to shit?

I rush into the cockpit and find Julie testing switches while Abram wraps the last of the duct tape around the control rod. “Please say you’re done,” I beg him.

He settles into his seat and carefully pushes the mass of tape that surrounds a large switch. It clicks, and the engines roar to life. I hear M and Nora scrambling inside and slamming the emergency door shut. Zombies fall away from the plane as we blast into reverse, and by the time Abram has pulled as close to a U-turn as a jumbo jet can manage, we are clear of the swarm.

They stand among the motionless bodies of their peers, watching us depart, and just before distance makes their faces illegible, I see their expressions soften from hunger to longing. A subtle change, but visible to anyone who has felt it before. Perhaps somewhere under the scorched earth, a few seeds survived. Perhaps I am capable of good in the midst of my failures. Perhaps if I tell myself enough, if I repeat it over and over as we fly away from this continent, I can make myself believe it.





HIS FACE through the bars.

“How are you getting along with your fellow criminals, R—?”

“I’ve made lots of new friends.”

My grandfather smiles. I don’t. My face is mostly bruises, and smiling hurts. My muscles are lean and corded. The skin on my fists is finally starting to callus.

“I know prison’s hard,” he says, “but looks like you’re taking it harder than most.”

“I’ve been training.”

“You’ve been getting your ass kicked.”

I look at the floor. “Some of them don’t like me.”

“Why not?”

“Usually starts with my name.”

“What about it?”

“They’ve never heard it before, so they don’t like it.”

He chuckles. “Never did figure out how a Bible-thumper like your mom came up with that hippie bullshit. Bet the kids at school got real creative with it.” He notices my glare and returns to his track. “But you can’t tell me you’re getting all this”—he gestures to my face—“just for having a stupid name.”

“No.”

“So why don’t your new classmates like you, R—?”

“Because they know I’m better than them.”

He smiles bigger, revealing those translucent brown teeth. “Oh I see.”

I spit on the floor, partly as a sign of disdain, partly because my mouth is filling with watery blood. “They’re simple scum. Killers and rapists. There’s no purpose to their crimes, they do it like animals, whenever they’re hungry or horny or bored.”

“And you’re better than them because when you burned down a city, you did it for God?”

“Exactly.”

He laughs. It sounds like dry bones cracking. “You did it because you’re a pissed-off kid. You did it because your mommy died and you needed someone to blame, and you couldn’t blame God because you know he’s not real.”

I grit my teeth as he talks. I don’t understand what I feel toward him. It should be hate, but it isn’t quite that.

“You and them, you’re all liars. You make up bullshit to excuse your actions. You did it because God told you to, they did it because ‘life is hard,’ because they ‘didn’t have a choice.’ Always hiding behind some noble excuse for ignoble deeds.” He chuckles. “You’re a bunch of pussies. The biggest, toughest bastard in this place is a fucking pussy, and you can tell him I said it.”

“What do you want, Grandpa?” I snarl at him. “What can I do for you, Pappy?”

He shakes his head. “First of all, you can drop that fuzzy cardigan shit; it’s not going to be like that with us. You can call me Mr. Atvist.”

I nurture many dark beliefs about my place in the world, but it’s a thrill to hear one so nakedly confirmed. “Okay, Mr. Atvist,” I say, trying to halt the quaver in my voice. “Why do you keep coming here? My whole life, you’ve been barely a rumor. Now you’re my only friend?”

He looks around the menagerie of muscled thugs and wild-eyed madmen, pausing on the empty cell across from me.

“Your partner, Paul Bark. You know he’s already started burning again? Barely waited a week after he got out. He’s got about three hundred people claiming membership in this—what are they calling it? ‘Church of the Fire’? Looks like it’s really taking off. All the corps are nervous. Even Fed’s paying attention.”

I stare at the floor.

“You founded a successful cult at age sixteen. You have something in you that moves people. As a businessman, that interests me.”