The Burning World (Warm Bodies #2)(44)

But as Parker braces for the spray of blood, a figure emerges from the shadows behind him. A big arm wraps around his neck and a big hand clamps down on his gun. He has two sweet seconds to comprehend his change in fortune before his comrades open fire and the arm jerks him around to face them and he becomes a soft, fleshy shield for the man operating him like a puppet. While Parker’s men fill his chest with bullets, his own gun does the same to their heads, until the arm around his neck finally uncoils and all three soldiers slump to the ground.

The big arm belongs to a big man. Tall and bulky. Bearded and bald. His white T-shirt is stained with mud and sweat and tree sap, and now with a great deal of blood.

“Been remembering a lot,” M says, shaking the gun free from Parker’s lifeless grip. “Used to be a wrestler, a Marine, a mercenary . . . lots of rough stuff.” He surveys the bodies around him with a look of mild amazement. “Funny. Always figured I was a poet or something.”

A rare phenomenon occurs inside of me. A bubble of warmth appears in my chest. My larynx spasms—I laugh.

M turns to Nora. “You okay?”

She nods, too shocked to speak.

“Plug your ears.”

M debrains the twitching body at his feet, fulfilling his responsibility to society, then climbs out of the ditch with a smile on his scarred lips. “Hey, Archie.”

I run forward and hug him. His giant palm thumps my back, knocking some breath out of me.

“Good to see you, M.”

“It’s Marcus.”

“Was afraid you were going to . . .”

“Nah.”

It’s answer enough for me. I step back, grinning.

“Where the hell did you come from?” Julie says, finally lifting her hands from Sprout’s eyes. “I thought you were up in the woods.”

“Tried it for a while.” He shrugs. “Nature’s boring.”

A faint smile creeps through Nora’s shock.

“Came down to the gas station to find beer . . . found some.” He rubs his forehead with a grimace. “Was trying to sleep it off . . . then you noisy motherfuckers . . .” He spreads his palms wide, taking in the blood-sprayed Porsche, the wrecked, smoldering truck, and the three dead men in beige jackets. “What the hell?”

“Marcus,” Nora says, touching his shoulder. “A lot happened while you were camping.”





WE


IT’S QUIET in the sky.

If we float high enough, it’s almost silent.

No feelings, no memories, no chatter of stories in a million overlapping languages. It’s one of the few places on Earth where nothing much has happened—even the birds and insects conduct their business near the ground. There was a brief burst of noise when humans learned to fly, when they thrust their lives into the stratosphere and filled it with fears and fantasies, transactions and quarrels, bathroom sex and panic attacks. But that era passed like a single shout in a cathedral, echoing for a second then gone, and the sky is once again a restful place.

The sighing parts of us like to hide here. Our neutral middle books, lethargic lives untroubled by agony or ecstasy, languid moments and memories of naps—these parts like to drift through newborn clouds and bathe in the blankness, a shelter from the tumult of the Library.

But something is disturbing their leisure, disrupting their pillowy quiet.

Radio waves. Slack for so many years, they have begun to vibrate with intent. For the first time in more than a decade, the mindless recordings and shrieking interference have cohered into something with meaning.

We tune in and listen—even the sighers feel a thrill. Is it music? Is it a message of hope? Voices reaching out to reconcile and rebuild?

No.

It’s invasions. Acquisitions. A steady spread of poison. It’s armies sharing intel in a grotesque code, relaying atrocities with cartoons and clip art. And between all this, it’s a manhunt. A mobilization. A clawed hand reaching out to choke.

“Find them and bring them back.”

Far below the clouds, we see a tiny light. A tiny vehicle filled with tiny people, each of them tied to a thousand of our books. Miles behind them, others begin pursuit. Walkies stab through the static, barking curses and commands.

The sighing parts of us gather their strength and abandon the quiet of the clouds. They rejoin the rest of us—the fierce parts, the indignant parts, the wronged and the murdered, the selfless and the heroic, the parts that feel the pain of others and want to make it end.

Together, we descend. We follow these tiny people, watching and waiting, bending our ears to these noisy nodes of life.

The time for quiet is over.





M RESTS HIS KNEES against the dash and does his best to compress his bulk. Abram’s knuckles occasionally brush his belly when he reaches for the gearshift, and they exchange an awkward glance. Julie holds Sprout on her lap in the middle backseat, arms wrapped around her like a seat belt, and I sit next to her, my knees digging into M’s back, staring out the window while Nora updates him on the grim new landscape of our lives.

The rain has stopped. The sky is developing a faint silvery glow. Julie and I have been unconscious much of the last few days, but when was the last time we really slept? I don’t imagine torture blackouts are particularly restful. My body still hasn’t fully adopted human needs—I can’t remember the last time I felt hungry, and going a week without sleep is not unusual for me—but I worry about Julie. I’ve never seen her so wrung-out. She’s less talkative than usual, letting Nora handle most of the exposition. Her eyes are puffy and bloodshot. She favors her mangled hand, wincing with each bump in the road, and I want so badly to take her home, clean her bandages, wash the blood and dirt from her body. But the word “home” sounds more and more abstract with each passing mile.