Warm Bodies: Awakening

Just What Brothers Do

A deep rumbling sound echoed from somewhere nearby. It was a rhythmic and steady sound, and he slowly rose from the depths of sleep, his curiosity growing, knowing he'd heard that noise before.

As his mind became more aware, he realized what he was hearing.

Snoring.

His eyes blinked open slowly, stiff with dried tears, and the room resolved from a blur to a bedroom, lit by a dull yellow glow. Sitting slumped in a chair next to the bed he was laying on, was his dad.

His father was sleeping, his head resting awkwardly on his chin, deep sawing breaths erupting from his throat.

He grinned. God, his dad was loud. His mom had always hated dad's snoring. She use to say it was enough to wake the dead.

He blinked. Holy crap. For one wonderful moment, he'd forgotten he used to be dead. It was as if none of it had ever happened, and he was home, visiting from college for the weekend, and they'd probably go up to the lake for few hours, and...

It struck him then, and he sucked in a sharp breath with the shock of it, that he remembered everything. His life before he died and the strange shadow life he lived as one of the dead, had merged together into one incredible whole.

He was himself again, and he'd found his dad. He was finally... home.

Eyes wide, he sat up and stared at his father, finally seeing the change time had wrought on him. His brown hair and heavy brows were flecked with grey, and deep furrows lined his forehead and cheeks. Bags sat heavy under his father's closed eyes, speaking of sorrow and worry.

Eight years. It had been eight years since he'd seen his father. Lost years, and he could see their weight in his father's face.

He frowned, his eyes starting to water again. That wasn't fair.

The few times he'd looked in a mirror, he looked exactly the same as he had before he died. Death had apparently frozen him in time, locking him in place, and now he'd lost eight years of his father's life to it.

And his brother? Where was Brandon? He looked around the room again. There was another bed, against the wall, under the windows. His brother's? God, was he still alive? Was he okay?

Something caught his eye on a bookshelf against the far wall. Something round and white.

Stunned, he slowly slid off the bed, careful not to wake his father, and walked over.

It was his baseball, the one he'd had to leave behind at the shelter. The one that hadn't been there when he'd returned. He drew his fingers across the soft leather and smiled as his eyes blurred in new tears. His hand drifted over the rest of the items on the shelf, lingering on his books, his single record, and finally, the photo album.

Wiping his face, he flipped open the cover and a small sound left his throat. There was his photo, the one taken from the plane, the one he'd thought was lost for good.

His mother smiled up at him, and he drew his finger across her image, smiling back at her through his tears. I found them, mom. I found them.

The snoring behind him rose to a deafening crescendo, then faded, and he laughed, turning back to look at his dad. His father was still asleep, slumped in the chair.

He turned back to his stuff, then glanced around the room again and out the windows above the other bed.

Where was this place anyway? Apparently still in the city. How'd he get here? The last he remembered...

Oh god. Julie. His face fell. He'd just left her lying there. Jesus, she must have been so hurt... what the hell was he going to do? He had to find her, let her know what happened, and apologize.