Warm Bodies

‘Sorry, I was just…’

‘No, I know, but you’re right, it’s dumb even for a fantasy. Colonel Rosso says only about thirty per cent of the world’s cities are still functioning, so unless the zombies are learning how to read… not a great time to get into the literary arts. I’ll probably just end up in Security.’

‘Shut the fuck up, Perry,’ Julie says, punching me in the shoulder. ‘People still read.’

‘Do they?’ Nora asks.

‘Well, I do. Who cares if there’s an industry behind it? If everyone’s too busy building things and shooting things to bother feeding their souls, screw them. Just write it on a notepad and give it to me. I’ll read it.’

‘A whole book for just one person,’ Nora says, looking at me. ‘Could that ever be worth it?’

Julie answers for me. ‘At least his thoughts would get out of his head, right? At least someone would get to see them. I think it’d be beautiful. It’d be like owning a little piece of his brain.’ She looks at me intently. ‘Give me a piece of your brain, Perry. I want to taste it.’

‘Oh my,’ Nora laughs. ‘Should I leave you two alone?’

I put my arm around Julie and smile the world-weary smile I’ve recently perfected. ‘Oh my little girl,’ I say and squeeze her. She frowns.

‘What about you, Jules?’ Nora says. ‘What’s your pipe dream?’

‘I want to be a teacher.’ She takes a deep breath. ‘And a painter, and a singer, and a poet. And a pilot.

Nora smiles. I secretly roll my eyes. Nora passes the joint to Julie, who takes a small puff and offers it to me. I shake my head, knowing better. We all gaze out at the glittering water, three kids on the same log watching the same sunset, thinking very different thoughts while white gulls fill the air with mournful calls.

You’re going to do those things, R murmurs down to Julie, and he and I swap places again. Julie looks up at me, the corpse in the clouds, floating over the ocean like a restless spirit. She gives me a radiant smile, and I know it’s not really her, I know nothing I say here will ever escape the confines of my own skull, but I say it anyway. You’re going to be tall and strong and brilliant, and you’re going to live for ever. You’re going to change the world.

‘Thanks, R,’ she says. ‘You’re so sweet. Do you think you’ll be able to let me go when the time comes? Do you think you’ll be able to say goodbye?’

I swallow hard. Will I really have to?

Julie shrugs, smiling innocently, and whispers, ‘Shrug.’

In the morning the storm has passed. I am lying on my back in a bed next to Julie. A sharp beam of sunlight cuts through the dust in the air and makes a hot white pool on her huddled form. She is still wrapped tightly in the blankets. I get up and step out onto the front porch. The spring sun bleaches the neighbourhood white, and the only sound is rusty backyard swing sets creaking in the breeze. The dream’s cold question echoes in my head. I don’t want to face it, but I realise that very soon this will be over. I will return her to her daddy’s porch by dark, and that will be it. The gate will boom shut, and I’ll skulk away home. Will I be able to let her go? I’ve never asked a harder question. A month ago there was nothing on Earth I missed, enjoyed or longed for. I knew I could lose everything and not feel anything, and I rested easy in that knowledge. But I’m growing tired of easy things.

When I go back inside, Julie is sitting on the edge of the bed. She looks groggy, still half asleep. Her hair is a natural disaster, post-hurricane palm trees.

‘Good morning,’ I say.

She groans. I try valiantly not to stare at her as she arches her back and stretches, adjusting her bra strap and letting out a little whimper. I can see every muscle and vertebra, and since she’s already half naked I imagine her without skin. I know from grim experience that there is a beauty to her inner layers, too. Marvels of symmetry and craftsmanship sealed away inside her like the jewelled movements of a timepiece, fine works of art never meant to be seen.

‘What are we doing for breakfast?’ she mutters. ‘I’m starving.’

I hesitate. ‘Can probably… get to… Stadium… in hour. Going to… need gas… though. For Mercey.’

She rubs her eyes. She begins to pull her still-damp clothes back on. Once again I try not to stare. Her body wiggles and bounces in ways Dead flesh doesn’t.

Her eyes suddenly flash alert. ‘Shit. You know what? I need to call my dad.’

She picks up the corded phone, and I’m surprised to hear a dial tone. I guess her people would have made it a priority to keep the phone lines running. Anything digital or satellite-based probably died long ago, but the physical connections, cables running underground, those might endure a little longer.

Julie dials. She waits, tensed. Then relief floods her face. ‘Dad! It’s Julie.’

There is a loud burst of exclamations from the other end. Julie pulls the phone away from her ear and gives me a look that says, Here we go. ‘Yeah, Dad, I’m okay, I’m okay. Alive and intact. Nora told you what happened, right?’ More noise from the other end. ‘Yeah, I knew you’d be looking, but you were way off. It was that small hive at Oran Airport. They put me in this room with all these dead people, like a food locker or something, but after a few days… I guess they just forgot about me. I walked right out, hot-wired a car and drove off. I’m on my way back now, I just stopped to call you.’ A pause. She glances at me. ‘No, um, don’t send anyone, okay? I’m in the suburbs down south, I’m almost—’ She waits. ‘I don’t know, somewhere close to the freeway, but Dad—’ She freezes, and her face changes. ‘What?’ She takes a deep breath. ‘Dad, why are you talking about Mom right now? No, why are you talking about her, this is nothing like that. I’m on my way back I just — Dad! Wait, will you listen to me? Don’t send anyone, I’m coming home, okay? I have a car, I’m on my way, just — Dad!’ There is silence from the earpiece. ‘Dad?’ Silence. She bites her lip and looks at the floor. She hangs up.

I raise my eyebrows, full of questions that I’m afraid to ask.

She massages her forehead and lets out a slow breath. ‘Can you go find the gas by yourself, R? I need… to think for a minute.’ She doesn’t look at me as she speaks. Tentatively, I reach out and put a hand on her shoulder. She flinches, then softens, then suddenly turns and embraces me hard, burying her face in my shirt.

‘I just need a minute,’ she says, pulling away and recovering herself.

So I leave her there. I find an empty gas can in the garage and begin working my way around the block, looking for a vehicle with a full tank to drain. As I kneel beside a recently crashed Chevy Tahoe with the siphon tube gurgling in my hand, I hear the sound of an engine starting in the distance. I ignore it. I focus on the taste of gasoline, harsh and astringent in my mouth. When the can is full I walk back to the cul-de-sac, closing my eyes and letting the sun flood through my eyelids. Then I open them, and just stand there for a while, holding the red plastic can like a belated birthday gift. The Mercedes is gone.

Inside the house, on the dining-room table, I find a note. Something is written on it, letters I can’t assemble into words, but next to it are two Polaroids. Both pictures are of Julie, taken by Julie, with the camera extended at arm’s length and pointed at herself. In one of them, she is waving. The gesture looks limp, half-hearted. In the other one, she is holding that hand against her chest. Her face is stoic, but her eyes are damp.

Goodbye, R, the picture whispers to me. It’s that time now. It’s time to say it. Can you say it?

I hold the picture in front of me, staring at it. I rub my fingers on it, smearing its fresh emulsion into rainbow blurs. I consider taking it with me, but no. I’m not ready to make Julie a souvenir.

Say it, R. Just say it.

I set the picture back on the table, and leave the house. I don’t say it.

I begin walking back to the airport. I’m not sure what’s waiting for me. Full-death? Quite possibly. After the commotion I caused, the Boneys might simply dispose of me like infectious waste. But I’m alone again. My world is small, my options are few. I don’t know where else to go.

The journey of forty minutes by car will be a day-long trip on foot. As I walk, the wind seems to reverse direction, and yesterday’s thunderheads creep back onto the horizon for an encore. They spiral over me, slowly shrinking the circle of blue sky like an immense camera aperture. I walk fast and stiff, almost marching.

I walk off the freeway at the next exit and climb into a triangle of landscaping between the road and the off ramp. I crash through the brush and duck into the little cluster of trees, a mini-forest of ten or twelve cedars arranged in a pleasing pattern for overstressed commuter ghosts.

I curl into a ball at the base of one of these trees, achieving some degree of shelter under its scrawny