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Warm Bodies: A Novel. Thank you for. downloading this Emily. Bestler Books/ Atria. eBook. Join our mailing list and get updates on. new releases, deals, bonus . Read "Warm Bodies A Novel" by Isaac Marion available from Rakuten Kobo. Sign up today and get $5 off your first purchase. NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER. Warm Bodies by Isaac Marion - Free download as PDF File .pdf), Text File .txt) or read online for free. A captivating debut novel that is at once both terrifying.


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You also do not need registration to download or read it. There are also many other books. Thanks and happy reading. Warm Bodies: A Novel NEW YORK. Warm Bodies by Isaac Marion - NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER, NOW A MAJOR MOTION PICTURE “Gruesome yet poetic highly original.” —The Seattle . Warm Bodies by Isaac Marion - iBook Pile Free Download Ebooks - iPad,Kindle, iPhone,Android,Symbian,.EPub,iBook,.PDF,.Mobi.

By Isaac Marion. He has no name, no memories, and no pulse, but he has dreams. He is a little different from his fellow Dead. Amongst the ruins of an abandoned city, R meets a girl. Her name is Julie and she is the opposite of everything he knows - warm and bright and very much alive, she is a blast of colour in a dreary. Isaac Marion has created the most unexpected romantic lead I've ever encountered, and rewritten the entire concept of what it means to be a zombie in the process. This story stayed with me long after I finished reading it.

I eat until I stop eating, then I eat again. How did this start?

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How did we become what we are? Was it some mysterious virus? Gamma rays? An ancient curse?

Book: Warm Bodies: A Novel

Or some- thing 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 eyesockets.

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 mon- ster.

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 convey- ors. 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. Moby Dick, con- quered at last. Before, when I was alive, I could never have done this. Standing still, watching the world pass by me, thinking about nearly noth- ing. 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 con- veyor. 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.

There are hundreds of us living in an abandoned airport outside

I grimace and she grimaces back. On our third pass, the air- port 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 decompo- sition 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 gray all the Dead share. Her graveclothes are a black skirt and a snug white buttonup. I suspect she used to be a receptionist.

Pinned to her chest is a silver nametag. 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 think I remember what love was like before.

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There were com- plex emotional and biological factors. We had elaborate tests to pass, connections to forge, ups and downs and tears and whirl- winds. 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 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.

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But when I open my mouth, it all 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 ardu- ous, 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 amphitheater. We gather here, we stand here, we lift our arms and moan. The ancient Boneys wave their skeletal limbs in the center 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 to be more devout than I am. She closes her eyes and waves her arms in a way that looks almost heartfelt.

I stand next to her and hold my hands in the air stiffly. At some unknown cue, maybe drawn by her fervor, the Boneys stop their preaching and stare at us. One of them comes forward, climbs our stairs, and takes us both by the wrists.

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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 hunt- ing 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 gray skin and gray 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. 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.

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.

A captivating debut novel that is at once both terrifying and romantic about a zombie who is humanized by the power of love. Flag for inappropriate content. Jump to Page. Search inside document. Click here to find out more. Related Interests Nature. Random House Teens.

Random House Publishing Group. Mary Grace Cagay. Jinhi Baron. Disney Publishing. He has no name, no memories, and no pulse, but he has dreams. He is a little different from his fellow Dead.

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Amongst the ruins of an abandoned city, R meets a girl. Her name is Julie and she is the opposite of everything he knows - warm and bright and very much alive, she is a blast of colour in a dreary. Isaac Marion has created the most unexpected romantic lead I've ever encountered, and rewritten the entire concept of what it means to be a zombie in the process.

This story stayed with me long after I finished reading it. R is the thinking woman's zombie - though somewhat grey-skinned and monosyllabic, he could be the perfect boyfriend, if he could manage to refrain from eating you.

When your new suitor ate your old boyfriend's brain, trust issues are unavoidable Has there been a more sympathetic monster since Frankenstein's? Find your local bookstore at booksellers. Our Lists. Hi-Res Cover.