Warm Bodies: The Answer

Not All There

The soldier reached over and calmly took it from his hands, returning it to the cradle.

"Please don't touch anything in the car sir," the soldier said politely, glancing over his shoulder as he took the next left towards the interstate exit.

"Right," Marcus answered, and crossed his arms. "Sorry."

For a moment, he simply stared out of the window at the dark streets, and the wild tapestry of the stars behind the edge of the city. Then he reached down and pressed the button to the glove compartment, which shot open onto his lap. Papers, a packet of cigarettes and two cassette tapes spilled over his jeans and onto the floor, and he fumbled for a minute to gather it all again, before straightening up with one of the tapes.

"Huh, you guys still have these?" he asked, turning it in his hand to read the song list. Then he caught the soldier's glare. "Sorry." Quickly closing the glove compartment again, he dropped his hands to his lap.

The soldier let out a loud breath and turned back to watching the road.

"So, what's your name?" Marcus asked, bringing the cassette back up as he tried to read the label in the bounced glow of the headlights.

"Gimmel, sir."

"Jewish, huh?" Marcus asked, as he pressed the tape into the slot on the dash. There was a manic burst of squealing guitars, with some wacky distortion that only added to the sound, before it cut off with a sharp click.

Gimmel plucked the tape from the deck, and threw it over his shoulder into the back seat.

"I prefer silence."

Marcus glared at him.

They drove in silence then, and as they neared the airport exit, Marcus stared out over the stretch of dark tarmac. One runway was faintly lit by solar lamps, and his eye was drawn to a bloom of light spreading from a cluster of hangers on the north boundary.

Marcus let out a sigh without meaning to.

It wasn't the first time he'd been back to the airport since he'd walked out with a crowd of zombies over a year ago. His most recent visit came after answering an open call for 'those with special talents - living, dead or inbetween' posted on the common room noticeboard back at his apartment complex (or 'The House of the Dead' as it was unaffectionately known by the regular city inhabitants).

He'd answered the call, and after a special screening process, he'd had a few fun helicopter flights with a guy named Dale, showed off his markmanship - poorly, he hated guns - and demonstrated his ability to teach.

And that's where they'd ended up placing him. In a school. As an elementary teacher. For first graders.

If he had any hair, he'd have ripped it out by the end of the first week.

The problem was, he was a damn good teacher. It didn't matter that, before he'd died and turned into a rather sharp looking corpse, he'd absolutely hated kids. Couldn't stand the little snot-nosed shits. Pre-apocalypse, anyone who'd tried to get Marcus to hold a kid and turned away for a moment, would turn back to find him nursing his drink again and their child gurgling on a nearby couch, or in the arms of a complete stranger.

It was like a magic trick.

Then, on one of his many culinary strolls through the city, he'd gone and eaten someone who'd spent her life helping the little bastards learn things. Like colors, shapes, letters. How to use the crapper without asking for help.

And now, he adored them. As soon as he walked through the school doors, he was transformed from a scowling, balding man feeling like he was about to face a firing squad, to a smiling, balding man who couldn't wait to see what his class had brought for show and tell, couldn't wait to read out the new book about morally righteous mice he'd unearthed, and couldn't wait to lead them in a counting song about rabbits.