Warm Bodies: The Answer

Just a Small Part

Rowan stirred slowly, shifting slightly under the blankets, stubbornly holding on to the last dregs of sleep he could squeeze out of the morning. Something pulled at him, drawing him up, something just on the edge of his hearing.

Music, playing somewhere.

Rowan frowned. Turning onto his back, he just listened for a moment, trying to work out the song.

It was too soft to make out the words, but he caught the rhythm, and started tapping out the beat against his quilt. Something slow, weaved with guitar and... violin?

Then the tempo swelled, and the sound washed over him in insistent waves.

Rowan opened his eyes.

The soft glow from the curtains catching the full sun of late morning bathed his bedroom, and he lay there for a moment, staring up at the ceiling, listening. For the life of him, he couldn't work out where the music might be coming from. Didn't help that his door was closed. Wasn't from Bran's room though. Maybe downstairs?

It kept niggling at him, just low enough that he couldn't work out the song. So infuriating.

With an irritated groan, he flung the covers off the bed, and stood up, running his hands through his hair as he scratched the back of his head. Grabbing his jeans, he tugged them on as he hopped around his room, then rummaged through his drawers for a t-shirt.

He really needed to do some laundry. The only clean shirts he had were grey.

Pulling one on, he crossed to the bedroom door and yanked it open. The music got a little louder, but not enough to solve the mystery of what was playing, and now he was even more confused. Maybe someone was watching TV?

Yawning, he hopped down the stairs and traced a finger in a path around the framed photos and drawings in the hallway on his way to the living room. Passing the kitchen, grinding his fingers against his eyelids, he finally stopped against the old couch facing their modestly sized television.

Which wasn't on.

And nobody was here?

"Mom?" he called, and waited for an answer.

None came.

"Dad?"

Still no answer, but now he knew they weren't here. He could feel it, the emptiness of the house pressing in around him.

Maybe they'd gone out to the mall or something? Looking for a note, Rowan wandered into the kitchen to check the little whiteboard on the fridge. There wasn't anything from his parents, but his brother has scrawled something, the letters generously round and carefully rendered:

Rowan is a buttface

Sighing, he grabbed the pen, wiped his name clear with the heel of his hand and put his brother's instead. With a small smirk, he stepped away from the fridge and left the kitchen to stand in the living room again.

He had no idea where they were, but that was cool. He'd call Dave over a little later, they could jam in the garage till his folks got home.

Yawning, Rowan turned to go back up to bed, but the music swelled again, tugging at his mind as he reached the hallway.

Frowning, he looked at the front door. It sounded like it was just outside. Maybe somebody was playing out in the street? Maybe a stereo in somebody's car?

The beat pulled at him, and he headed towards the door. This was driving him nuts. Time to work out what the hell they were playing.

Not even bothering with shoes, he pulled the door open and stepped outside, into brilliant, blinding sunlight.