Dan puts down his phone and lies back down onto his bed.
It’s over. It’s finally over. This time, it’s for real.
He sighs deeply. It’s just past nine o’clock, and he has now officially been awake for thirty-seven hours. That’s a whole workweek. And it feels like it, too. His eyes are stinging, his muscles aching with exhaustion.
He has been through more these past two days than most soldiers go through on an entire tour to Iraq. That’s what the psychologist told him, anyway.
But now it’s over.
But then why can’t he believe that?
Something bothers him. A small thing he overlooked. He’s been over the events again and again in his mind. Played the film back and forth. He just can’t see what detail escapes him.
Perhaps there’s nothing there. Perhaps his brain is still just running in overdrive. He’d probably better get some sleep. There’s nothing more he can do now anyway.
He turns over and shuts his eyes.
From the living room he can hear the television. The sound can’t quite drown out his mother’s crying or his dad trying to console her. Dad has been in here every fifteen minutes or so since they got home. As though to make sure Dan doesn’t suddenly disappear. Their only remaining child.
Dan feels a lump forming in his throat at the thought of Jennie. She was the hardest part telling their parents about. Seeing their faces crumble as they received the news just made everything worse—more real, somehow. The possibility of all this being a dream fell away when Dan saw his parents burst into tears. Nightmares don’t affect other people.
He still can’t grasp it. He can’t imagine a world without Jennie. How could he? He has never seen a world without her. She’s been here since before Dan was born. And now she’s lying on a table somewhere.
He pushes that image out of his mind. It doesn’t exactly help him to fall asleep.
Wonder what the doctors will say once they examine the many corpses? What will they even find? If the zombies were animated by some voodoo magic, will there even be a virus in the bodies? On the other hand, if there’s no virus, then how were they able to contaminate others?
The answers will surely come within the next days. Once everything returns back to normal. Smart people will get on television and explain it all. How it could have happened, what went down and how it was all stopped in the last second.
Will people ever know how close the world came to ending? Will Dan be recognized as one of the people responsible for stopping it? Will some people even come to see him as a hero?
He sure doesn’t feel like one. A hero would probably have saved the world and his sister.
His eyes tear up once again, but Dan is too tired to cry; he simply doesn’t have the strength, and finally, his thoughts begin to drift further away as sleep comes sweeping like a freeing darkness, pulling him down deeper and deeper.
Dan sleeps as the evening grows dimmer outside his window. He doesn’t notice how the door to his room is opened a few times, as his dad’s face, eyes all red and puffy, peeks in and then disappears again.
Dan doesn’t dream. His sleep is too deep for that.
But an image nonetheless makes its way into his consciousness. Now, as his brain finally relaxes, the memories are loosened up and that thing that kept bugging him gradually floats to the surface and materializes.
It’s a cat. A black cat.
“Whiskers,” Dan breathes, not waking up, but turning his head jerkily from side to side. “It was the cat …”
A part of Dan’s subconscious recognizes the message, and it tries waking up Dan, but his body is simply too exhausted to obey. Instead, he slips further down, his muscles relaxing, and his sleep turns calm again.
NINETEEN
Paul is jerked awake abruptly. He blinks and looks around in the darkness. It takes him a few seconds to remember where he is and what woke him up. Did someone call his name? Or was that just a dream?
“Paul …”
The voice is Irene’s. She’s lying next to him, her blanket halfway on the floor, her skin glistening with sweat. She’s frowning and turning her head. “Paul, watch out …”
“Irene,” he croaks. “You’re dreaming, sweetheart.”
His wife doesn’t wake up, but keeps whispering incoherently in her sleep. He reaches over and shakes her gently. Still, she doesn’t awaken. Her skin is flaming hot. Could it be a fever?
Paul sits up with a sigh. It’s stifling hot in the bedroom, even though the window is open all the way. The summer sure is merciless this year. But this night feels even hotter than the many previous ones. Paul gets the silly notion that it’s Irene giving off heat and raising the temperature in the room even further. Ridiculous, of course.
“Please, watch out, Paul,” she whimpers.
He sits up and looks over at her nightstand. The pills are right next to a glass of water, but he remembers her taking them before they went to sleep, so it can’t be the chemo bothering her. They’ve had many sleepless nights since she started the second round of treatment, but fever has never been one of the things tormenting her. He reaches over and takes the glass.
“Irene, drink some water, you’ll feel better.”
He tries putting the glass to her lip, but she thrusts her head sideways, hitting the glass with her chin and causing him to spill most of the water over her neck and chest.
“Ah, goddamnit,” he moans.
To his astonishment, though, the splashing water doesn’t wake up his wife.
He notices her hand, lying restlessly on her stomach. It’s swollen like a rubber glove full of air, the fingers thick as hot dogs, and—doesn’t the skin look weird? It’s hard to tell in the darkness, and Paul isn’t wearing his glasses, but he’s pretty sure Irene’s hand is greenish.
His eyes fall on the Band-Aid a few inches above her wrist.
What did she say happened? Whiskers scratched her, I think.
That stupid cat. Paul has never trusted it. Had it been up to him, that cat would have been put down a long time ago. He would even have been happy to do it himself, using his old hunting rifle. But Irene loved that arrogant little beast, so …
He recalls her complaining about the scratch marks itching before they went to bed. She cleaned it thoroughly using hydrogen peroxide, like she used to do back when the kids were small and would fall and scrape their knees. So the scratch marks couldn’t have been infected—could they? Maybe some resistant bacteria got in when Whiskers scratched her. God only knows what that nasty animal might have had its claws in. A dead bird, probably.
The Band-Aid seems to be bulging a little. Paul grabs her twitching arm and pulls off the Band-Aid carefully. He lets out a gasp as he looks at what is no longer a harmless scratch, but a throbbing, oozing boil.
“Bloody hell,” he snarls, jumping out of bed. “Wake up, Irene! We gotta get you to the ER!”
“No, Paul,” she whispers, and for a moment he thinks she’s awake, but when he looks at her face, her eyes are still closed. Her demeanor is calmer now, like she’s falling into a deeper sleep. “Watch out, Paul,” is the last thing she says, before falling silent.
He stands there, looking at her for a moment. He’s not sure why, but he’s struck by a sense of grief. The thought of everything she’s been through this past year. First it was the cancer, and now this traumatic experience with the policeman sawing off his own leg right outside in their shack. The thought that Irene had to see that … It took the police most of the evening to get everything cleaned up, after they had taken pictures and done tests and whatnot. Paul is not sure he’ll ever be able to go in to the shack again without thinking about that.
And now this … some infection in her hand which probably got a hold of her because her immune system is already weakened by the cancer treatment.
Paul turns and strides into the living room, looking for his phone. But he can’t find it anywhere. Then he remembers he brought it into the bedroom. He usually never does tha
t, but he wanted to be sure he heard it in case the police called them.
He walks back through the house, brooding. The thought of going to the ER in the middle of the night doesn’t exactly make him ecstatic, but he doesn’t want to take any risks concerning Irene’s health, so they have to—
He stops abruptly as he almost bumps into Irene, who is standing in the open bedroom door, her eyes closed, her body swaying uncertainly.
“Irene?” he asks. “I think you’re sleepwalking, dear. Come back to bed, all right? You need to sit down.”
He takes her by the shoulders. As their skin touch, he’s surprised to feel how cold she is. The heat has completely left her body within a few minutes.
Then, just as he’s about to turn her around, Irene opens her eyes wide, and Paul can immediately tell there’s nothing left in those eyes of that woman whom he’s known and loved for most of his life. He just has time to think one last amazed thought: She’s dead.
Then Irene lunges at him.
DAY 3
THE FOLLOWING EVENTS TAKE PLACE ON
MONDAY, JULY 28
ONE
William puts on the headphones as soon as the doors to the elevator close.
He’s strictly speaking not allowed to hear music at work, but come on—how else is he supposed to make it through his shift? Besides, the basement is usually empty, except for the other porters, but none of them will tell on him. Well, maybe Thorsten, that old, grumpy bastard.
William turns up the volume as the tunes of Custard Pie fill his ears. The doors open and he pushes the stand down the deserted hallway, smiling to himself as he drums the rhythm on the stand. He’s in an awful good mood today, despite the fact that today is a Monday.
He spins the stand around on its wheels, causing him to overlook the jumping handle on the door as he passes it.
He’s had the job a couple of months now. It was only supposed to be a summer gig, but the pay is decent, so he might stick around a little while longer than planned. Also, he actually enjoys the work. Most of the time he’s left to his own, pushing stands and beds and wheelchairs back and forth, going up and down the elevators.
It might not be the coolest thing in the world—being twenty-four and still having no education. But he doesn’t want an education. His plan is to go to the States and get an apprenticeship with a tattoo artist, then come back and open his own parlor. He already visited Miami once, that’s where he got most of his right arm done.
He reaches the laundry and leaves the stand, grabbing an empty one on his way back. This time, as he passes the door with the jumping handle, he notices the movement out of the corner of his eye.
What the hell …?
He stops and stares at the handle. It’s not moving anymore. He decides he probably imagined it and is about to move on, when the handle jumps again.
William pulls off the headphones to listen. From the other side of the door he can hear scraping noises. Like someone is fumbling around a dark room trying to get out. As far as he knows it’s just an equipment locker.
His first thought is that some poor sick dude has strayed down here and locked himself inside by accident. Maybe one of the dementia patients.
“Hang on,” he calls out, pulling the key chain from his belt. “I’ll get you out.”
He sticks in the key and turns. He pushes the door open cautiously, not wanting to knock down whoever is on the other side. To his surprise, the lights are on in the room. A foul, metallic stench rolls out at him, the unmistakable smell of blood has filled the small room, mixed with something sour and salty; sweat and fever, William guesses.
But what he sees instantly causes him to forget about the smells.
At the center of the room is lying a guy his own age, dressed in a hospital gown and entangled in a tipped-over wheelchair. Both his wrists appear to be tied to the chair, making him unable to get to his feet. Instead, he twists and turns, apparently trying to get free. His head is turned away, and the floor around him is stained with blood.
“Holy fuck,” William whispers and is just about to step inside the room to help. Something terrible obviously went down in here. The guy didn’t just wander down here on his own; someone tied him up and tortured him.
But some deeper instinct holds William back. Perhaps it’s his brain recalling at the last second the jumping handle.
And then the girl steps out from behind the door.
A few years younger than him, she might once have been quite pretty, but now she’s a terrible sight. Her skin is greenish and her eyes have neither pupils nor irises. Most of the fingers on her right hand are missing, turned into a mess of knobby bones and black, dried-up blood. It’s almost as if the girl wants to show him her damaged hand, because she reaches it out at him, while showing a row of perfect white teeth in a hungry snarl and comes towards him.
William yells out and flings his fist at her. He doesn’t have time to think, he’s acting out of pure reflex from his boxing practice. His knuckles connect with the girl’s cheek, giving off a loud smack and sending her tumbling backwards.
She hits the guy in the wheelchair, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He just keeps struggling to get free, turning his head and growling at William, revealing a face as terrible as the girl’s, but with the added effect of a lot of dried blood around his mouth.
William’s brain adds up everything in a flash. The guy bit off the girl’s fingers. The blood on the floor is from her. She must have brought him here and tied him up for some reason, but got too close. Then, while bleeding profusely, she tried to unlock the door, but couldn’t do it because of her busted hand.
During those three endless seconds William spends rooted to the floor in the open door, the girl meticulously gets back up and starts staggering towards him, one cheek visibly marked by his punch, but she shows no sign of pain.
William reaches in, grabs the door, slams it shut, and turns the key. A second later, the girl starts once again fumbling with the handle.
William breathes rapidly and stares down the hallway in both directions, making sure he’s alone. There’s no trace of doubt in his mind as to what he just saw: the girl and the guy in the equipment room are zombies. He has played with the thought of what he would do in this situation a hundred times, and now he’s actually here. The most terrifying fantasy has come true.
The zombies are coming!
TWO
Even though it’s only eight o’clock, the sun is already up and doing its worst. The air conditioner is blasting away, and still the temperature inside the bus is too high. Mille is sweating.
She’s nevertheless looking forward to the trip. Just the fact that she gets away from home for a week, gets to see new things and experience new places. Of course, the heat wave has hit most of Europe, including Prague, so the awful warm weather won’t be any different, but still—
A paper airplane hits her chest.
“Hey!” she yells out and looks up.
No one really seems to hear her. Everyone is busy chatting, listening to music or messing with their phones.
“It was Mads,” Krista says, pointing. “I saw him throw it.”
Mille looks in the direction and sees the culprit four rows ahead. Mads sends her an air kiss. Mille flips him off. Mads laughs and signals for her to open the paper airplane.
Mille sighs but unfolds it. Mads has written a message in red.
Do you want to go out with me?
YES
YES
DOUBLE YES
(you may tick off more than one)
Mille can’t help but smile, but makes sure Mads doesn’t see. She finds a pen from her bag.
“What did he write?” Krista asks, leaning in.
“He’s just trying to be funny,” Mille says, adding another option to the list.
WOULD RATHER DIE FROM HERPES
She puts an X next to the line, crumbles up the paper and throws it back at Mads. The paper ball doesn’t quite reach him, so he scrambles to p
ick it up from the floor. He laughs out loud when he unfolds it and reads her answer.
“He’s coming on a little too hard,” Krista remarks.
“I don’t think he’s being serious.”
Krista raises her eyebrows. “Really? He’s been mad about you since freshman year.”
“What about Pernille?”
“He just dated her because he couldn’t get you.”
Mille glances over at Mads, who has turned around and is now talking with the boys sitting in front of him.
“Did Selina text you?” Krista asks, finding her phone. “She didn’t answer any of mine.”
“Nah, I haven’t heard from her. She’s probably ill.”
“That’s like the worst timing ever, falling ill today of all days! Hey, isn’t it somewhere out here she lives?”
Mille looks out at the fields gliding by. “I have no idea.”
“Yeah, I think it is. She moved with her dad recently, because he found a new wife, remember? I was there Saturday before we went out partying.” Krista’s eyes grow big. “Hey, did you hear? She made out with that electrician?”
“Who now?”
“Jonas Jorgensen.”
“Never heard of him.”
“Well, he’s a bit older and quite good looking.”
“Huh.” Mille honestly couldn’t care less about who Selina did or didn’t make out with. She’s got nothing against Selina, they’re just not that close, like Selina and Krista are. Also, Mille knows Krista is only sitting with her because Selina isn’t here.
“Of course, she pretended like it never happened,” Krista goes on, smiling wryly. “But I saw them, and I—”
She’s cut off as the bus abruptly makes a stop, causing everyone to be thrust forward in their seats and bags to fall to the floor. Her classmates let out indignant cries.
“What the fuck was that about?”
“Get a grip, man!”
“Is he drunk up there?”
“Why did we stop?”
Dead Meat Box Set [Days 1-3] Page 14
