The Burning World (Warm Bodies #2)(29)
While the Dead watch the Living die, a group of men in white shirts files in through a side door and surrounds them. One of these men unfolds a pocket knife. He sticks it into a patient’s arm. The patient doesn’t flinch, but she looks up at the man with an expression of offense. Hurt feelings.
“What are you?” the man demands.
“A . . . person,” the patient replies.
“No you’re not,” the man says, and moves the knife down the patient’s arm, opening a gash.
The patient’s face darkens. “Stop.”
“Hey!” Nora shouts from across the room. She hands off her patient to another nurse and rushes toward this forgotten corner of the hospital. “What the fuck are you doing? Who are you?”
“We’re with the Axiom Group. What are these people?”
“What do you mean what are they?”
“Are they Living or Dead?”
“They’re trying to decide. Why the fuck are you sticking knives in my patients?”
“We have orders to investigate these uncategorized individuals.”
“They’re zombies. They’re trying not to be. What else do you need to know?”
“The Dead don’t ‘try.’ They’re passive tissue waiting for input.”
Nora rolls her eyes. “Jesus Christ, Grigio all over again. Listen, I don’t have time for this. I have people to sew up.”
He points his knife at the patient’s face. “They’re ignoring our instructions and interfering with aid efforts.” The patient slaps the knife out of his hand. The man looks shocked. “See?”
“Get out of my Morgue,” Nora says.
“We’ll need to take some of them back to Goldman Dome for study. Three should be enough for now.”
Nora takes a step toward the man. “I said get out.”
We notice things about Nora Greene that interest us. Many small scars darken the skin of her arms and face, and her left hand is missing a finger: chapters of her life written bold on her flesh, calling us to read them. The man in the white shirt notices these things too, and they concern him. But not as much as the pistol in Nora’s right hand, which she is tapping emphatically against her thigh.
The man pulls out his walkie. “Management? Request assistance in the Medical building.” He looks from Nora’s blood-smeared scrubs to her blood-shot eyes. “We’re encountering resistance.”
I
I DON’T SLEEP WELL. I’m not good at it. Sleep is a ceasefire with life, and I don’t trust my opponent. I lie awake all night expecting ambush. In my Dead days, sleep meant lying on the floor and staring at the ceiling, trying to regather my decomposing consciousness. I would go months without it, and when it came it was always a terrible collapse. No peaceful descent into a feather bed with a book and a cup of chamomile; more like a surprise bullet to the kneecap, dropping me to the floor in a confused and frightened pile.
Since the first night I closed my eyes and truly dreamed, lying next to Julie on a stranger’s mildewed mattress, my relationship with sleep has improved, but it’s still dysfunctional. Most nights find me listening to her soft snores deep into the morning, passing the time by trying to decode her twitches and whimpers and half-formed words, imagining what colorful horrors her brain has prepared for her and wondering how to comfort her when she wakes up. If I’m lucky, I’ll drift into a shallow slumber for an hour or two, but my mind, traumatized by years of death, remains wary of anything that resembles it.
So in a way, getting knocked unconscious by the butt of a gun is rather refreshing. I haven’t slept this well in ages.
Deep in a dark alley of my mind, a grizzled street prophet is muttering news of fire and judgment, but I ignore him and stride past with my chin held high. I feel light. I am on a tropical island, swimming in warm blue water while gulls soar above and dolphins glide below. My abs are cut gems and my skin is a healthy bronze. Julie is on the beach in a bikini and sunglasses, oiling her flawless body, her huge breasts, her endless legs; we are on vacation, we are in love, we are—
We are in a nightclub and the music is pounding and I am dancing with Julie. I dance well; my hips and limbs swing in perfect rhythm, pantomiming sex in front of a hundred strangers without a hint of shame. My pockets are full of money and drugs and Julie is grinding into me with abandon, her long hair whipping into my face, her red skirt hiking higher and higher and everyone is watching us with envy and lust. I smirk at them and take Julie home to our high-rise condo and we fuck all night without pause or reservation, not looking at each other but at the city below our windows, spreading itself before us like a submissive whore offering us everything—
I am on a private plane, ensconced in soft leather and bathed in tropical jazz, looking down on endless miles of ruined cities and all the poor fools still inhabiting them. Julie sits next to me, and the sight of her brings a stern frown to my face, because I am dressed for serious business, silver shirt and red tie, but she’s not wearing a pantsuit or pencil skirt or even a shoulder-padded blazer; she’s wearing jeans and a plaid flannel, a red stocking cap pulled over her tangled hair. I am about to scold her when I notice my own outfit is also a little off. The fabric of my shirt has a thick, tough texture, and instead of classic Italian wingtips: heavy black boots caked with mud.