The Burning World (Warm Bodies #2)(37)

Nora and Julie, who have been groaning and gasping like ridiculous B-movie ghouls, finally drop the act and dissolve into laughter.

“Chin up, soldier,” Nora says. “You’re not catching any diseases from me without buying me a few drinks.”

Abram throws the guard’s gun and walkie into the truck and hops in. I give the stunned, open-mouthed man a winning smile and Nora and Julie wave as we pull away into the city streets.





WE


WE WATCH ABRAM KELVIN drive away from the dome, and feelings rush through us. They are complex and contradictory—joy, sorrow, longing, love—but our feelings always are. They flood the halls of the Library like a rich and ancient liquor, infused with the memories of everything. It is rare to look at anything without imbibing this spirit, because everything is remembered by at least one part of us. Every tree has been a perch, every stream has been a bath, every stone has cut a paw or broken a window or been used to build a house. Everything on earth has meant something to someone, and there has never been a person whom no one ever loved.

So while even a stone has a few threads tied to it, a person has a thousand ropes, and the man in the truck is pulling us. A part of us begins to separate. A book slides out from our shelves. It’s a thin book, coverless and bound with red yarn, and it’s been badly damaged. Tears blur its ink. Blood blots its words. But the books in our Library can heal. They can grow. They can complete themselves.

A part of us emerges from our vastness. A part of us watches Abram and reads him, hoping to learn who he is. Hoping to recover a few of the pages that a heartless world ripped out.

We follow the truck.





I


INSIDE THE PROTECTIVE SHEATH of Corridor 2, I can almost pretend I’m in the old world. Smooth black asphalt with freshly painted yellow lines, entirely clear of abandoned cars and the wreckage of collapsed buildings. No bomb craters, no cracks, not so much as a pothole. And the ten-foot concrete walls effectively hide the mess outside, ensuring that nothing shatters this lovely illusion of municipal vitality. They also ensure, incidentally, that we won’t be swarmed and eaten by any of my less enlightened former friends.

Then the illusion evaporates. The walls dissolve into wooden pour forms and sprouts of rebar, and we’re on a standard street again, exposed to the city and all its lurking threats. Despite the countless benefits of a safe route between enclaves, I have no doubt one of Axiom’s first acts was to shut down the Corridor project, keeping its territory divided into manageable factions. When has a despot ever benefited from bringing people together?

The dark clouds begin to release their payload, and Julie and Nora hunch their shoulders as cold rain douses our little tailgate party. I see a few lone zombies staring up at the sky, letting the drops spatter against their unblinking eyes. The Dead have always commuted to the city. They slog in every morning from their various hives in the outskirts, they do their gruesome work, then they slog back home to hibernate a few hours before doing it all again. Only recently have some begun to alter this weary ritual. The young gray woman in a tank top and skirt—is she simply lost, separated from her hunting party, or is she feeling the cold of the rain for the first time and wondering why? The blood-smeared man trudging toward the stadium—is he going there to kill and eat, or to beg for help with these strange new stirrings?

As we drive past, both of them whirl toward us and hiss, silvery eyes wide with animal hunger. I tell myself to be patient. Whatever is going to happen won’t happen overnight.

“See how far you’ve come, R?” Julie says. “I know you doubt it sometimes, but look at them and look at you. No one would ever guess what you used to be.”

As always, she is too generous, but I accept the encouragement. Given that I seem to have fooled our rescuer, there may even be some truth in it.

Nora slides the rear window open. “Pull over. We’re coming inside.”

“I don’t like our distance yet,” Abram says without taking his eyes off the road. “Hold on a couple more miles.”

“Hey. We’re in the Dead part of town. I feel like shark chum back here. Pull over.”

He drives a couple more blocks, then pulls into a parking garage entrance. I see him listening carefully as we climb out of the truck, and I wonder what he’s more afraid to hear: the hungry groans of my people or the propeller drones of his?

Julie hops into the passenger seat without pausing to consider legroom issues. “So,” she says, peering intently at Abram as Nora and I fold our long limbs into the barely-there backseat. “Are you ready for that chat?”

Abram lets out a slow breath. “Everybody buckled in?”

Nora’s knees are pressed into her chest. Mine are against my chin.

“We’re certainly not going anywhere if we crash,” Nora says.

Abram pulls out of the garage and heads south toward the freeway, weaving steadily through the rough terrain of vehicular debris. The rain pelts the windshield in fat, splattering drops.

“Perry didn’t have a brother,” Julie says.

“He wouldn’t remember me much. He was only five when he saw me last, and our mother never liked to talk about people we’d lost. Said we should stay in the present.” He smirks. “Very convenient philosophy when you misplace a son.”

Julie hesitates. “What happened?”