The Burning World (Warm Bodies #2)(124)

The girl looks over her shoulder and smiles. “Do you see it?”

The boy studies these shifting, translucent layers, trying to choose his answer.





I


OPENING THE DOOR is like popping a champagne bottle. Wind and rain explode into the lobby, knocking me back a step. We are caught in the middle of an act of God, but whose side is he on this time? Is this the parting of the Red Sea or the ruination of Job?

A red-and-white triangle spins out of the sky and sticks into the trunk of a courtyard tree.

YIELD

I ignore this message like I ignored the other and I push out into the storm.

The hurricane has revitalized the city. Panic has returned its plodding populace to pre-apocalypse levels of exuberance as every last Manhattanite scrambles to move out. The organized evacuation efforts we witnessed earlier have devolved into the age-old game of every man for himself, with Axiom troops making little effort to direct the mob or curb the eruptions of violence.

The crowd seems to be flowing toward the Jersey Bridge, but I have no doubt we’ll be going against the current.

“Where did they take my daughter?” Abram shouts at Tomsen, and Julie nearly overlaps him with, “Where’s my mom?”

I might as well join in. “My kids!”

Tomsen glances from face to face, overwhelmed, then points south. “That way.”

We take a narrow side street to avoid the crowds, but the concrete canyon squeezes the wind into a face-peeling blast. M and I move to the front to break the force for our smaller companions; I imagine Julie blowing away, spinning off into the sky like a leaf. And as I watch the sky, imagining this and other horrors, I see the top of 432 Park Avenue in the distance. I see a helicopter hovering above it: a huge, dual-rotor beast built to haul mountains across oceans. What is it hauling now as it spins and sways above the tower, tilting almost horizontally against the wind?

A box.

A metal shipping crate is rising off the roof of my grandfather’s penthouse, gaudy red against the dark sky. What could possibly be inside? There is no possession in that building that he valued enough to save. He didn’t love wealth, he loved getting wealthy. He nibbled the meat but what he craved was the hunt. The only thing I can imagine him saving is himself.

A wad of trash slaps into my face, reeking of rancid beef, and by the time I pull it off and wipe away the vile grease, the helicopter is gone. I give up contemplating its cargo. There is enough terror around us already.

“Pace University,” Tomsen says as we emerge onto an open highway and the wind lulls a little. “That’s where they take the fresh Dead and the Living potentials.”

“My mom’s in bad shape,” Julie says. “She’s fresh but she’s . . . hurt.”

“If she’s work-worthy they’ll try to salvage her at the hospital. If not, she’ll go somewhere else.”

“Where?”

The wind kicks up again, roaring over the discussion. “It’s a mystery!” Tomsen bellows. “Need to run now!”

Abram is already half a block ahead, having bolted the moment he heard the location. I realize there has been no moment in our acquaintance when he has stood with us for any reason but necessity. What does he want from his life? Does he want anything?

We run after him, but after two blocks, Tomsen suddenly veers off onto a side street.

“Hey!” Julie shouts.

Tomsen stops, looking puzzled. “What?”

“Where are you going?”

“Have to finish it!” she shouts, already running again. “Whole reason I’m here!”

“Tomsen, wait!”

“Meet on the Brooklyn Promenade!” she calls back. “Barbara will throw us a party!”

With that, she disappears into curtains of rain.

Julie growls curses that are lost in the wind. We run toward the college.

? ? ?

Pace University is a utilitarian concrete box that looks more like an insurance company than a hallowed hall of learning. I would never have guessed it was a college if not for the weather-beaten metal letters on its central tower, several of which have come loose and are spinning crazily in the wind. The effect is oddly mesmerizing, like the building is struggling to decide what it is.

A desperate shout startles me back to attention. I see Abram sprinting toward the main entrance, where a few Axiom guards are loading a crowd of children into an old city bus. The bus is covered in faded decals from some old Discovery Channel promo, the doors made to look like the jaws of a shark. I see two familiar heads of hair disappearing into it: curly blond and straight blue-black. Then the jaws snap shut.

I run faster than I have since I ran to stop a disaster, to save my home and my friend from the madness I helped create. I wasn’t fast enough then. My cold, stiff joints resisted my efforts, and I arrived just in time to feel the explosion like a slap of rebuke. I am faster now, fast enough to overtake Abram, but will the result be any different?

I stop my sprint by slamming into the door. “Open it!” I shout at the driver.

“Hey,” one of the guards says, striding toward me with his rifle swinging at his hip. “This bus isn’t for citizens. Back up.”

“My kids are in there.”

“If they’re in that bus, they’re our kids.”

Abram slams into him from behind, sending him sprawling onto the pavement and his rifle spinning under the bus. The engine grumbles and the bus moves forward. I hear Abram wrestling with the guard but I can’t help him now. I hammer my elbow into the door until the Plexiglas panel pops out of its frame. I reach inside and fumble for the door-open lever, but the bus is accelerating. It’s either let go or be dragged.