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Warm bodies full book pdf

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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). Romeo and Juliet with zombies - a starry-eyed, sweetly comic story about the humanising power of love, even in the darkest of circumstances. Soft Copy of Book Warm Bodies author Isaac Marion completely free. Reviews of : Warm Bodies by Isaac Marion PDF Book Inside this Book – It is a zombie book.


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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 . The life remaining in those cells will keep them from full-dying, but the Dead. Warm Bodies by Isaac Marion - Free download as PDF File .pdf), Text File .txt) or Uploaded by Atria Books . I imagine that's what being full-dead is like. There are also many other books. Thanks Warm Bodies: A Novel NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER, NOW A MAJOR Where do I download full ebook PDF?.

The movie quotes, the radio jingles, the celebrity gossip and political slogans, they all melt away, leaving only the most potent and wrenching of the memories. We wander down empty lanes and under ivycurtained overpasses. Her eyes slide open a crack. From zombie bites to starvation to good old-fashioned age and disease, there are so many options for dying in this new world. Are these places all gone now?

Find your local bookstore at booksellers. Our Lists. Hi-Res Cover. Romeo and Juliet with zombies - a starry-eyed, sweetly comic story about the humanising power of love, even in the darkest of circumstances. Isaac Marion. Online retailers Or.

Online retailers. Also by Isaac Marion. Rating Newest Oldest. Best Answer: Isaac Marion is not giving away his book for free. Buy a legal copy. Any "free" pdf is stolen property. Source s: Add a comment. Your Spanish Virtual Teacher http: Warm Bodies Pdf. Existing questions. Related Questions How to download free pdf formatted books? M makes fun of me sometimes. He points at my tie and tries to laugh, a choked, gurgling rumble deep in his gut. His clothes are holey jeans and a plain white T-shirt.

The shirt is looking pretty macabre by now. He should have picked a darker colour. We like to joke and speculate about our clothes, since these final fashion choices are the only indication of who we were before we became no one. Some are less obvious than mine: So we make random guesses. You were a waitress. You were a student. Ring any bells? It never does. No one I know has any specific memories. Just a vague, vestigial knowledge of a world long gone. Faint impressions of past lives that linger like phantom limbs.

We recognise civilisation — buildings, cars, a general overview — but we have no personal role in it. No history. We are just here. We do what we do, time passes, and no one asks questions. The rusty cogs of cogency still spin, just geared down and down till the outer motion is barely visible.

We grunt and groan, we shrug and nod, and sometimes a few words slip out. Out of everything, this seems to me the most tragic. There are hundreds of us living in an abandoned airport outside some large city. To have nothing at all around us, nothing to touch or look at, no hard lines whatsoever, just us and the gaping maw of the sky.

An emptiness vast and absolute. I still have all my flesh, but there are elders who are little more than skeletons with clinging bits of muscle, dry as jerky. Somehow it still extends and contracts, and they keep moving. The future is as blurry to me as the past. You might say death has relaxed me. I am riding the escalators when M finds me.

I ride the escalators several times a day, whenever they move. The airport is derelict, but the power still flickers on sometimes, maybe flowing from emergency generators stuttering deep underground. Lights flash and screens blink, machines jolt into motion. I cherish these moments. The feeling of things coming to life. I stand on the steps and ascend like a soul into Heaven, that sugary dream of our childhoods, now a tasteless joke. After maybe thirty repetitions, I rise to find M waiting for me at the top.

He is hundreds of pounds of muscle and fat draped on a six-foot-five frame. Bearded, bald, bruised and rotten, his grisly visage slides into view as I crest the staircase summit. Is he the angel that greets me at the gates? His ragged mouth is oozing black drool. We are going out to find food. A hunting party forms around us as we shuffle towards town. Focused thought is a rare occurrence here, and we all follow it when it manifests. We do a lot of standing around and groaning.

Years pass this way. The flesh withers on our bones and we stand here, waiting for it to go. I often wonder how old I am. The city where we do our hunting is conveniently close.

We arrive around noon the next day and start looking for flesh. The new hunger is a strange feeling. We feel it everywhere equally, a sinking, sagging sensation, as if our cells are deflating. Last winter, when so many Living joined the Dead and our prey became scarce, I watched some of my friends become full-dead. The transition was undramatic. They just slowed down, then stopped, and after a while I realised they were corpses. I distracted myself with some groaning. I think the world has mostly ended, because the cities we wander through are as rotten as we are.

Buildings have collapsed. Rusted cars clog the streets. Most glass is shattered, and the wind drifting through the hollow high-rises moans like an animal left to die.

Social collapse? Or was it just us? The Dead replacing the Living? We start to smell the Living as we approach a dilapidated apartment building. The smell is not the musk of sweat and skin, but the effervescence of life energy, like the ionised tang of lightning and lavender. It hits us deeper inside, near our brains, like wasabi. We converge on the building and crash our way inside. We find them huddled in a small studio unit with the windows boarded up.

They are dressed worse than we are, wrapped in filthy tatters and rags, all of them badly in need of a shave. M will be saddled with a short blond beard for the rest of his Fleshy existence, but everyone else in our party is clean-shaven. Beards, hair, toenails. Our wild bodies have finally been tamed. Slow and clumsy but with unswerving commitment, we launch ourselves at the Living. Shotgun blasts fill the dusty air with gunpowder and gore.

Black blood spatters the walls. The loss of an arm, a leg, a portion of torso, this is disregarded, shrugged off. A minor cosmetic issue. But some of us take shots to our brains, and we drop. The zombies to my left and right hit the ground with moist thuds. But there are plenty of us. We are overwhelming. We set upon the Living, and we eat.

Eating is not a pleasant business. This is what we do. If I restrain myself, if I leave enough. As always I go straight for the good part, the part that makes my head light up like a picture tube.

I eat the brain and, for about thirty seconds, I have memories.

Flashes of parades, perfume, music. Then it fades, and I get up, and we all stumble out of the city, still cold and grey, but feeling a little better. This is the best we can do. I trail behind the group as the city disappears behind us. When I pause at a rain-filled pothole to scrub gore off my face and clothes, M drops back and slaps a hand on my shoulder. He knows my distaste for some of our routines. He pats my shoulder and just looks at me.

I nod, and we keep walking. I steal what he has to replace what I lack. He disappears, and I stay. But following those laws keeps me walking, so I follow them to the letter.

I eat until I stop eating, then I eat again. How did this start? How did we become what we are? Was it some mysterious virus? Gamma rays? An ancient curse?

Warm Bodies by Isaac Marion

Or something even more absurd? No one talks about it much. We are here, and this is the way it is. We go about our business. There is a chasm between me and the world outside of me. By the time my screams reach the other side, they have dwindled into groans.

At the Arrivals gate, we are greeted by a small crowd, watching us with hungry eyes or eye sockets. We drop our cargo on the floor: Call it leftovers. Call it takeout. Our fellow Dead fall on them and feast right there on the floor like animals. Like men at sea deprived of fresh fruit, they will wither in their deficiencies, weak and perpetually empty, because the new hunger is a lonely monster.

It grudgingly accepts the brown meat and lukewarm blood, but what it craves is closeness, that grim sense of connection that courses between their eyes and ours in those final moments, like some dark negative of love. I wave to M and then break free from the crowd. Breathing is optional, but I need some air. I wander out into the connecting hallways and ride the conveyors. I stand on the belt and watch the scenery scroll by through the window wall.

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. 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.

Warm Bodies by Isaac Marion | Nature

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.

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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.

Warm Bodies (The Warm Bodies Series)

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.

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.

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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.