Warm Bodies: Awakening

The Little Brown Bear

Jesus, he had a lot of junk.

It was just a little frustrating, having spent eight years collecting stuff from all over the city and beyond, and somehow having absolutely nothing of value he could trade for what he needed right now.

A ring.

Why hadn't he hoarded shiny things? Weapons? Medicine? Any of those things would give him some negotiating power with the traders in the market. But no. He had to collect plastic dinosaurs, golfing trophies, action figures, snowglobes, a mobile of the solar system, old books and torn magazines. A bobble headed dog.

Useful.

Perry's watch had been about the most valuable thing he'd ever taken, but of course, he'd given that back to Julie, and truthfully wanted nothing more to do with it.

Grumbling in frustration, R abandoned the pile he'd been pawing his way through, tossing a pair of shaggy earmuffs over his shoulder in disgust, and moved further down the plane, shoving aside a single ski draped across a row of seats, before rummaging through a basket full of random chess pieces, marbles, colorful dice and an old film container.

"Argh," R groaned, and shifted further back, to a part of the plane he hadn't been through in years.

The smell got worse, and he wondered if perhaps he'd left a piece of someone in another basket back here, a little discarded crumb of brain or something that'd fallen between piles of books and was casually rotting away. The thought was meant to be light hearted, but quickly turned heavy and he frowned, throwing a spiked soccer shoe at a teetering pile of books nearby and knocking them over.

There was nothing here. It was stupid to keep looking.

But something pulled him down a couple more rows, to a window seat piled with CD cases, an old toy record player and a dented music box.

Sitting atop the box, bathed in the dull light of winter through dirty glass, and sagging forward, its little black bead eyes seemingly staring out the round window, was a little brown bear.

R stopped.

"Shit," he said, with a long sigh.

Hesitantly, he reached out and closed his fingers around the spiky, matted fur, dark with dried blood.

And remembered.

As the memories swamped him, he squeezed his eyes shut, and stepped back, his mouth twisting in pain that had nothing to do with physical hurt.

"Shit," he said again, and opened his eyes, looking down at the bear clenched between his fingers, the knuckles paling as he held it tight.

He turned then, sweeping his gaze around the entire plane, his eyes flicking from item to item, every piece of his collection speaking to him now in voices he didn't want to hear, and he started to move, stumbling over the books he'd knocked over, pushing his way to the door of the plane.

Because he had to get out. He had to get away from here.

From the bear, and her story.

From all of their stories.

As he finally neared the exit, he took one last look around the plane, and down at the bear in his hand. Setting it gingerly on the nearest seat, he straightened and spoke to the empty cabin, the seats filled now with the ghosts in his head.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

Then he stepped out into the dull light of a cold winter's day, and closed the door hard behind him.

TO BE CONTINUED...