Warm Bodies: Awakening

A Heart Breaking

Mark ran for his life, with his son in his arms, heading for a small remote hanger he'd seen off the side of the tarmac. That would do, he could regroup there, plan the next step. What was the next step? He didn't know. It didn't matter. They were together, that's what was important, and he'd work something out. They just needed to get away from the dead. Where was Brandon? There, running by his side, still holding that gun. Brave kid.

His chest felt like it was going to explode, each breath tearing at his lungs, pushing against a band of iron wrapped around his heart. They had to keep going, keep going. He had to get his family to safety.

Why was his son so still? Oh god. Despair made his heart lurch, but he pushed it down and pushed on, until they finally reached the hanger. He wanted to stop, to collapse against the corrugated wall until he could breathe again, but they needed to get inside. Away from the dead. The door was locked. Dammit. Holding his son's head against his chest he slammed into the door with his shoulder until the lock shattered, and they fell inside.

Closing the door, kicking a heavy shelf down across it, he quickly scanned the large room, but there were no dead that he could see. A light aircraft, lots of supplies, huge shelves and cargo pallets against the far wall. No dead. Thank god.

They were safe.

"Dad..."

Brandon. His breath coming in heaving waves, he looked at his youngest son, and frowned as he saw the tears falling on his son's face. Brandon wasn't looking at him. He was looking at...

Mark looked down, and his heart shattered.

"Oh no." He choked back a strangled sob, and sank to his knees.

His eldest boy lay against him in absolute stillness, head lolled over his arm, eyes half-lidded and dull.

No breath left him, no pulse trembled at the side of his neck.

"Oh god... Ro... nonono," he moaned, and frantically cradled his son's face, sweeping back his hair, shaking his shoulders, trying to bring the life back into his boy's eyes.

But it was useless. His son was gone.

Dead.

A desperate wail rose from his throat as he drew his son to his chest and held him tight, burying his face in his hair and sobbing against him.

Images of his boy's life flashed swiftly through his mind as the grief overwhelmed him. At the hospital, Claire smiling at him through tears with this incredible miracle in her arms. His beautiful boy. Bringing him home, both of them terrified they'd do something wrong. His wife rocking their child in the living room, smiling wearily his way as she lulled their little one to sleep. The first game of catch, his first day of school, their first fight...

Somewhere, distantly, Brandon was speaking to him, his voice urgent, strained. "Dad... dad we have to leave him here. He's going to..."

Mark turned and blinked at his youngest son, not understanding for a moment. Then it dawned on him, and he froze against his boy's body.

He's going to turn.

Another sob shook him, but he drew in a deep breath and choked it down. Brandon was right. Nodding through streaming tears, he slowly lowered his son's body to the floor, gently cradling his head.

God, he didn't want to let him go.

He brushed his boy's cheek. Already his skin was cold, pale. Was it growing greyer as he watched? They had to get away from him.

Squeezing his son's cold hand one final time, Mark stood and engulfed Brandon in a hug. His boy finally broke down and shook against him as he cried, the gun hanging limply from his hand.