Dead Meat Box Set, Vol. 2 | Days 4-6

by Clausen, Nick

  “Because Axe got bitten,” Malthe says, looking at Aksel’s hand and immediately—as though he recalls the seriousness of the situation—his voice turns shrill again. “He wanted to high-five one of them, and it caught him like a fucking alligator; almost ripped his hand clean off.”

  “Holy shit!” Eli gasps. “Is that true, Axe?”

  “He’s exaggerating,” Aksel mutters, holding up his right hand for Eli to see. “It looks worse than it is.”

  Actually, it doesn’t; it looks exactly as bad as a bite wound to the hand looks. There’s a deep, ragged-edged gash between his middle and forth finger, making it look like someone tried to cleave his hand in two. His first three fingers are relatively unscathed, but the two others took the worst of it: the teeth of the zombie peeled the skin all the way to the bone on the ring finger, and the nail on his pinkie is missing altogether.

  “Holy shit,” Eli says again. “Looks like you stuck it in a fucking blender, dude.”

  “It doesn’t even hurt,” Aksel shrugs, placing the hand back on the wheel. It’s already sticky from blood, and some of it has dripped onto the seat. What does it matter at this point anyway? His father is going to have him boiled alive for taking the car without asking, not to mention driving around in it drunk.

  “You’re going to die, man,” Eli says, glaring at Aksel wide-eyed. “You’re going to turn into a zombie.”

  “Shut the fuck up,” Aksel says.

  “It’s true!” Eli shouts. “Didn’t you play Dying Light? You’re going to die and wake back up again. That’s how it works. Once you’re bitten, there’s no way to save you.”

  “Except for chopping off the hand,” Malthe remarks.

  Aksel looks at him sideways. “Fuck you.”

  “I’m serious,” Malthe says, sending him his most earnest look. “I think we should do it.”

  “I think you should blow yourself.”

  Eli snorts with laughter. “If only he could!”

  “I won’t be able to play the drums with one fucking hand, will I?” Aksel says, looking at Malthe.

  “Fuck that, wouldn’t you rather live?” Malthe says, throwing out his arms. “There are more important things in life than playing music, you know.”

  “Not to me there isn’t.”

  “Gotta agree with Axe on this one,” Eli says. “I wouldn’t know what the fuck to do with my life if we broke up the band.”

  “You guys are nuts,” Malthe says, shaking his head. “I’d screw the band in a minute if it meant I could live.”

  Aksel shakes his head, placing his limited focus back on the road. He realizes they’re going way above the limit, the Mercedes’s engine working like a beast. He lets off the gas a little.

  A surprisingly sober thought shoots through his mind then. If they hadn’t all been boozed out of their minds, the situation would look a whole lot different. If he hadn’t downed all those Carlsbergs and almost as many shots, he would have been terrified right now. He would have cursed himself for putting his hand out the window. For even coming here. For going out drinking with his friends in the first place, when everyone was talking about staying at home, staying indoors, staying safe.

  But no, he just had to play the asshole, didn’t he? He was the one who wanted to go, after all. He talked Eli into it, who in turn talked Malthe into it. And then they were off, buying booze at the local supermarket, where pretty much everything else had been ripped off the shelves, including cotton swabs and baby diapers.

  “What … what will happen?” Malthe asks, looking at Aksel and sounding almost sober now. “When you die, I mean? You can’t drive the car when you die. You need to let one of us take over.”

  “No way,” Aksel says, shaking his head. “It’s my dad’s car. No one but me drives it.”

  “But we’ll crash.”

  “No we won’t, because I won’t die.”

  “You look pale.”

  “And you look ugly.”

  “You’re sweating like a pig, too.”

  “Are you a fucking doctor now? Why don’t you just go ahead and take my temperature, you faggot?”

  Even as he speaks, Aksel realizes Malthe is right; he is sweating profusely, his hair clinging to his temples, drops running down his back. His hands are shaking, too. And his vision is starting to go fuzzy around the edges.

  “Just need to concentrate,” he mutters, not really aware he’s talking aloud.

  He fucked up. Royally. He knows that, even in his heavily intoxicated state. Some deeper part of him is freaking out. He knows what happens once you get bitten by a zombie. And he knows those things back in Aarhus were most likely zombies, even though the media is calling them “sick people” and “victims of the virus” and other kind of keeping-the-calm bull-crap terms.

  “It’s okay,” he whispers underneath his breath, which has turned slightly ragged now, warm spittle foaming at the corners of his mouth. “I’ll be fine. Just need to kill the germs.”

  “What’s that?” Malthe asks. “You talking to me?”

  “Give me your lighter,” Aksel says, turning into the emergency lane and hitting the brake hard.

  “Woah,” Eli exclaims as he is thrust forward, almost taking a dive over the gear shift. “What’s with the driving, dude?”

  “Get the bottle of absinth from the trunk,” Aksel says as the car comes to a halt.

  “Right on!” Eli says, leaning over the backseat. “Now you’re talking!”

  Aksel unbuckles and looks at Malthe. “And where’s that lighter?”

  Malthe is going through his pockets. “I don’t know, man, I had it just a minute ago. Wait, here it is.” He hands Aksel a packet of cigarettes.

  Aksel takes out the lighter and throws the packet back at Malthe. “I only asked for the lighter.”

  “What, I thought you wanted a smoke?”

  “The absinth, Eli! Hurry up!”

  “Hold your water,” Eli says. He’s hanging over the seats, rummaging through the bags in the trunk, bottles clinging. “There’s a lot of booze back here. Absinth … that’s the green one, right?”

  “Right.”

  Aksel notices Malthe eyeing him.

  “Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” he asks.

  “I’m not going to drink it,” Aksel says, grinding his teeth as a stab of pain jolts up through his arm. It’s intense enough that the alcohol in his system can only take the edge off it.

  Malthe looks at the lighter, which Aksel turns over in his good hand, flicking it and producing sparks.

  “Wait … are you going to set something on fire?”

  “Ten points to Einstein over here,” Aksel says, just as Eli blurts out: “There it is!”

  He hands the tiny bottle of green liquid to Aksel, who places the lighter between his teeth, takes the absinth and opens the door.

  “Hey, where you going?” Eli shouts.

  Aksel doesn’t answer. His focus is on the task at hand. He watched a war movie once, where they cleaned a dirty gunshot like this. He knows it’ll work; fire will kill any germs or infection. He also knows it’ll hurt like hell.

  He unscrews the absinth, careful not to use his bad hand, instead pinning the bottle in his armpit. He drops the cap and puts the bottle to his lips, drinking three large gulps. The booze burns like it’s already on fire, causing a searing pain down through his throat and on the inside of his chest.

  “Woooh!” Eli howls, hanging halfway out the car window. “Now we’re fucking talking! Dude, you’re an animal! I’m up next!”

  “No, you moron, you’ll kill yourself,” Malthe objects. “And stay in the car, goddamnit! Aksel’s about to do something stupid.”

  “I sure am,” Aksel grins, blinking away the tears filling his eyes, trying to focus his gaze on the bad hand. Most of the blood has dried up by now, but fresh, red trickles are still coming out. He takes a deep breath, then pours the absinth out over his hand.

  The pain is surprisingly mild, considering how people i
n movies always scream when their wounds are disinfected. It burns, for sure, but not worse than what the absinth did to his intestines just a second ago.

  “Why’re you pouring out the booze?” Eli blurts out, hanging from the window, trying to get free from Malthe, who’s caught him by the belt.

  Aksel puts the bottle on the ground and takes the lighter. “Right, here goes,” he croaks. And before giving himself time to think, he flicks it.

  The flame is blue and thin and instantaneous. Beautiful, really. Licking all the way up to his elbow, nipping at the sleeve of his T-shirt. Aksel just stares at it for a moment; he can see the hair on his arm curl up and melt.

  Then comes the pain.

  This time, it’s just as bad as you’d expect from lighting yourself on fire, immediately drowning out the pain from the wound.

  And that’s when Aksel realizes he has not thought the plan through, has no game plan as to how he’ll put out the fire again. He expected it to simply give off a quick, intense burst and then extinguish itself. But his hand just keeps burning, and with his next breath, he can smell his own skin searing.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” he shouts, beginning to flail his arm. It does nothing to put out the fire, just causes it to give off a sound like someone violently brandishing a flag. And a cascade of tiny, burning sparks fly off into every direction, some of them landing on the car, one of them catching Aksel right under the eye. He screams as he’s blinded, instinctively putting both hands to his face.

  Which is when the bad plan turns into a deadly one.

  Someplace nearby, he can hear someone—sounds like Eli—screaming. But he can’t make out the words. The world is drowning in fire and pain, as he smears himself in burning absinth, setting himself further and further on fire.

  TEN

  Josefine has never been in a helicopter before. Then again, she’s never watched a loved one die before, so flying a helicopter won’t be the craziest thing she’s done today.

  It’s one of those yellow medical helicopters she’s seen fly across the city now and then. Her first impression is that it seems awfully crammed, the walls are full of medical equipment and the ceiling isn’t tall enough for a grown person to stand.

  The other patient is already loaded, a woman, and quite a large one at that; Josefine recognizes her as Bodil, a lovely, jovial old lady with a booming laugh and pug nose. Everything about Bodil is gone, of course—except for the pug nose.

  There’s something funny about the way she’s lying on the gurney, though. Her right arm seems to be sitting too low, twisting her torso at an awkward angle. But maybe it’s just because of how she’s writhing to get free of the straps.

  The men secure the other gurney opposite to Bodil’s, just as the thing that was Josefine’s father begins to move more frantically again, rearing its head, snapping its teeth and trying to sit up.

  The two patients don’t seem to notice each other, both are only concerned with getting free and reaching the nearest live person, which right now is the man in the protective suit, who’s placed himself on the seat next to Josefine.

  The way the two gurneys are placed parallel to each other leaves only a narrow passage between them.

  The man next to her has taken off the mask and zipped down the suit enough to free his arms and shoulders.

  To Jennifer’s surprise, he’s at least ten years younger than she first thought, though he’s sporting grey sideburns and a week’s worth of stubble. He’s also a lot more handsome.

  “I guess it’s just going to be you and me, then,” he says, putting his radio away. “One of my colleagues was supposed to join us, but he just got himself scratched.”

  “Oh. Sorry to hear that.”

  “Never mind, he was kind of an asshole anyway.”

  Josefine looks at him in stunned surprise.

  He sighs and rubs his face. “I’m sorry. It’s been a really tough couple of days. I watched so many people die, you wouldn’t believe it.”

  “Everything set back here?” a hoarse voice shouts from the open door, causing Josefine to jump.

  A muscular guy wearing a helmet with a headset looks in at them. He’s wearing a tight, white T-shirt and grey aviator sunglasses. And as though the clichés weren’t obvious enough, he’s also chewing loudly on a piece of gum.

  “I think we’re good to go,” the man next to Josefine says.

  “And the patients?” the pilot asks, nodding towards the gurneys. “Are they secured properly?”

  “We double-checked.”

  “Sure? Wouldn’t want anything to happen while we’re up in the air.”

  “I think we’re good.”

  “Great. Well, let’s get ’er floatin’, then.” The pilot grins at them, slaps his palm against the outside of the helicopter twice, then closes the door and climbs in the front.

  “It’ll be pretty noisy,” the man tells Josefine, pointing over her head. “You can put those on if you like.”

  Josefine turns her head and sees a set of earmuffs hanging from a hook.

  “I didn’t even catch your name,” he goes on, securing his seat belt. “Mine’s Michael.”

  “Josefine. Nice to meet you.” Without thinking, she offers him her hand.

  He looks at it, then looks up at her. “We better not. The virus, you know.”

  “Oh. Sorry.” She pulls back her hand, feeling stupid.

  “Don’t be sorry. Just get used to it. We’ll all be practicing social distancing for the foreseeable future.”

  “I thought they said it only transfers through blood?”

  “That’s how it looks right now, yeah, but we can’t know for certain. There’s also the possibility that we’re dealing with more than one thing, so better safe than sorry.”

  “More than one virus?”

  “Yeah, or rather, several strains of the same virus. It could have mutated already.”

  “I see.”

  The pilot says something on a radio, then begins navigating the instruments with practiced movements. A deep rumbling as the engine starts, then a fluttery whisking sound grows louder and faster.

  Michael puts on a set of earmuffs. Then, he reaches over and flips a switch on Josefine’s pair, and the sound changes slightly.

  “Can you hear me?” he asks, his voice sounding in her ears, slightly delayed in comparison with the movement of his lips.

  Josefine nods. “I can.”

  “Good. Then we don’t need to shout.”

  The sound of the rotors has by now risen to a booming roar, and suddenly, Josefine feels a jolt in her stomach as the helicopter lifts off.

  She watches through the window how the parking lot moves away from them, then she sees the roof of the nursing home, the lawn behind the building, the street and the next street, more buildings, and soon she has a clear view over the whole town.

  Her mother has probably already left for home. The thought of her driving home alone makes Josefine sad.

  The only good thing about the noise from the helicopter is that she can’t hear the groans from either of the two bodies writhing on the gurneys in front of her.

  She looks at Bodil and again notices something odd about the way she’s lying; the right arm looks like it’s not moving properly, and Bodil has pushed herself sideways, causing her to almost turn over on the gurney, if it hadn’t been for the straps, of course.

  “What’s up with her arm?” Josefine asks, pointing at Bodil.

  Michael looks at Bodil, then at Josefine. “I think it’s dislocated. They told me they had a hard time getting her on to the gurney. She was very heavy, and it tipped over.”

  “Oh. Was she …?”

  “Dead when it happened? Yeah, don’t worry. She didn’t feel anything.”

  “How about now?” Josefine glances at the thing that used to be her father. “Do they feel pain?”

  “There’s really no way to tell. But from looking at them, I’d say no. They don’t react the least to things which would cause pain.�
�

  “I guess that’s a good thing.”

  He shrugs and looks out the window.

  Josefine does the same, surprised at how far they’ve traveled already; the town is gone and all she can see now are open fields, yellow and green and thriving under the baking sun.

  She looks over at Michael once more. “Did you know any of them?”

  He nods towards the gurneys. “Any of them?”

  “No, the ones you watched die?”

  “Oh. No, they were all just patients.” He glances at her. “I’m sure it’s different when they’re your family …”

  “I’m actually surprisingly okay with it.”

  Michael raises one eyebrow. “You are?”

  She nods and shrugs. “I’ve seen him slowly disappear for years now. It’s like my brain has gotten used to seeing his body without him in it.”

  “Oh, that’s right, he had Alzheimer’s, didn’t he?”

  She nods again.

  “Interesting.”

  She looks at him, and his expression changes.

  “I don’t mean to sound insensitive. It’s just that, examining a patient with severe dementia might teach us something new.”

  “Well, I hope he can be of some help. Are you … close to finding a cure?”

  “Not as far as I know.”

  “How can a person with Alzheimer’s tell you anything about a virus then?”

  “It’s a little technical to explain.”

  “Try me—I had biology in college.”

  She says it as a joke, but Michael doesn’t seem to catch it. He leans forward.

  “Whatever this thing is, it’s clear that it’s affecting the brain. All other vital organs seem to shut down once the patient reaches the final stage. In fact, they begin decaying, just like the rest of the body. The blood more or less coagulates, the muscles atrophy, the bones even turn brittle. That’s why they have a hard time moving normally; for all intents and purposes, they’re corpses walking around.”

  Josefine feels an involuntary shiver.

  Michael is too busy talking to notice. “For some unknown reason, the virus is able to highjack the motor cortex and keep it running even after everything else has been shut down. That’s why it has zero effect when the police use rubber bullets and tear gas to try and pacify them. The only thing stopping an infected person is either damaging the brain or cutting it off from the rest of the nervous system.”