Warm Bodies: The Answer

The Strong One

"... the only way, Rowan..."

Rowan stirred slowly, shaking his head as the voice trailed off in his own throat, his hands twisting in the sheets wrapped tightly around him.

"n-no," he whispered.

He woke up.

Blinking through puffy, bleary eyes, Rowan stared up at the bounced sunlight on the bedroom ceiling, his own voice echoing in his head.

He'd been having a dream. Incredibly vivid, now just on the edge of memory and slowly sliding away.

He'd been talking to someone, a man he knew, whose face was a blur now.

Talking about...

... hope?

Tilting his head on the bed, Rowan tried to remember. It'd been important, whatever it was. Something about setting people free... having faith...

The light shimmered on the ceiling and the sound of a voice passed nearby. The sounds of life outside the window, a community busy with making the most of the morning. He couldn't make out the words.

He didn't want to move. Could barely move anyway, he'd twisted himself up in the sheets pretty tight.

Julie.

The night came back to him in a rush, and he groaned, pulling the blanket over his head again.

Was she really okay? Were the notes real? Was any of last night real?

If he got up, would whoever had taken control just put him back down again?

Untwisting himself from the sheets, he got up anyway, swiveling to the edge of the bed, wincing at the ugly pain in his chest, his head.

A mass of marks in a kaleidoscope of colors covered the bare skin of his abdomen.

Lifting his right arm, he noticed the angry red lines of scratches.

A flash of borrowed memory then, of Julie squirming desperately beneath him, clawing at his arm. Dying beneath his fingers.

With a heavy groan, he crumpled over himself, and the black despair threatened to swallow him once more.

Shaking his head, he stood up quickly, too quickly, and he had to steady himself with a hand against the wall.

No.

No more wallowing, no more useless pity.

It was time to find Julie, make sure she was okay and get her out of here. Then...

Rowan frowned again, as the dream whispered to him, a flash of vivid comprehension that quickly faded.

Then he had to do... something important.

He looked down.

First, he had to find some clothes.

He was busy pulling on a grey t-shirt and a loose pair of trousers of the old doctor's that were way too short - the only things he'd been able to find - when a sharp knock sounded on the front door.

Freezing in place, he waited, and it came again, before the door creaked slowly open.

"What the hell?"

The voice made his nerves stand on end.

Samuel.

"Eric, get out here, right now!"

Shit!

Could he crawl out the window? Hide somewhere? Heart hammering in his chest, he swiveled in place, but his mind had locked up with Caleb's fear, and he was still standing there as Samuel stomped heavily down the hall and into the room.