by Isaac Marion
THE WARM BODIES SERIES
Warm Bodies
The New Hunger
The Burning World
The Living
THE LIVING
A WARM BODIES NOVEL
ISAAC MARION
Zola Books
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, Living or Dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 by Isaac Marion
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, contact the author at: [email protected]
ISBN: 978-1-939126-38-2
Published by Zola Books
Zola Books, Inc.
143 West 29th Street
New York, NY 10001
[email protected]
Excerpt from Gilgamesh: A Verse Narrative by Herbert Mason, copyright © 1998, Used by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of the Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC. All rights reserved.
Lyrics quoted from “Livin’ Man” by Henri Lanoë, from the Twilight Zone episode “An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge.”
Interior illustrations adapted by Isaac Marion from sources in the public domain.
Jacket design by Jeff Miller at Faceout Studios
Author photograph by Juliann Itter
Author’s Note
This book is being published in 2018, but I finished writing it in 2015. There are elements that I wrote as morbid fantasy that have edged uncomfortably close to fact, to the point of feeling obvious or even exploitative. This was never meant to be a “political book.” I wasn’t commenting on specific public figures or current events—those events hadn’t happened yet. I was observing the patterns around me and speculating on where we might end up if we keep following them. But fact is catching up to fiction with alarming speed. I can only hope that the dark parts of this imaginary future aren’t the only ones that come true.
Dedicated to R’s Rmy
WE
We are not bound by our bodies. Flesh is an experience we choose to have. From the bright cloud of our vastness we grow fingers to dip in cool water, to run through soft grass, to touch our skin and fur and feathers and somehow, from the sum of our myriad bodies, begin to understand what we are.
We are not bound by time, but we choose to live in it. We evolved consciousness to learn and to know, and for that we must focus. So we sit patiently in the vehicle of the present, traveling toward some unguessable tomorrow.
And we carry the past with us. It trails behind us like bubbles as we rise through the depths of time. It gathers in the books in our Library; it builds like magma beneath our mountain. We read our own books and learn from ourselves. We wait for our moment to erupt.
• • •
Paul Bark is sixteen. His face is pimpled, his mustache is thin, and he and his friend are about to burn down Denver.
“Are you ready?” he asks his friend.
His voice is high, but he has been working on deepening it, and he likes how rich it sounds in this cavernous space—“Hall B,” according to the tattered banner hanging above the stage. The logo on it is illegible, some kind of old-world fan convention, its superhero mascot faded to a gray ghost. The building was gutted long ago, all its windows broken or stolen, its hallways now filling with sand dunes as the wind sweeps the desert inside. It’s hard to picture this place roaring with exuberant life, joyful crowds cheering for imaginary heroes and fictional battles while the real battle raged all around them. Paul can hardly fathom such frivolity. So much passion wasted on made-up nonsense. Civilization deserved its end.
“Everyone’s in position,” he tells his friend, and he likes how serious he sounds, like a grizzled commando in the army of God. “Have you prepared your sermon?”
Brother Atvist doesn’t answer. The pale, lanky teenager sits cross-legged on a pile of broken ceiling tiles, staring down at the walkie in his hand. “Did they listen to yesterday’s?”
“Most of them. We’ve counted sixty-eight trucks heading out of town.”
“That can’t be more than half.” His shaggy dark hair hides his eyes. His flat tone hides his thoughts.
“We’re giving them too much time,” Paul mutters, and spits a wad of phlegm for emphasis. “Once the panic cools off, they remember they have a government and a fire department and they think that makes them safe. They think it can’t happen because it’s never happened before.”
“So we do it anyway? With hundreds of people still in their homes?”
Paul wishes his friend would look up so he could get a read on him. Is this some kind of test of Paul’s commitment? No, that’s not his style. Brother Atvist is a raw nerve, a beating heart exposed to the world, devoid of defenses and guile. It’s why people are drawn to him, and it’s why he needs Paul: to be a rigid container for his delicate dreams. To carry them to their conclusion against the tides of sentimentality.
“They’ll go once we get started,” Paul says. “That phosphorous puts on quite a show.”
His friend finally raises his face, and Paul does not like what he sees there. The most dangerous sin of all: uncertainty.
“How many died in Helena?” he asks Paul.
“None.”
“How many in Boise?”
Paul stiffens his jaw. “Three, but they were—”
“How many will it be here? Nine? Ninety?”
“They were warned!”
Paul’s shout echoes through the hall, scattering the pigeons roosting in the rafters. His face is suddenly red, his fists clenched. “We lit the beacons! We broadcast your prophesy! And God has been warning them them for years! Is it our fault if a few stiff-necked fools won’t listen?”
Brother Atvist slowly shakes his head. But is it a response to Paul’s question or is he slipping further into doubt? All of this was his idea, his epiphany, how can he falter already after just two cities?
Paul’s mind races. What will he do if his friend backs out, or even tries to dismantle the fellowship? Could Paul counter his influence, hold the church on its path? Paul is a good speaker too, a clear and forceful hammer to his friend’s florid oration, and he has always been the connective tissue between idea and action. Would they rally around him the way they did his friend? Brother Atvist insists he is not their leader, that this church has no leader. Their calling is to unmake structure, to erase human lines, to scour the earth for God’s coming, and a hierarchy would be antithetical to this. Brother Atvist repeats this over and over because the Ardents keep forgetting, keep defaulting to the standard model of top-down authority. But didn’t God himself set that model in place? Can people really be expected to live without a strong man telling them how? If Brother Atvist won’t—or can’t—be that man, perhaps it’s time for Pastor Bark to—
Brother Atvist stands up.
It’s a sudden movement, scattering the tiles at his feet, and Paul takes a step back. Paul is not done growing, but he will never be a tall man. He is built like a cornerstone, thick and strong, grounded and unshakeable, while his friend is a soaring pillar, perhaps more easily toppled but undeniably impressive while upright. There’s a fire in his eyes now, and Paul races to read its meaning as Brother Atvist raises his walkie.
“A day ago, we gave you a warning.”
Amplified by loudspeakers at every major intersection, his soft voice sounds immense. Delayed by distance, it reverberates fr
om every direction, not one voice but a chorus, washing over the city in a wave. Paul lets out a sigh, mostly relief but with a trace of something else that he’d rather not acknowledge. He tucks away the thoughts that were starting to swell in his chest.
“But you had plenty of warnings before that. A poisoned planet choking on your apathy. A government festering as you filled it with rot. A culture sustained on conflict, feeding on its own blood, a thousand tiny wars that could never be allowed to end.”
He moves toward the staircase, and Paul follows him.
“And then one day, it all caught up to you. Your government went rabid and turned on you. The ocean you used for your toilet rose up for revenge. Even the earth itself tried to shake off its tormentors, but no matter how many cities it flattened in its convulsions, you kept drilling. No matter how many wars erupted, you kept provoking more, kept raising armies and smashing them together like toys, kept hating and hurting and devouring each other until you finally broke the universe. You reached the very bottom and you drilled right through, and a new kind of death bubbled up to meet you.”
Their boots rattle the rusty metal steps, echoing up and down the stairwell as they ascend toward a distant light.
“This new death was the final warning, but you still didn’t listen. God held up a mirror and said, ‘See what you’ve become!” but you refused to look. So your reflection climbed out of the mirror and ate your children. It ravaged your world and reduced it to a skeleton. But instead of falling to your knees and begging God to save you, you’re building new houses out of the bones.”
Paul smiles. This is a good one. Each sermon has been sharper and hotter than the last. Paul sometimes wishes his friend would skip all the poetic preamble and just get to the point, but he has to remind himself that this is the point: to deliver a message that stings hearts. As satisfying as it is to set the fires, they are only a medium for the message, a bright blazing sign that can’t be ignored. It’s the message that will move the world to repentance. To acceptance. To surrender.
“So in exactly fifteen minutes,” Brother Atvist continues, “we are going to burn those houses down.”
They emerge onto the roof of the convention center and Denver spreads out around them, an endless flatness spiked with a few highrises. It glows the usual sickly orange against the night sky, but it’s dimmer than it should be. A third of the buildings are unlit, abandoned, darkness creeping across the city like a stain as the world unravels.
“But the Lord is not willing that any should perish.”
From up here his voice sounds even bigger, ringing through the streets as the stubborn holdouts gather around the speakers, pacing and squirming with mounting agitation.
“We don’t want to take your lives. We only want to show you that it’s time to give them back. To accept the end. To tell God we’re ready to go home.”
Paul nods approvingly. A solid conclusion. Now for the altar call…
But Brother Atvist doesn’t deliver the expected coda. His grip on the walkie tightens and he’s quiet for a moment. Then:
“Don’t you feel it?” His voice is softer now, and there’s a tremor in it. “Don’t you see that our road doesn’t go anywhere? That our battles were never winnable? Why are you still fighting when there’s nothing to fight for? Aren’t you tired?” His voice cracks and the walkie sags away from his mouth a little. “I am,” he tells the city of Denver. “I’m tired.”
And with that, he hands the walkie to Paul and sits on the edge of the roof.
Well. Not the most inspiring benediction. They won’t be gaining many converts from this particular outreach. But so be it. Seventy-two angry youths with jars of homemade napalm should be more than enough for now.
Paul checks his watch and raises the walkie. “In nine minutes, the fires will start. Within an hour, they will have spread across the city. Don’t wait for the authorities to stop this. They will not be able to.”
He feels the the thrill of expansion as his voice echoes through downtown Denver, the sense of being everywhere, a huge presence hovering over the city he’s about to destroy.
“The borders of the fire will be Highways 95, 225, 285, and 70. Everything outside should be safe. Everything inside will burn. Pack only what you need to live and evacuate immediately. We suggest taking I-25 to avoid congestion.”
He frowns. His announcements sound mundane, almost municipal after his friend’s grand oration. Where is his passion? Where is Pastor Bark? He thinks for a moment.
“We ask only for your city, to give it up as a burnt offering to God. But if your pride makes you give up your lives, he will accept those too.”
He smiles, nods, and joins his friend at the edge of the roof. He’s too excited to sit. He stands with his arms crossed, fidgeting from foot to foot.
“You had to end it like that?” his friend asks, still gazing out over the city.
“Like what?”
“Like a villain.”
Paul grunts. “Don’t bullshit yourself. The world never loves a prophet. We’ll always be villains to them.”
Down below, the city is lighting up with red and blue flashes, a preview of what’s to come. Police flood the streets and swarm the buildings. Firefighters ready their ladders and hoses. Even with the dying government’s desperate suppression of news, they have probably heard about Helena and Boise. Even with all the lines cut and signals jammed, a story that big still travels, so they should know that their efforts are useless. There aren’t enough police in the whole state to uproot seventy-two unremarkable teenagers planted loosely across the city. And even before the great decline, no fire department was ever equipped for arson on this scale.
It never happened before because no one decided to do it. The fire was always ready, always primed, just waiting for a reason to start.
“Three minutes,” Paul says. His excitement tightens his voice, makes it high and thin despite his best efforts, but it doesn’t matter here with his friend, who shows no interest in the pageantry of manliness.
“How many do you think it’ll take?” his friend murmurs. No excitement at all in his unaffected tenor. Paul can barely hear it over the sirens, the shouting, the distant tumult of evacuation. “How many do we have to burn before God accepts our surrender?”
A perfect response comes to Paul but he holds back for maximum effect. Thirty seconds…twenty…ten…
“‘The day of the Lord will come like a thief,’” Pastor Bark recites. “‘The heavens will disappear with a roar, the elements will be destroyed by fire, and the earth and everything done in it will be laid bare.’”
His watch beeps.
The tallest building in Denver flashes white. Burning bits of phosphorous spew out from its windows like a rain of shooting stars, scattering onto all the neighboring structures and scribbling the air with lines of white smoke. But that’s just the opening ceremony. A second or two later, spread evenly through the densest parts of the city, seventy-two Ardents ignite their jars of napalm. It’s not quite simultaneous, more a staccato of bursts than the single vast explosion Paul was hoping for. They’ll have to work on their timing for the next one. The hotter they can stoke the drama, the deeper the message will burn.
“‘Since everything will be destroyed in this way,’” he continues, his voice now trembling with exultation, “‘what kind of people ought you to be?’”
He looks at his friend as if for a response, like a preacher awaiting an “amen,” but his friend still hasn’t looked at him, eyes glued to the rapidly spreading hellscape below. So Paul finishes without him.
“‘You ought to live holy and godly lives as you look forward to the day of God…and speed its coming.’”
Still no reaction. Paul lets it go. His friend has always been this way. Always lost in his head, straining toward some distant skylight that he is never going to reach. Is he blind to the achieve
ment burning right in front of him? They are changing the face of the earth, clearing the overgrown land for the foundations of God’s Kingdom. If that’s not enough for him, what ever will be?
Paul stretches out his hands, feeling the heat of the fire in the wind, the bits of ash blowing against his cheeks like warm snowflakes. It’s spreading quickly. He knows they should leave soon, join up with the others and start skimming for converts in the stream of evacuees, but he wants to savor this as long as possible.
Playfully, boyishly, he pretends he’s the Angel of the Lord smiting Sodom for its sins. He imagines the power coursing through him, the brimstone gathering in his hands, the approving nod from his Father as he strikes. How wonderful, to be an angel. To be created perfect, not broken, not designed to crave evil and set loose on a path to Hell. To be born good, a child of innate worth who does not have to hate himself to be loved.
He blinks hard and glances around like someone pinched him. Where did that thought come from? Heretical, self-pitying, weak. It couldn’t have been his. A dart from the Devil, then, trying to poison him at the very moment of glory. His face flushes with shame and anger.
“Do you think Heaven will be worth all this?” his friend asks, squinting against the furnace winds from below, his hair fluttering like feathers around him. “What do you hope to find there?”
Paul finds the question boringly obvious but he welcomes the distraction. “Our reward,” he replies, staring into the flames. His face is still scorched from Boise, red and peeling, and his close-cut hair is singed. He thinks he must look like a man who’s fought dragons. “Mansions and streets of gold. A seat at the right hand of the Father to reign forever and ever. ‘Know ye not that we shall judge angels?’”
His friend doesn’t respond to this. Even in the orange glow of the flames, his face looks sick and sad.
“And you?” Paul asks, growing annoyed with his friend’s negativity. “What’s in your Heaven, Brother Atvist?”
