Warm Bodies Page 0,70

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I pull the beanie low over my face and knock a slow waltz on the door, eyes glued to the ground like a shy child. The door opens a crack. A middle-aged woman in sweatpants looks out at us. Her face is puffy and heavily lined, dark bags under bloodshot eyes. 'Miss Grigio?' she says.

Julie glances at me. 'Hi, Mrs Grau. Um . . .'

'What are you doing out? Is Nora with you? It's after curfew.'

'I know, we . . . got a little lost on our way back from the Orchard. Nora's staying at my house tonight but um . . . can we come in for a minute? I need to talk to the guys.'

I keep my head down as Mrs Grau gives me a cursory appraisal. She opens the door for us with an annoyed sigh. 'You can't stay here, you know. This is a foster home, not a flop house, and your friend here is too old for new residency.'

'I know, sorry, we'll . . .' She glances at me again. 'We'll just be a minute.'

I can't endure formalities right now. I brush past the woman and into the house. A toddler peeks around a bedroom door and Mrs Grau glares at him. 'What did I tell you?' she snaps, loud enough to wake the rest of the kids. 'Back in bed right now.' The boy disappears into the shadows. I lead Julie up the staircase.

The second storey is identical to the first, except there are rows of pre-adolescents sleeping on the floor on small mats. So many now. New foster homes pop up like processing plants as mothers and fathers disappear, chewed up and swallowed down by the plague. We step over a few tiny bodies on our way to the stairs, and a little girl grasps feebly at Julie's ankle.

'I had a bad dream,' she whispers.

'I'm sorry, honey,' Julie whispers back. 'You're safe now, okay?'

The girl closes her eyes again. We climb the stairs. The third floor is still awake. Young teens and patch-beard semi-adults sitting around on folding chairs, hunched over desks writing in booklets and flipping through manuals. Some kids snore on stacked bunks inside narrow bedrooms. All the doors are open except one.

A group of older boys look up from their work, surprised. 'Wow, hey, Julie. How's it going? You holding up okay?'

'Hey, guys. I'm . . .' She trails off, and her ellipsis eventually forms a period. She looks at the closed door. She looks at me. Gripping her hand, I move forward and open the door, then shut it behind us.

The room is dark except for the faint yellow glow of street lamps through the window. There is nothing in here but a plywood dresser and a stripped bed, with a few pictures of Julie taped to the ceiling above it. The air is stale, and much colder than the rest of the house.

'R . . .' Julie says in a quivery, dangerous voice. 'Why the fuck are we here?'

I finally turn to face her. In the yellow dimness, we look like actors in a silent sepia tragedy. 'Julie,' I say. 'That theory . . . about why we . . . eat the brain . . .'

She starts to shake her head.

'True.'

I look into her reddening eyes a moment longer, then kneel down and open the bottom drawer of the dresser. Inside, under piles of old stamps, a microscope, an army of pewter figurines, there is a stack of paper bound together with red yarn. I lift it out and hand it to Julie. In so many strange and twisted ways, I feel like the manuscript is mine. Like I've just handed her my own bloody heart on a platter. I am fully prepared for her to claw it to shreds.

She takes the manuscript. She unties the yarn. She stares at the cover page for a full minute, breathing shakily. Then she wipes her eyes and clears her throat.

'"Red Teeth,"' she reads. '"By Perry Kelvin."' She glances down the page. '"For Julie Cabernet, the only light left."' She lowers the manuscript and looks away for a moment, trying to hide a spasm in her throat, then steels herself and turns the page to the first chapter. As she reads, a faint smile peeks through the tear tracks. 'Wow,' she says, wiping a finger across her nose and sniffling. 'It's actually . . . kinda good. He used to write such dry and detached bullshit. This is . .