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. It disquieted me at first, but it’s against etiquette to notice when one of us dies. I distracted myself with some groaning.

Warm Bodies ended up becoming one of the most personal relatable things I've written.

Deep under our feet the Earth holds its molten breath, while the bones of countless generations watch us and wait.

Are my words ever actually audible, or do they just echo in my head while people stare at me, waiting?

God has made us study partner. We need to talk about our project.

I can no longer believe in any voodoo spell or laboratory virus. This is something deeper, darker. This comes from the cosmos, from the stars, or the unknown blackness behind them. The shadows in God's boarded-up basement.

The shadows of the room pool in the lines of our faces, draining our eyes of hue. "There's nothing left worth saying.