WARM BODIES BOOK PDF

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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library WARM BODIES Isaac Marion was born in north-western Washington in Warm Bodies by Isaac Marion - Free download as PDF File .pdf), Text File .txt) Uploaded by Atria Books Download as PDF, TXT or read online from Scribd. Romeo and Juliet with zombies - a starry-eyed, sweetly comic story about the humanising power of love, even in the darkest of circumstances.


Warm Bodies Book Pdf

Author:MELONIE JURGENSMEIER
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Warm Bodies by Isaac Marion - NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER, NOW A MAJOR MOTION PICTURE “Gruesome yet (Book #1 of The Warm Bodies Series). There are also many other books. Thanks and happy reading. Warm Bodies: A Novel NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER, NOW A MAJOR MOTION PICTURE “G. Editora: Atria/Emily Bestler Books PDF - Sangue Quente Scary, funny, and surprisingly poignant, Warm Bodies is about being alive, being dead, and the.

Not much to see. The runways are turning green, overrun with grass and brush. Jets lie motionless on the concrete like beached whales, white and monumental. MobyDick, conquered at last. Before, when I was alive, I could never have done this. Standing still, watching the world pass by me, thinking about nearly nothing. I remember effort.

I remember targets and deadlines, goals and ambitions. I remember being purposeful, always everywhere all the time. I reach the end, turn around, and go back the other way. The world has been distilled. Being dead is easy. After a few hours of this, I notice a female on the opposite conveyor. I catch her eye and stare at her as we approach. For a brief moment we are side by side, only a few feet away.

We pass, then travel on to opposite ends of the hall. We turn around and look at each other. We get back on the conveyors. We pass each other again.

I grimace, and she grimaces back. On our third pass, the airport power dies, and we come to a halt perfectly aligned. I wheeze hello, and she responds with a hunch of her shoulder. I like her. I reach out and touch her hair. Like me, her decomposition is at an early stage. Her skin is pale and her eyes are sunken, but she has no exposed bones or organs. Her irises are an especially light shade of that strange pewter grey all the Dead share.

Her graveclothes are a black skirt and a snug white blouse. I suspect she used to be a receptionist. Pinned to her chest is a silver name tag. She has a name. As always, they elude me, just a series of meaningless lines and blots. I point at the tag and look her in the eyes. I point at myself and pronounce the remaining fragment of my own name.

Warm Bodies by Isaac Marion - review

Her eyes drop to the floor. She shakes her head. She is no one. I reach out and take her hand. We walk off the conveyers with our arms stretched across the divider. This female and I have fallen in love. I remember what love was like before. There were complex emotional and biological factors at work. We had elaborate tests to pass, connections to forge, ups and downs and tears and whirlwinds.

It was an ordeal, an exercise in agony, but it was alive. The new love is simpler. But small. We walk through the echoing corridors of the airport, occasionally passing someone staring out of a window or at a wall. This is my great obstacle, the biggest of all the boulders littering my path. In my mind I am eloquent; I can climb intricate scaffolds of words to reach the highest cathedral ceilings and paint my thoughts.

But when I open my mouth, everything collapses. So far my personal record is four rolling syllables before some. And I may be the most loquacious zombie in this airport. Prepositions are painful, articles are arduous, adjectives are wild overachievements.

Is this muteness a real physical handicap? One of the many symptoms of being Dead? Or do we just have nothing left to say?

I attempt conversation with my girlfriend, testing out a few awkward phrases and shallow questions, trying to get a reaction out of her, any twitch of wit.

We wander for a few hours, directionless, then she grips my hand and starts leading me somewhere. We stumble our way down the halted escalators and out onto the tarmac. I sigh wearily. She is taking me to church. The Dead have built a sanctuary on the runway.

At some point in the distant past someone pushed all the stair-trucks together into a circle, forming a kind of amphitheatre. We gather here, we stand here, we lift our arms and moan. The ancient Boneys wave their skeletal limbs in the centre circle, rasping out dry, wordless sermons through toothy grins. That vast cosmic mouth, distant mountains like teeth in the skull of God, yawning wide to devour us. To swallow us down to where we probably belong.

My girlfriend appears much more devout than I do. She closes her eyes and waves her arms in a way that almost looks heartfelt.

I stand next to her and hold my hands in the air silently. At some unknown cue, maybe drawn by her fervour, the Boneys stop their preaching and stare at us. One of them comes forward, climbs our stairs, and takes us both by the wrists. It leads us down into the circle and raises our hands in its clawed grip. It lets out a kind of roar, an unearthly sound like a blast of air through a broken hunting horn, shockingly loud, frightening birds out of trees.

We are married. We step back onto the stair seats. The service resumes. My new wife closes her eyes and waves her arms. The day after our wedding, we have children. A small group of Boneys stops us in the hall and presents them to us. A boy and a girl, both around six years old. The boy is curly blond, with grey skin and grey eyes, perhaps once Caucasian.

The girl is darker, with black hair and ashy brown skin, deeply shadowed around her steely eyes. She may have been Arab. The Boneys nudge them forward and they give us tentative smiles, hug our legs. I sigh, and my wife and I keep walking, hand in hand with our new children. This is a big responsibility. They have to be tended and trained. And they will never grow up.

Look at them. Watch them as my wife and I release their hands and they wander outside to play. They tease each other and grin.

They giggle and laugh, though it sounds choked through their dry throats. They resist our curse for as long as they possibly can. I watch them disappear into the pale daylight at the end of the hall. Deep inside me, in some dark and cobwebbed chamber, I feel something twitch. I feel the electricity in my limbs fizzling, fading. I see relentless visions of blood in my mind, that brilliant, mesmerising red, flowing through bright pink tissues in intricate webs and Pollock fractals, pulsing and vibrating with life.

I find M in the food court talking to some girls. He is a little different from me. He does seem to enjoy the company of women, and his better-than-average diction draws them in like dazzled carp, but he keeps a distance.

He laughs them off. The Boneys once tried to set him up with a wife, but he simply walked away. Sometimes I wonder if he has a philosophy. Maybe even a world view. I shake my head and clutch my stomach harder. He is, after all, a zombie. He manages to find a few others with appetites, and we form a small posse. Very small. Unsafely small.

We set out towards the city. We take the freeway. Like everything else, the roads are returning to nature. We wander down empty lanes and under ivycurtained overpasses.

My residual memories of these roads contrast dramatically with their peaceful present state. I take a deep breath of the sweet, silent air. We press further into the city than normal. The only scent I pick up is rust and dust. The unsheltered Living are getting scarcer, and the ones with shelter are venturing out less frequently.

I suspect their stadium fortresses are becoming self-sufficient. I imagine vast gardens planted in the dugouts, bursting with carrots and beans. Cattle in the press box. Rice paddies in the outfield. We can see the largest of these citadels looming on the hazy horizon, its retractable roof open to the sun, taunting us.

But, finally, we sense prey. The life scent electrifies our nostrils, abrupt and intense. They are very close, and there are a lot of them. Maybe close to half our own number. We hesitate, stumbling to a halt. M looks at me. He looks at our small group, then back at me. M shakes his head. He sniffs the air. The rest of them are undecided. Some of them also sniff warily, but others are more single-minded like me.

They groan and drool and snap their teeth. Focused thought. The rest of the group reflexively follows. M catches up and walks beside me, watching me with an uneasy grimace. Spurred to an unusual level of intensity by my desperate energy, our group crashes through the revolving doors and rushes down the dark hallways. Some earthquake or explosion has knocked out part of the foundation, and the entire high-rise leans at a dizzying, funhouse angle. After a few flights of stairs I start to hear them as well, clattering around and talking to each other in those steady, melodious streams of words.

Living speech has always been a sonic pheromone to me, and I spasm briefly when it hits my ears.

See a Problem?

As we approach their level of the building, some of us start groaning loudly, and the Living hear us. We burst through a final door and rush them. M grunts when he sees how many there are, but he lunges with me at the nearest man and grabs his arms while I rip out his throat. The burning red taste of blood floods my mouth. The sparkle of life sprays out of his cells like citrus mist from an orange peel, and I suck it in.

The darkness of the room is pulsing with gunfire, and by our standards we are grossly outnumbered — there are only three of us to every one of them — but something is tipping things in our favour.

Our manic speed is uncharacteristic of the Dead, and our prey are not prepared for it. Is this all coming from me? What has come over me? Am I just having a bad day? There is one other factor working to our advantage. These Living are not seasoned veterans.

They are young. Teenagers, mostly, boys and girls. Their leader is a slightly older kid with a patchy beard, standing on a cubicle desk in the middle of the room and shouting panicked commands to his men.

As they fall to the floor under the weight of our hunger, as dots of blood pointilise the walls, this boy leans protectively over a small figure crouched below him on the desk.

A girl, young and blonde, bracing her bird-boned shoulder against her shotgun as she fires blindly into the dark. I pull his feet out from under him and he falls, cracking his head on the edge of the desk. Without hesitation I pounce on him and bite through his neck. Then I dig my fingers into the crack in his skull, and prise his head open like an eggshell.

His brain pulses hot and pink inside. I take a deep, wide, ravenous bite and— I am Perry Kelvin, a nine-year-old boy growing up in rural nowhere. Other than the emergency chain-link fence between the river and the mountain ridge, life is almost normal.

My neck. My neck hurts, it— I am eating a slice of pizza with my mom and dad. I take an oversized bite and the thick cheese sticks in my throat.

I choke it back up and my parents laugh. Tomato sauce stains my shirt like— I am fifteen, gazing out the window at the looming walls of my new home. She has short, choppy blonde hair and blue eyes that dance with private amusement. My palms are sweating. My mouth is full of laundry lint. Her eyes glitter. I glimpse her braces. Her eyes are classic novels and poetry.

She twines her fingers into mine and squeezes hard. I kiss her deep and caress the back of her head with my free hand, tangling my fingers in her hair. I look her in the eyes. She smiles. I want to be part of her. Not just inside her but all around her.

I want our ribcages to crack open and our hearts to migrate and merge. I want our cells to braid together like living thread. Julie is on the seat behind me, her arms clutching my chest, her legs wrapped around mine. Her aviators glint in the sun as she grins, showing her perfectly straight teeth.

But at least I can protect her. At least I can keep her safe. She is so unbearably beautiful and sometimes I see a future with her in my head, but my head, my head hurts, oh God my head is— Stop. Who are you? Let the memories dissolve. Your eyes are crusted — blink them. Gasp in a ragged breath.

Welcome back. I feel the carpet under my fingers. I hear the gunshots. I stand up and look around, dizzy and reeling. I have never had a vision so deep, like an entire life spooling through my head. The sting of tears burns in my eyes, but my ducts no longer have fluid. The feeling rages unquenched like pepper spray.

I hear a scream nearby and I turn. Julie is here, older now, maybe nineteen, her baby fat melted away revealing sharper lines and finer poise, muscles small but toned on her girlish frame. She is huddled in a corner, unarmed, sobbing and screaming as M creeps towards her. He always finds the women. Their memories are porn to him. I still feel disorientated, unsure of where or who I am, but. I approach the girl. The urge to rip and tear surges into my arms and jaw.

But then she screams again, and something inside me moves, a feeble moth struggling against a web. I let out a gentle groan and inch towards the girl, trying to force kindness into my dull expression.

I am not no one. I am a nine-year-old boy, I am a fifteenyear-old boy, I am— She throws a knife at my head. The blade sticks straight into the centre of my forehead and quivers there. But it has penetrated less than an inch, only grazing my frontal lobe.

I pull it out and drop it. She is fumbling through her jeans for another weapon. Behind me, the Dead are finishing their butchery. Soon they will turn their attention to this dim corner of the room. I take a deep breath. It rolls off my tongue like honey. I feel good just saying it. Her eyes go wide. She freezes. I put out my hands. I point at the zombies behind me. I shake my head. She stares at me, making no sign that she understands. I reach my free hand into the head-wound of a fallen zombie and collect a palmful of black, lifeless blood.

Slowly, with gentle movements, I smear it on her face, down her neck and onto her clothes. She is probably catatonic. I take her hand and pull her to her feet. At that moment M and the others finish devouring their prey and turn to inspect the room. Their eyes fall on me. They fall on Julie. I walk towards them, gripping her hand, not quite dragging her. She staggers behind me, staring straight ahead. M sniffs the air cautiously. Just the negativesmell of Dead blood.

Without a word, we leave the high-rise and head back to the airport. I walk in a daze, full of strange and kaleidoscopic thoughts. Julie holds limply to my hand, staring at the side of my face with wide eyes, trembling lips.

After delivering our abundant harvest of leftover flesh to the non-hunters — the Boneys, the children, the stay-at-home moms — I take Julie to my house. My fellow Dead give me curious looks as I pass.

Because it requires both volition and restraint, the act of intentionally converting the Living is almost never performed. Most conversions happen by accident: The rest of our converts arise from traditional deaths, private affairs of illness or mishap or classical Living-on-Living violence that take place outside our sphere of interest. So the fact that I have purposely brought this girl home unconsumed is a thing of mystery, a miracle on a par with giving birth.

M and the others allow me plenty of room in the halls, regarding me with confusion and wonder. I lead her to Gate 12, down the boarding tunnel and into my home: Sometimes it even tickles my numb memory.

Looking at my clothes, I seem like the kind of person who probably travelled a lot.

Warm Bodies Series

And then the fresh lemon zing of poisson in Paris. The burn of tajine in Morocco. Are these places all gone now? Silent streets, cafes full of dusty skeletons?

Julie and I stand in the centre aisle, looking at each other.

I point to a window seat and raise my eyebrows. Keeping her eyes solidly on me, she backs into the row and sits down. Her hands grip the armrests like the plane is in a flaming death dive. I sit in the aisle seat and release an involuntary wheeze, looking straight ahead at my stacks of memorabilia. Every time I go into the city, I bring back one thing that catches my eye.

A puzzle. A shot glass. A Barbie. A dildo. I bring them here to my home, strew them around the seats and aisles, and stare at them for hours.

The piles reach to the ceiling now. M keeps asking me why I do this. I have no answer. Her lips are tight and pale. I point at her. I open my mouth and point at my crooked, bloodstained teeth. She presses herself against the window. A terrified whimper rises in her throat.

This is not working. I dig through my LP collection in the overhead compartments and pull out an album.

She is still frozen, wide-eyed. The record plays. I can hear it faintly through the phones, like a distant eulogy drifting on autumn air. Last night. I close my eyes and hunch forward.

My head sways vaguely in time with the music as verses float through the jet cabin, blending together in my ears. Life was so new. The terror has faded, and she regards me with disbelief. I turn my face away. I stand and duck out of the plane.

Her bewildered gaze follows me down the tunnel. After weeks of staring at it, I figured out how to fill its tank from a barrel of stabilised gasoline I found in the service rooms. But I have no idea how to drive. Sometimes I just sit there with the engine purring, my hands resting limply on the wheel, willing a true memory to pop into my head.

Not another hazy impression or vague awareness cribbed from the collective subconscious. Something specific, bright and vivid. Something unmistakably mine. I strain myself, trying to wrench it out of the blackness. Erotica is meaningless for us now. A distant echo of that great motivator that once started wars and inspired symphonies, that drove human history out of the caves and into space. M may be holding on, but those days are over now.

Sex, once a law as undisputed as gravity, has been disproved. The equation is erased, the blackboard broken. I remember the need, the insatiable hunger that ruled my life and the lives of everyone around me.

But our loss of this, the most basic of all human passions, might sum up our loss of everything else. I watch M from the doorway. He sits on the little metal folding chair with his hands between his knees like a schoolboy facing the principal. There are times when I can almost glimpse the person he once was under all that rotting flesh, and it prickles my heart. We sit against the tiles of the bathroom wall with our legs sprawled out in front of us, passing the brain back and forth, taking small, leisurely bites and enjoying brief flashes of human experience.

The brain contains the life of some young military grunt from the city. His tastes are a little less demanding than mine. I watch his mouth form silent words. I watch his face shuffle through emotions. Anger, fear, joy, lust. When he wakes up, this will all disappear. He will be empty again. He will be dead.

After an hour or two, we are down to one small gobbet of pink tissue. M pops it in his mouth and his pupils dilate as he has his visions. This one is different, though. This one is special. I tear off a bite, and chew. I am Perry Kelvin, a sixteen-year-old boy, watching my girlfriend write in her journal. The black leather cover is tattered and worn, the inside a maze of scribbles, drawings, little notes and quotes. I am sitting on the couch with a salvaged first edition of On the Road, longing to live in any era but this one, and she is curled in my lap, penning furiously.

I poke my head over her shoulder, trying to get a glimpse. She pulls the journal away and gives me a coy smile. I lace my arms around her shoulders. She burrows into me a little deeper. I bury my face in her hair and kiss the back of her head. The spicy smell of her shampoo— M is looking at me. He holds out his hand for me to pass it. I take another bite and close my eyes. We lie on our backs on a red blanket on the white steel panels, squinting up at the blinding blue sky.

I nod. I never got to do that anyway with Dad the way he is. She also tells him a little bit about her life. Despite his guilt, R continues eating the remains of Perry's brain, seeing it as a rare treasure. One night, R eats the last of the brain, and experiences the last of Perry's memories.

When he begins to witness Perry's death however, R's thoughts interrupt the scene in an attempt to halt it. To his shock, memory pauses, and Perry scolds him, telling him to let Perry have this memory. R complies, and the memory plays through. After it ends, R falls asleep. When he awakens, Julie is being attacked by several zombies, including M, and R helps her fend them off.

M is confused and angry by R's behavior, but R holds his ground. Suddenly, some Boneys arrive. Although they do not attack, one of them shows R some old photos of Dead and Living fighting each other, telling him that they need to maintain the status quo. They leave along with the rest, and R takes Julie back to the airplane.

In the morning, Julie convinces R to take her home, and they attempt to leave while the Dead watch them, half-fascinated and half-afraid. However, the Boneys attack and try to kill Julie, but with M's help, they get away in R's car. On the way to the city, it starts raining, and they are forced to stop in the suburbs. They camp out in one of the houses, and Julie allows R to share a bed with her. The next morning, Julie calls her father, and sends R out for fuel. When he returns however, Julie is gone.

On the road, R runs into M and some other zombies who have been chased out by the Boneys. The zombies have been changing like R, and experiencing things such as dreams and old memories.

The soldiers let him in, and R sneaks through the stadium following Julie's scent to her house. R sees Julie on her balcony, and they reunite. R also meets Nora, Julie's best friend. With no other options, the girls let him stay the night, and R has another Perry dream. The next morning, the girls give R a major make-over to make him look human, and take him on a tour of the city. They take him to the cemetery where they visit the grave of Julie's mother, and Julie tells him how her mother died.

While there, R finds Perry's grave, and has a waking vision of Perry. By now, it's become apparent that some form of Perry's soul is living inside R, and has intertwined with R's own. Perry warns him of the changes to come, saying R needs to take control or be swept away.

He even experiences the first time Perry and Julie make love. It was creepy and sad and if the author had owned it then the whole thing could have been awesome, but instead we got the constant downplaying and reduction of Perry's life and value as a person.

By downplaying Perry's love for Julie and Perry's death all the author did was downplay the catalyst for R's change and the story absolutely, without a fucking doubt, suffered for it. R is forgiven for Perry's death four or five times throughout this page novel. Oh yeah, I'm quoting some of it baby.

Page "Anyway," she says, "whoever killed Perry I just want you to know I don't blame them for it. I mean, I think I get it. You don't have a choice, right? And tot be honest I'd never say this to anyone, but It's better to rip that bandaid off.

Later Nora echoes Julie's sentiments about it not really being R's fault since it's the virus.

(PDF Download) Warm Bodies: A Novel (The Warm Bodies Series Book 1) PDF

Sometime after Nora absolves him of guilt he finally confesses to Julie and she forgives him for a second time. You can't tell, but I'm rolling my eyes. Look, Suzanne Collins owned the dark world of The Hunger Games when she brutally killed off view spoiler [Rue hide spoiler ] right in front of us. Rowling pulled no punches when she threw view spoiler [Dumbledore hide spoiler ] off that tower.

Also read: THE FOAM BOOK

R was a monster and Marion should have owned it. If he had let R evolve from being a monster he would have found redemption instead of being handed it on page Beyond those complaints. R and Julie's romance meant absolutely nothing to me. You can ask what romance when you read it.

Julie, all in all, was a bad romantic lead. There were a few technical problems with the grammar. They weren't rampant problems, but my eye is untrained and I did notice them. Also, Isaac Marion portrays stilted zombie speech with ellipsis so get prepared to never want to see three dots in a row ever again. Warm Bodies is an amazing looking book.

The cover is stunning and inside there are black and white anatomy shots beneath the start of each new chapter.She brushes it away like a mosquito. I am sitting on the couch with a salvaged first edition of On the Road, longing to live in any era but this one, and she is curled in my lap, penning furiously. In the midst of the chaos and bloodshed, R and Julie do the only thing they can think of: they kiss.

Can I have both? The record plays. All rights reserved. By now, it's become apparent that some form of Perry's soul is living inside R, and has intertwined with R's own. When he returns however, Julie is gone.

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