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THE NEW HUNGER ISAAC MARION PDF

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Isaac Marion. Nenhuma oferta encontrada. ISBN ISBN Ano: / Páginas: Idioma: inglês. Editora: Zola Books. The much-anticipated prequel to zombie romance WARM BODIES, now a major film. The New Hunger by Isaac Marion - “In rich, evocative prose, Marion transports his readers back into the postapocalyptic parable he first brought to life—or.


The New Hunger Isaac Marion Pdf

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Warm Bodies and The New Hunger by Isaac Marion - NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER, NOW A MAJOR MOTION PICTURE “Gruesome yet poetic highly . Editorial Reviews. From Publishers Weekly. Bestseller Marion's prequel to his zombie The New Hunger: A Warm Bodies Novella (The Warm Bodies Series Book 2) - Kindle edition by Isaac Marion. Download it once and read it on your. The New Hunger: A Warm Bodies Novella (The Warm Bodies Series) [Isaac Marion] on resourceone.info *FREE* shipping on qualifying offers. “In rich, evocative .

The New Hunger is a crucial link between Warm Bodies and The Burning World, a glimpse into the past that sets the stage for an astonishing future. The beginning is darkness and fire, microbes and worms—the very first of us, killing by the billions on their way up the ladder.

There is little to learn from the beginning. We prefer the middle, where things are getting interesting. Who are we?

We are everyone.

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We are every thought and action. Time is just a filing system for the vastness of our Library, but we linger in the present with the unfinished books, watching them write themselves. The world is changing. So we narrow our focus.

We zoom in on a country, then a city, then the white rooftop of a stadium, where three young people are sitting on a blanket. The sky is dark. They are the only ones awake for miles around.

They have seen too much ugliness.

Who are these people? Why do they interest us? Some are less obvious than mine: shorts and a sweater, skirt and a blouse. 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, ves- tigial knowledge of a world long gone. Faint impressions of past lives that linger like phantom limbs.

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 vis- ible.

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. 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 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 vis- age 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 toward 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. I often wonder how old I am. We ar- rive around noon the next day and start looking for flesh.

The new hunger is a strange feeling. We feel it everywhere equally, a sink- ing, 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 realized 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 apart- ment building. 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. 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 gun- powder 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 gray, but feeling a little bet- ter. 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 fol- lowing 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?

Warm Bodies and The New Hunger

An ancient curse? 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.

The New Hunger

We drop our cargo on the floor: two mostly intact men, a few meaty legs, and a dismembered torso, all still warm. 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. Breathing is optional, but I need some air. I wander out into the connecting hallways and ride the convey- ors.Used by Permission.

Her penetrating eyes address me like a creature worthy of address,unaware that I recently killed her lover, ate his life and digested his soul, and am right now carrying a prime cut of his brain in the front pocket of my slacks. Shehas wrapped herself in a quilt made of cut-up jeans that I brought back as a souvenir a few weeks ago. But our loss of this, the most basic of all human passions, might sum up our loss of everything else.

I watch M from the doorway. What am I doing?

Warm Bodies and The New Hunger

A hunting party forms around us as we shuffle toward town. Eating is not a pleasant business. A tall, dark girl with a promise carved on her heart. Each sequential step surprised us.