The Burning World (Warm Bodies #2)(127)

“So it’s all a dream?” he snarls over the sound of cracking glass. “No rules, anything can happen? Fuck this place. Fuck this new world. All of you keep doing your job, you hear me? This isn’t going to end us. I’ll never stop. I’ll never—”

A grim silence hangs in the plane. The crew looks at me. My assistant looks at me. I don’t say anything, so nothing changes. We keep doing our job. We fly away from New York while it writhes and shudders beneath us, and as we glide into the empty expanses of the Midwaste, I see that strange but increasingly familiar sight: ripples on the horizon. Subtle changes in topography. Glittering forms hanging in the blue, glimpsed in my periphery and gone before I can describe them.

Is it really a dream? If anything can happen, can’t it be something good? I look down at the metal briefcase in my lap, this instrument of death and deceit, and I feel the urge to cry mixing into my urge to vomit. Who’s going to make it good?

? ? ?

My sleep is empty. I wake with the same thoughts, the same feelings, the same nausea, as if no time has passed though it’s dark now and the crew is asleep.

I have often wondered if we can feel the approach of important events. Objects of great mass can distort time; could events of great significance do the same? Could the weight of a moment make an indentation that’s felt from both sides, remembered before it happens?

When I wake up on the day of my death, will I feel a tingle and a shiver? Will some small part of me know?

I wander the cabin, looking at the sleeping faces of my crew. The soldiers in their new beige jackets, so wonderfully plain and benign. The negotiators in their silver shirts and colorful ties, a little creative indulgence of mine, unprofessional and due for an overhaul if Axiom survives the night.

And my assistant in her red dress. Another indulgence. Why did I bring her? I am not a man of sentiment. I wrung that out of me years ago. What do I want from this woman beyond a quick fuck to calm my nerves?

I look out the oversized viewing windows. There are no cities below. No gleaming beacons of civilization dotting the landscape. The earth is dark and empty of humanity, and if it contains any beauty, there is no one there to witness it. I feel another sensation I can’t explain. Loneliness slithers into my stomach to join the nausea and melancholy, the newest guest at this horrible party. I head for the cockpit to find the one person I know will be awake, feeling weak and helpless and absurd.

The pilot gives me a nod. The copilot is asleep.

“Why is he asleep?” I demand, bracing my softening spine with the thrill of authority.

“We’re on auto, sir,” the pilot says. “Weather’s good, course is set, I thought I’d let him get some rest.”

I look at the copilot. He is old. Older than he should be for this job. He must have been an emergency selection.

“Wake him up.”

The pilot reaches across the instrument panel and nudges the copilot’s elbow. “Hey.”

The copilot doesn’t move.

“Hey. Doug.” The pilot shakes the copilot’s shoulder and the copilot’s hands flash out and grab the pilot’s arm and there’s a ripping and a spray of blood and a scream and then the copilot is on top of the pilot and the plane is diving and I am tumbling forward.

I feel a tingle. I feel a shiver. I feel teeth pierce my calf and instead of a scream, a hideous laugh bubbles out of me.

Today! It was today! An old man named Doug!

There is a muffled gunshot and the copilot goes still. My assistant pulls him off of me and points her pistol at the pilot.

“Land it.”

The pilot looks at his bleeding arm. He shakes his head with a weariness that borders on relief.

“Please!” my assistant says. “You still have time!”

A long sigh whistles out of him. He settles into his chair and pulls up on the controls. I stagger to my feet. I see high-rises on the far horizon, a city, maybe even our destination, and I find myself hoping, believing we might make it—

A pulse of pain from my leg.

Black worms crawling up my veins.

A reminder. What happens next is not my concern. I am standing outside the circle while the Living discuss future plans, their shoulders a wall with no gaps, their message loud and clear: You have overstayed your welcome. You are not invited to tomorrow.

I hear distant voices shouting. I see the city floating like an island on an ocean of dark trees. And then all I see is the trees, filling every window.

Noise. Pain. I’m flying freely now, no need for a plane, flailing through the air among shards of shattered Plexiglas, and then I’m underwater. On instinct, not desire, I kick my way to the surface and force myself to breathe. I kick until my feet hit ground, and I stand up.

I am in a forest. I am standing in a river whose gentle rushing is the only sound. The sky is clear and rich with stars, not veiled by any human lights, and I wonder if this is the forest of the Dead. When they wander away from the campfire of the Living, perhaps this is where they go. I have always wondered what they see while they stumble through the ruins; could it be this? Visions of trees in place of buildings, berries and honey in place of screaming meat? Is this where I’ll spend my second life, roaming these quiet woods?

Thick, viscous pain thuds into my leg as if to mock me for this fantasy, and I am suddenly aware of bodies all around me. Who are they? I know that I know them but the effort of digging up their names is overwhelming. Their limbs twitch and their lungs inflate wetly, preparing to shatter the silence with meaningless moans, so I pull a revolver out of one man’s jacket and shoot him in the head. I repeat this for each one until I come to a blond woman in a red dress, lying on her side and bleeding from almost everywhere.