“Oh, fuck me …” William runs across the parking lot. “Hey! You guys!”
The boys, who are in the business of throwing handfuls of sand up the slide, turn quickly and look at him guiltily, both of them instinctively hiding their hands behind their backs. They can’t be more than eight, maybe nine years of age.
“We weren’t doing anything,” one of them blurts out.
William stops in front of them and points to the zombie. “You see that woman over there? She’s a zombie.”
One of the boys gasp out loud. “Wow, that’s crazy! A real zombie!”
“You’ve got to get home right away, all right?” William goes on, talking fast. “Right this minute. Tell your parents to lock the doors and turn on the news. You got that?”
The boys stare from him to the woman, who’s already reached the playground and now staggers into the sandpit. The soft ground doesn’t seem to make it easier for her to walk, but she steers adamantly towards the boys.
William is just about to shout at them to get them moving, but luckily, the boys already seem to have caught on, as they’re backing away.
“Go!” William tells them. “Get out of here! Run!”
One of the boys turns and runs towards the apartments. The other sends William an uncertain look. “But … my parents aren’t at home,” he says, his voice shaky.
“Then go home with your friend! Hurry!”
The zombie woman is wobbling her way past the sand, closing in, less than ten yards away now. She snarls and opens her fingers in an eager gesture. Most of the back of her neck is missing, and her hair has been almost pulled from the skull.
The boy finally turns to run, but smashes directly into the swing set, giving off a cry and falling down.
William, who already turned to run himself, stops abruptly. “Fucking hell …” He sprints over to the boy, grabs him by the arm and tries to pull him to his legs, but the boy is hazy after the collision, so William ends up dragging him along through the sand.
The zombie woman snarls even louder, upping her speed, like she’s sensing the opportunity. She’s gaining on them. William can’t drag the boy fast enough, and there’s no time to pick him up. Instead, he shouts pointlessly at the woman. “Stay the fuck away!”
The zombie bends over to grab the boy’s sprawling legs, misses and takes another few steps, misses again, narrowly, almost losing balance but stays on her feet, going for a third try. William gives one last hard tug at the boy’s arm, hoping to get him out of reach of the zombie—but he loses his grip, and they both fall down.
For one long, terrifying moment, William realizes there’s only one outcome left. The boy can’t make it up in time. The zombie is already bending down, grabbing his foot. The boy screams as her mouth descends upon his bare leg.
Then, everything speeds up, as something big and brown comes flying in from the side, hitting the woman and knocking her sideways.
William glares dumbly at Ozzy, who’s sunk his teeth deep into the lower arm of the zombie, ripping and tearing at it like he’s trying to pop it right out of the socket. The woman barely seems to notice the dog, she simply tries to get back to the boy, still clutching his shoe in one hand, but now she’s being dragged the opposite direction in a series of violent tugs from Ozzy.
Holy shit, he’s stronger than me, William thinks in amazement, still not able to act.
The boy, who’s begun bawling, gets up and makes a clumsy one-shoed run for the apartments. William jumps to his feet and runs to the car, glancing back at Ozzy who’s still holding onto the zombie.
When he reaches the open trunk, he sticks two fingers in his mouth and gives a short, loud whistle. “Release, Ozzy! Heel!”
The dog immediately lets go of the woman’s torn-up arm and sprints to him.
“Up!” William says. Ozzy obeys and jumps into the trunk, even though he keeps darting eager glances back at the zombie woman, who’s taken up pursuit. “Good boy,” William says, slamming the trunk.
He rushes to the driver’s door and throws himself behind the wheel. From the trunk, Ozzy has started whimpering uneasily, as he stares out at the woman approaching the car.
“It’s okay,” William says, turning the key. “Calm down, Ozzy, we’re leaving.” He’s mostly talking to calm down himself. His whole body is trembling from adrenaline, cold sweat is running down his back, like a junkie doing a cold turkey. He slams the car into gear and guns it.
As they leave the parking lot, he sees the zombie in the rearview mirror, following the car another few yards. Then, she slows down, apparently losing interest, before turning away and heading towards the apartments, obviously sensing more accessible prey.
“Hope she can’t get the front doors open,” William mutters to himself, wiping a flood of sweat from his forehead.
He thinks about the boys and how surprisingly fast they got the message. As soon as he said the word “zombie,” they knew exactly how dangerous the woman was. The term obviously wasn’t new to them; they’d probably blown out several zombie brains playing computer games.
Long live the youth, William thinks, reaching into the bag for a beer. They just might have a chance of surviving this …
TWELVE
Thorsten curses to himself in a low voice as he glares up at the red numbers of the elevator slowly counting down.
Goddamned punks. You just can’t count on young people nowadays …
Thorsten is only three years from retirement—actually, he’s too old to still be working as a porter, but he’s been taking good care of himself, minding his back and not overworking himself, so he’s still feeling in pretty good shape.
Still, it pisses him off to have to run double speed because two of the younger porters decide to just leave in the middle of a very busy day.
Normally, Thorsten never would work in the basement, but someone needs to do the work left by the two deserters. At least until they get hold of a replacement.
If those punks don’t get the slip for this, I’ll make sure they at least get a talking to they’ll never forget.
The elevator stops and the doors slide open, revealing the basement, and Thorsten strides down the hall. He’s worked at this place for ages, and he knows the building better than his own home, so he doesn’t need to—
Thorsten stops abruptly as he notices the writing on the door. It’s done with black marker in a quick handwriting.
“What the hell is this now?”
He steps closer, frowning. It’s got to be a joke. Some kid must have snuck down here … except for the fact that the text is placed too high for a child to have done it. Could it be someone from personnel, then? Who on earth would do such a thing? The young porters might not be the most well adjusted, but Thorsten still has a hard time imagining one of them doing this.
The handle suddenly jumps twice, causing Thorsten to jerk backwards. He didn’t expect anybody to be in the room. He grabs for his keys, but then hesitates.
Either it’s a distasteful joke, and someone is waiting to surprise him—or it could be something more serious. Perhaps someone got locked in against their will.
“Hello?” he asks loudly. “Who’s in there?”
No answer from the room, except for another jerk of the handle.
“I’m going to unlock the door now!” he calls out. “But I’m not in the mood for any surprises, you got that?”
Still, no answer.
Thorsten puts in the key and turns it. He pushes down the handle and opens the door.
The girl immediately steps forward. Thorsten lets out a gasp and steps back. He had mentally prepared himself for a surprise, maybe even an unpleasant one, but not this. The stench comes rolling at him like an avalanche, causing him to gasp for breath.
Thorsten has seen a lot of sick and wounded people in his life, but this girl takes the prize. Something is obviously very wrong with her, and yet she’s still, amazingly, able to walk. She comes at him in a staggering pace, reaching out her arms, and
Thorsten notices the missing fingers, probably torn off in some sort of accident.
He backs up and instinctively reaches out to grab her hands, catching her by the wrists and trying to hold her back—he wants to help her, but he doesn’t want her to come any closer.
“It’s all right, take it easy now,” he says in the most calming voice he can muster. “We’ll get you help. We just—”
He’s interrupted as the girl’s head jerks forward and bites down hard on his wrist.
“Ouch, goddamnit!” Thorsten roars and pulls back his hand. The girl immediately goes for the other one, so he lets go and steps back farther. “You stop that, you hear me?” The girl doesn’t seem to hear him at all; she’s only interested in taking another bite, so Thorsten takes yet another step back and meets the wall, clutching his bleeding wrist. “Now you listen to me. You need to lie down and …”
That’s all he has time to say before the girl lunges at him. This time, he’s somewhat ready for it and manages to avoid her snapping teeth. Instead, he shoves her backwards, causing her almost to tumble over.
He stares from his throbbing wrist to the girl. What the hell is wrong with her? Must be rabies or something …
He decides to abandon any attempt to help out the girl and instead go get help. He jogs back towards the elevator, squeezing hard on the wrist, trying to stop the blood, which finds its way out through his fingers in thin trickles, leaving a bloody trail down the hall.
The elevator has gone back up, so Thorsten hits the button. He hears steps behind him and turns around.
The girl has followed him, her arms outstretched, as though longing to hug him. Thorsten never had any kids himself, but he used to be married to a woman who had a teenage daughter—Camilla was her name—and Thorsten developed a pretty good relationship with his stepdaughter. Thorsten and the woman separated, and it’s been almost four years since he’s seen Camilla, but for one fleeting glimpse, he sees her face on the sick girl in front of him, and it makes him hesitate.
Jesus Christ, that’s someone’s daughter …
The eyes of the girl are so unlike anything he’s ever seen—if he didn’t know any better, judging from the eyes alone, he would have thought the girl was already dead. Except she’s clearly not, coming at him eagerly, looking an awful lot like Camilla.
“You … you stay away from me,” he croaks, trying to make it sound like a demand, yet it comes out a plea.
The girl doesn’t pay any attention either way. She’s only a few steps away, when the doors finally open behind him, and Thorsten is able to move again. He steps inside and hits the button for the ground floor. Then, he backs towards the back wall, staring at the girl who’s about to enter the elevator, as the doors begin to close.
“Stop!” he shouts, suddenly finding his voice again. “You stay there! You hear me?”
The doors close less than half a second too late. The girl is in. Thorsten begins shouting.
As the elevator reaches the entrance hall less than one minute later, Thorsten is dead.
The girl, whose name was once Selina, is busy eating his liver. Sensing new, living prey, she turns her head, licking the dark brown blood from her lips.
In front of her, just about to step inside the elevator, stands a young man with a cup of coffee and a look of stunned terror on his face, frozen to the spot. He became a father for the first time just this morning, and he only came down here to get the coffee. Now, he’s headed back up to the maternity ward to be with his wife and their newly born. He never gets to see any of them again, though.
Three minutes later, the entrance hall has turned to chaos.
THIRTEEN
Finn is sweating profusely under the scorching high noon sun and his lower back is starting to complain. But he’s almost done trimming the hedge, so he pushes on.
A movement makes him turn his head to see his wife crossing the lawn carrying a beer can and a shallow dish. “Cool refreshments for my gardener,” she says, handing him the beer.
“Thanks, hon,” he groans, wiping the sweat from his brow. “You want me to drink it out of that?”
“This is not for you,” she tells him, putting the dish down in the shade of the hedge. Finn notices it’s full of water. “It’s for the poor hedgehogs. They suffer terribly in this heat, I’m sure.”
“They’re not the only ones,” Finn mutters, opening the can and gulping down half of it. He’s become a little too skilled at drinking beer after his retirement last year. It’s just such a wonderful pastime—whenever the garden doesn’t demand his attention—but the damned things are starting to show up around his waist and gut.
“I don’t get why you don’t just wait till sundown,” Lone says. “This is no weather to be working in.”
“Thought I’d finish before it got too bad. Overestimated myself, I guess. But I’m almost done now, so—”
A loud, shattering bang from the other side of the hedge is followed by the sound of glass. Finn instantly knows the source of the noise and stretches his neck in order to see the neighbor’s greenhouse. Probably Olsen’s grandchildren at play. Finn has often had to throw back their soccer ball when they’ve accidentally kicked it over the hedge.
But he can see neither kids nor ball anywhere. Instead, he sees a man wobbling along the side of the greenhouse, apparently struggling to stay on his feet. He’s Middle Eastern or maybe Arabic.
“What’s going on over there?” Lone asks, as she’s not tall enough to peer over the hedge.
Finn’s first thought is that the man has been breaking in at Olsen’s—he certainly looks like someone out on shady business, the way he keeps darting nervous glances in all directions. He probably ran into the greenhouse by accident.
“Go inside,” Finn tells his wife and grabs the rake.
“What’s going on, Finn?” she demands.
The answer to her question comes barging through the hedge at that exact moment. The Arab stumbles and falls onto the lawn.
Lone gives off a shriek of surprise, and Finn steps quickly forward, holding the rake ready. “Whaddya think you’re doing?” he asks loudly. “Whaddya doing on my property, huh?”
The man looks up, bewildered, blinking and focusing on Finn. And when Finn looks back at him, he sees the man’s face properly for the first time, and he feels an unexpected pang of sympathy. The guy is obviously scared out of his wits; his golden skin is pale and sweaty. He mutters something in Arabic and holds up one hand.
“Christ,” Finn groans when he sees the missing fingers in the bloody mess.
“God Almighty,” Lone whispers behind him. “Finn, he’s really hurt!”
“Call an ambulance,” Finn says, dropping the rake, as Lone turns to run back to the house. “Here, let me help you …” He kneels and tries to pull the man to his feet, careful not to touch the wounded hand. The man clings to Finn and keeps jabbering incomprehensibly.
He’s going into shock.
Finn has seen worse things when he served in the military during the Balkans, and that’s probably what enables him to think clearly in this situation.
“We gotta get you inside, away from the sun,” he says, not sure whether the man understands him, but still he wants to reassure him with a calming voice, so he goes on: “The ambulance is on its way. We’ll clean the wound in the meantime. You’ll be fine.”
Finn supports the man across the lawn. It’s heavy work, since the guy can barely stay on his feet, and Finn has to almost carry him.
I’ll feel this in my back tomorrow, he thinks to himself and grinds his teeth.
FOURTEEN
Dan sits bolt upright in bed. Sweat is pouring from him, the air is stiflingly warm, and for a terrifying moment, he’s sure he’s back in the basement of the old lady’s house.
Then, he blinks and comes to. He’s in his room. The heat is from the sunlight streaming in through the window. He’s not in danger. There are no more zombies.
Dan sighs and wipes the sweat from his eyes, sw
ings his leg out over the side of the bed and gets up. His stomach feels like a big, empty hole, and his body is sore in several places—especially around the ankle.
He’s instantly reminded of Jennie and Thomas, and it feels like his insides take a dive into a very deep well. He staggers out into the bathroom, gushes cold water on his face and drinks greedily until his throat hurts.
He glares at himself in the mirror for a moment. The sight isn’t exactly a cheery one; he might have survived the zombies, but he sure looks like one anyway: pale, weak and dark half-circles under his eyes.
A cat. I dreamt about a cat.
The thought leaps through his head apropos of nothing. He’s not sure why, but somehow, he gets the sense his mind is pointing to something important. He’s still too groggy to think clearly, though, so he shoves the feeling aside and goes to the kitchen.
His mom is sitting at the dining table, staring blankly out into the back garden, her eyes red from crying. His grandma is making coffee. “Oh, hi, Dan,” she says, shuffling over to embrace him. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”
Dan smiles weakly and glances at his mom. “Where’s Dad?”
“He just went for a drive,” his grandma says, turning rather abruptly away from him to concentrate on the coffee. “He had to … take care of something.”
“Your father is at the mortician,” his mom says without moving, her voice completely emotionless. “He’s picking out a coffin for Jennie.”
Dan sees the pill bottle on the table next to his mom. She suffered a breakdown from stress a few years back, and the doctor gave her anxiety drugs. Even though she’s better nowadays, she still keeps the pills and takes one whenever she feels stressed out. Dan remembers all too clearly how drowsy she gets from the drugs, and it makes him sad to see her like this. Not so much the fact that she’s drugged, but how she can’t seem to handle difficult situations anymore.
Dead Meat Box Set [Days 1-3] Page 18
