Warm Bodies

They stand in the grassy field next to the freeway ramps. Hundreds of them. They mill around in the grass, staring at the sky or at nothing, their grey, sunken faces oddly serene. But when the front line sees us they freeze, then pivot in our direction. Their focus spreads in a wave until the entire mob is standing at attention. Julie gives me an amused glance as if to say, Really? Then a disturbance ripples through the ranks, and a burly, bald, six-foot-five zombie pushes his way into the open.

‘M,’ I say.

‘R,’ he says. He gives Julie a quick nod. ‘Julie.’

‘Hiiii…’ she says, leaning into me warily.

Our pursuers’ tyres screech and we hear a rev of engines. They are very close. M steps up to the peak of the hill and the mob follows him. Julie huddles close to me as they sweep in around us, absorbing us into their odorous army, their rank ranks. It could be my imagination or a trick of the light, but M’s skin looks less ashen than usual. His partial lips seem more expressive. And for the first time since I’ve known him, his neatly trimmed beard is not stained with blood.

The trucks barrel towards us, but as the swarm of the Dead rises into view on the hilltop, the vehicles slow down, then grumble to a stop. There are only four of them. Two Hummer H2s, a Chevy Tahoe and an Escalade, all spray-painted military olive drab. The hulking machines look small and pitiful from where we stand. The Tahoe’s door opens, and Colonel Rosso slowly emerges. Clutching his rifle, he scans the row upon row of swaying bodies, weighing odds and strategies. His eyes are wide behind his thick glasses. He swallows, then lowers his gun.

‘I’m sorry, Rosy,’ Julie calls down to him, and points at the Stadium. ‘I can’t do it any more, okay? It’s a fucking lie. We think we’re surviving in there but we’re not.’

Rosso is looking hard at the zombies arrayed around him, peering into their faces. He’s old enough that he’s probably been around since the beginning of all this. He knows what the Dead are supposed to look like, and he can tell when something’s different, no matter how subtle, subliminal, subcutaneous.

‘You can’t save the world by yourself!’ he yells. ‘Come back and we can discuss this!’

‘I’m not by myself,’ Julie says, and gestures at the forest of zombies swaying around her. ‘I’m with these guys.’

Rosso’s lips twist in a tortured grimace, then he jumps in his vehicle, slams the door, and revs back towards the Stadium with the other three right behind. A brief respite, a quick suck of breath, because I know they aren’t quitting, they can’t quit, they’re just gathering their strength, their weapons, their brute- force determination.

step three living

Nora Greene is in the square by the Stadium’s main gate, standing with General Rosso in front of a huge crowd. She is a little nervous. She wishes she had smoked before coming out today, but it seemed inappropriate somehow. She wanted a clear head for this occasion.

‘Okay, folks,’ Rosso begins, straining his reedy voice to reach the back of the assembly spilling out into the far streets. ‘We’ve prepared you for this as best we could, but I know it may still be a little… uncomfortable.’

Not everyone in the Stadium is here, but everyone who wants to be is. The rest are hiding behind locked doors with guns drawn, but Nora hopes they’ll come out eventually to see what’s going on.

‘Let me just assure you once again that you are not in any danger,’ Rosso continues. ‘The situation has changed.’

Rosso looks at Nora and nods.

The guards pull open the gate, and Nora shouts, ‘Come on in, guys!’

One by one, still clumsy but walking more or less straight, they wander into the Stadium. The Half-Dead. The Nearly-Living. The crowd murmurs anxiously and contracts as the zombies form a loose line in front of the gate.

‘These are just a few of them,’ Nora says, moving forward to address the people. ‘There are more out there every day. They’re trying to cure themselves. They’re trying to cure the plague, and we need to do whatever we can to help.’

‘Like what?’ someone shouts.

‘We’re going to study it,’ Rosso says. ‘Get close to it, knead it and wring it until answers start to emerge. I know it’s vague, but we have to start somewhere.’

‘Talk to them,’ Nora says. ‘I know it’s scary at first, but look them in the eyes. Tell them your name and ask them theirs.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Rosso says. ‘Each one will have a guard assigned to them at all times, but try to believe that they won’t hurt you. We have to entertain the idea that this can work.’

Nora steps back to let the crowd come forward. Cautiously, they do. They approach the zombies, while wary guards keep rifles trained. For their part, the zombies are handling this awkward experience with admirable patience. They just stand there and wait, some of them attempting affable grins while trying to ignore the laser dots jittering on their foreheads. Nora moves to join the people, crossing her fingers behind her back and hoping for the best.

‘Hi there.’

She turns towards the voice. One of the zombies is watching her. He steps forwards from the line and gives her a smile. His lips are thin and slightly mangled under a short blond beard, but they, along with countless other wounds on his body, appear to be healing.

‘Um… hello…’ Nora says, glancing up and down his considerable height. He must be well over six feet. He’s a little heavyset, but his muscular arms strain his tattered shirt. His perfectly bald head gleams like a pale grey pearl.

‘I’m Nora,’ she says, tugging at her curls.

‘My name is Mm… arcus,’ he says, his voice a velvety rumble. ‘And you’re… the most beautiful woman… I’ve ever seen.’

Nora giggles and twirls her hair faster. ‘Oh my.’ She reaches out a hand. ‘Nice to meet you… Marcus.’

The boy is in the airport. The hallways are dark, but he’s not scared. He runs through the shadowed food court, past all the unlit signs and mouldy leftovers, half-finished beers and cold pad thai. He hears the rattle of a solitary skeleton wandering in an adjacent corridor and quickly changes course, darting around the corner without pausing. The Boneys are slow now. The moment the boy’s dad and stepmom first came back here, something happened to them all. Now they wander aimlessly like bees in winter. They stand motionless, obsolete equipment waiting to be replaced.

The boy is carrying a box. It’s empty now, but his arms are tired. He runs into the connecting overpass and stops to get his bearings.

‘Alex!’

The boy’s sister appears behind him. She’s carrying a box, too. She has bits of tape stuck all over her fingers.

‘All done, Joan?’

‘All done!’

‘Okay. Let’s go get more.’

They run down the corridor. As they hit the conveyer, the power comes back on and the belt lurches under their feet. The boy and the girl are running barefoot at the speed of light, flying down the corridor like loping deer while the morning sun drifts up behind them. At the end of the corridor they nearly collide with another group of kids, all holding boxes.

‘All done,’ the kids say.

‘Okay,’ Alex says, and they run together. Some of the kids still wear tatters. Some of them are still grey. But most of them are alive. The kids lacked the instinctual programming of the adults. They had to be taught how to do