The Burning World (Warm Bodies #2)(56)

“Elbow?” Her grin fades as she reads the back of the sleeve. “I remember them. One of my mom’s favorites.” I hesitate with the needle hovering over the groove, but she waves away my concern. “It’s fine. Play it.”

I lower the needle. The song is gentle and full of yearning, and it drastically alters the mood. I give her a tentative smile, hoping this is okay. “Wanted to hear something new.”

She reads the fine print on the sleeve. “2008? That’s not new, R. I’m newer than this.”

I shrug. “I’m . . . a little delayed.”

She smirks, then looks at the ceiling as the first verse begins.

We had the drive and the time on our hands

One little room and the biggest of plans

The days were shaping up frosty and bright

Perfect weather to fly

Perfect weather to fly

“Okay,” she says, nodding. “Okay, this is good.”

A throat clears behind us.

“Sorry to interrupt your little listening party,” Abram says, standing in the doorway, “but I did mention that people are coming to kill us, right?”

Julie looks around at the cabin, empty except for a few baseball cards and worthless dollar bills under the seats. “We’re done.”

“That turntable looks heavy.”

“If it comes down to a few pounds, Abram, I’ll cut off my arm. Deal?” She closes her eyes and sways to the music. “God, this is pretty.”

Abram gives her a thoroughly unenthused stare and slips into the cockpit to begin powering up the plane. No sooner has he left the doorway than Nora steps into it. “R?” she whispers, glancing after Abram to make sure he’s not listening. “You might want to come up here.”

I follow her through the boarding tunnel into the waiting area of Gate 12. Several carry-ons lie open and emptied on the floor, and while the toiletries and computer gear have been ignored, the clothes have been put to use. Between two rows of seats is a huge fort made of dresses and robes draped over mop handles. The engineering is impressive.

“We need more mops,” says a small voice from inside. “Go get some mops.”

Julie and I exchange a glance. We duck down to peek through the entrance. Abram’s daughter appears to be having a tea party with my two Dead children, still sticky with their mother’s blood.

Sprout turns, grins, waves. “Hi! We’re building a building!”

I realize that the items on the floor between them are not plates and silverware but notepads and compasses. Sprout seems to have found an architect’s drafting kit. But I’m less concerned about the girl’s impractical career goals than I am about her choice of friends. Joan and Alex kneel under the fort’s colorful ceiling of luminous cotton, staring at Sprout with a dreamy disorientation in their dull gray eyes. I see no signs of hunger or aggression. They seem to have witnessed both the massacre of their neighbors and the liquefaction of their mother without succumbing to relapse, but I remember them running through the airport, laughing and playing like something very close to normal children, and I also remember them picking up a man’s severed arm and sharing it between them like a jumbo hot dog. The plague is uncertain of its welcome. It circles their hearts, tapping on windows. I can’t trust it or them.

“Come out,” I tell Sprout, and her smile fades.

“Why?”

“You can’t be around those kids.”

“Why?”

Behind us, the plane’s engines sputter to life. They rev and chug for a moment, then settle into a steady hum.

“Sprout, honey,” Julie says, “it’s time to go. But Joan and Alex can come with us.”

I look at her sharply. “They can?”

She looks back even more sharply. “Were you planning on leaving them here?”

“Well, I—”

“R,” she says, horrified. “Axiom’s going to cut through this whole hive looking for us. You want to leave your kids to be mowed down with the others?”

“No, but . . . they’re dangerous.”

“Who’s dangerous?” Abram says, stepping out of the boarding tunnel. “What’s going on?”

Sprout peeks shyly from under a silk negligee. “Hi, Daddy.”

Abram crouches down. He sees my kids staring at his daughter. “Jesus,” he spits and knocks the roof off the fort, grabs Sprout and carries her clear while my kids watch mutely.

“You broke it!” Sprout cries. “You broke my building!”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he says, glaring at all the adults in the room.

“We were watching them,” Nora says. “They weren’t doing anything.”

“They’re fucking zombies, for Christ’s sake.”

Julie stands up. The steel returns. “They’re coming with us.”

“You are out of your fucking mind.”

“We’ll tie them up and keep them in the back of the plane. They won’t be able to hurt anyone. They’re the closest thing R has to a family and we’re not leaving them here for your friends to butcher.”

I hear a new tone mixing into the hum of the engines. A lower-pitched drone like an ugly harmony.

“Using a jumbo jet as a getaway car is already the stupidest thing I’ve ever done,” Abram says. “If you expect me to—”