Warm Bodies Page 0,37

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