The Burning World (Warm Bodies #2)(84)

She slows to a fast walk, taking long breaths until her lungs stabilize just shy of an attack. Her tears have dried. Her fear seems to be cooling into a hard edge of purpose. I scan the city, looking for a glimpse of whatever signs she’s following, but every block looks the same to me: centuries of artistry and architecture ground down to shapeless lumps and dunes of monochrome dust. The red evening sun creeps around twisted masses of metal. Shapes dance in the corners of my eyes and vanish when I look. I remember what I saw on the plane, that blurring and twisting of streets, like the city was forgetting its own form. When Julie says something’s wrong with this place, I don’t doubt her.

I’m able to make her pause just long enough to grab a bag of toy army men from a corner store, which I drop at each fork in our path, imagining the horror of getting lost in this vast urban labyrinth. Julie is in no state to consider such precautions. She walks in a trance, her face pale and stiff, eyes damp but fierce. If I hadn’t followed her . . . if I hadn’t known the tune of her voice well enough to catch that dissonant note . . .

Lost in grim speculation, I almost crash into her when she comes to a sudden stop. We have entered a sort of courtyard, an empty space between four buildings that appears to have been recently colonized. It’s overrun with bristly weeds and malnourished vines, but it bears less resemblance to ancient Egypt than the rest of the city does. Lawn chairs sit in loose circles throughout the space, surrounded by beer and wine bottles, marijuana pipes, and stacks of books that rain has reduced to pulp, however rigorously highbrow they once were.

“This must’ve been them,” Julie mumbles, taking in the details of this sprawling still life. “The ‘Remakers.’?”

Scattered throughout the space are long workshop tables covered in the tools of various artistic trades. Chisels, brushes, silk screens, pencils, paint cans, knives, crochet needles, a drum kit in the corner, a pile of guitars, a podium, and a mic stand. And on one of the walls, a mural, or a blend of a dozen murals, their starkly contrasting styles somehow intertwining into a jungle of colors and figures, from crowds of tiny people to hundred-foot giants.

“They were building a different kind of city, Mom said.”

I can’t place the emotion in her voice, a dissonant chord of anger, sadness, and love.

“Something based on different values. Different measures of success. It was supposed to be a message to the world.”

The mural reaches to the very top of the wall, where a solar panel once powered a single yellow bulb, now dark.

“I wonder how long it lasted.” She cranes her neck to look at the bulb. “I wonder what killed it.”

I follow a few steps behind her as she walks the perimeter of the space, running her hands along the brick walls. “We could have ended up here instead. We were so close. Ten miles, the sign said . . .” Her voice is hard but faint, like she’s shouting from a great distance. “Dad wouldn’t take the exit. Mom was screaming at him, but . . .” She turns in a slow circle, staring up at the mural, the inert remains of a movement. “Was this what she needed to make her hold on?” Her chin quivers. “Did she leave us for this?”

“Julie.” I say it so softly it gets her attention. “Why are we here?”

She looks at me. She opens her mouth like she’s finally going to answer. Then she freezes. She cocks her ear. And I hear it.

Engines. Tires snarling on gritty pavement.

Someone in this ghost town is alive.

We emerge from the courtyard just as the vehicles disappear around a corner: two windowless white cargo vans, unmarked except for the geometric mandala stenciled on their sides.

My mind clicks dry like an unloaded gun. Did they really follow us a hundred miles from the border? Or were they already here?

I glance at Julie. Her face reveals nothing, just a trembling, round-eyed blankness.

She runs after the vans.

I shout, “Wait!” but I know she won’t, and I’m already following her.

The vans pause in the middle of the next block, and two more pop out from a side street to join them. These ones have windows, and just before they all drive off in a line, I catch a glimpse of their cargo. People. About a dozen in each van, packed together like miserable ride-share commuters.

This isn’t a search party—at least not for us. We have stumbled into other business.

Julie follows the vans’ cloud of dust. It curls through a route that’s clear of debris, like a well-worn animal trail in a forest, leading deeper into the city. I keep trying to catch her eyes, hoping to decipher her intent, but she stares straight ahead, utterly opaque. And then, just as the dust is getting too vague to follow, we emerge from an alley into the back lot of a large building, and the vans are right in front of us.

For a moment I worry Julie will charge at them like they’re figments in a dream, but she’s lucid enough to duck behind a dumpster. Gagging on the smell of whatever’s inside, I listen to barked commands and shuffling footfalls. The vans are backed up against the building, blocking my view of their activity, but it’s clear they’re unloading passengers. A minute later the doors bang shut and the vans drive off and we’re alone in the empty parking lot.

“Julie,” I whisper. “Need to go back. Get the others.”

She shakes her head.

“We don’t know what’s in there. Can’t just—”