“Sorry?” William says. “She’s been lying to us.”
“Please, let me explain,” Nasira says. “I know I’ve been wrongfully keeping the truth from you, and I’m sorry for that. But I always intended to tell you when the time was right.”
“The time was right the moment you got the scratch!” William shouts.
“William,” Henrik says, his voice unusually demanding. “Please, calm down. Nothing’s happened.”
“How do you know? How do you know she didn’t infect anyone else?”
“I didn’t touch anybody except my brother,” Nasira goes on. “And I was very careful so as to not scratch him. I’m the only one sick. You can believe me.”
“The hell I can,” William mutters, turning away.
Dan and his father look at Nasira and Ali crying by her side.
“You understand, don’t you?” she asks, looking at them in turn. “I just wanted to spend a little more time with my brother in this lifetime.”
Dan feels a lump form in his throat the size of an orange. He tries to say something, but can’t, so he simply nods.
“Oh, Nasira,” his father says. “I’m really very sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Nasira says. “Just promise to take care of Ali.”
“I will,” Henrik says right away. “We all will.”
“I knew you would,” she says, smiling. “He doesn’t understand, he’s too young, and he’s already lost both his parents. So please bear with him through the grief.”
“We will,” Dan’s father repeats, this time his voice is choked.
Nasira nods, smiles, then looks down at Ali and tells him something in Arabic. He begins to cry even more and clutches her.
“I told him it’s time to go,” she says to Dan and his father.
The rest of the group has joined them without Dan even noticing. Apparently, William has told them the bad news, because they’re all just staring at Nasira.
Josefine steps forward, holding out her hand at Ali. “Come with me, Ali.”
“Please, go with Josefine,” Nasira says, gently nudging Ali forward.
“Wait,” Dan hears himself say—at first, it’s not loud enough for anyone to hear, so he repeats it: “Wait!”
Nasira looks at him and smiles. “It’s okay, Dan. There’s no need to—”
“When did you say you got that scratch?”
“Yesterday.”
“Around noon?”
Nasira thinks for a moment. “Yes. But what does it matter?”
Dan shakes his head firmly. “That can’t be from a zombie, then. You wouldn’t still be alive.”
William looks over at him. “You sure about that?”
“A hundred percent. I’ve seen … I’ve seen people die from scratches that small.” The image of Jennie pops into his head, and he needs to take a deep breath in order to go on. “They didn’t even live half an hour. The fever came within ten minutes or so.” He looks at William and the rest of them. “Think about it; you’ve probably all seen people die. How long did it take? Certainly not a day and a half. Plus, Nasira isn’t even spiking a fever yet!”
They all look at Nasira.
She looks at Dan, and for once, the smile on her lips wavers. “I’m certain this scratch was made by a dead person; I felt it happen. Her nail grazed me.”
“That does look like the cut from a fingernail,” William adds.
“Well, it can’t be,” Dan persists. “It just can’t. It makes no sense.”
“Maybe it is,” his father says, looking at Nasira thoughtfully. “And maybe something else is going on here.”
“Like what?” William asks.
Henrik is silent for a moment. “Nasira believes in God,” he says. “Very much so. Maybe her faith is somehow … I don’t know, protecting her, slowing the infection down. Hell, maybe it’s even fighting it off.”
William immediately shakes his head. “That’s just silly. How would faith fight off a virus? I hate to be the buzzkill here, but I heard about a study on prayers, where they tested praying for sick people, and it made no difference.”
Dan’s father ignores William and looks instead at Dan. “You told us how this whole thing started. It wasn’t a medical experiment gone wrong or a super virus made in a laboratory … it was voodoo. Voodoo is a belief system.”
Dan nods slowly, looking at Nasira, his heart pounding away in his chest. “I think … I think my dad could be right. Dorte told us this wasn’t traceable in any way in the body. I’ve thought about that a lot. I don’t think this is a physical disease; I think it’s a spiritual one.”
“Oh, come on,” William blurts out.
“How else would you explain it?” Dan says, turning to William. “You heard what Dorte said.”
“Okay, so, spiritual or not,” William says, running a hand through his hair. “What do we do?”
“I say we bring her,” Dan says right away.
“What?”
“We need to find out what happens to her.”
“Dan’s right,” his father agrees. “Nasira might give us the answer to this. Maybe even a cure.”
“I agree this could be something important,” Sebastian chimes in. “But what if she dies while we’re in the air? It’ll take us at least six hours to reach Norway, and once we’re over open water, there’ll be nowhere to land.”
William is about to say something when someone screams behind them.
Dan whirls around and sees Eli standing by the carpet with the rolled-up zombie woman inside it. Somehow, she’s managed to squeeze out one arm and has clawed her way over to Eli. She’s now holding on to his ankle as he kicks at her frantically to get her off.
“Let go! Let go of me!” he screams.
“Goddamnit,” Dan’s father utters.
“Help me!” Eli screams as he falls on his ass and tries to crawl away backwards, only managing to drag the woman and the carpet along. “Someone please help me!”
Dan automatically steps forward, not even sure what he’s going to do to help Eli, when William comes rushing in from the side. He stops a few paces away, aims the rifle and pulls the trigger.
The head of the woman bounces off the ground, and then she lies completely still. Her hand lets go of Eli’s leg and he’s free to squirm away, panting and sobbing.
William steps over to the girl and begins reloading the rifle. From the SUV, Dan can hear the man roaring and throwing himself against the inside of the door, causing the car to sway back and forth.
“Don’t you do it! Don’t you fucking do it! You get away from her! You get away from my dau—”
The guy is cut off as William pulls the trigger again, executing the girl with a single, well-placed shot.
Inside the car, the guy’s shouting turns to inarticulate cries of anguish.
William turns to the group with a grim look on his face. “It’s better this way,” he mutters. “They won’t cause trouble for anyone else.”
No one disagrees—except for the guy in the SUV.
William hands the rifle to Dan, then walks over to Eli, who’s still sitting on the heather, breathing fast, staring at the dead woman who almost got him.
“Hey, you,” William says, stopping in front of him. “Show me your ankle.”
Eli looks up at him, squinting, his lips quivering. “Wh … what?”
“Take off your shoe. Show me your ankle. Are you hurt?”
There’s no compassion in William’s voice; he’s obviously not asking out of concern for Eli’s well-being. Eli is wearing black, worn-down Converse canvas shoes, the kind with high shafts, covering the ankles.
Eli shakes his head and wipes snot from his upper lip with the back of his hand. “She … she didn’t scratch me … nothing happened …”
“Show me your ankle,” William repeats calmly. “Or you’re not coming on that helicopter.”
“Come on,” Eli says. Then, when William doesn’t budge, he looks around at the rest of them, apparently looking for support. They all
just stare back at him in silence. “Are you really going to make me do this?” Eli says, something like hurt in his voice now. “Can’t you just take my word for it?”
“Your word isn’t worth much,” William says plainly. “That shoe comes off, or you stay here.”
Eli scowls at him for a moment, the shock of being grabbed by the zombie completely gone from his face now. Then, with brisk movements, he unties the shoe and pulls it off.
“There! You see? No scratch marks.”
“Hold on,” William says, as Eli is about to put the shoe back on. “Let me see …”
Eli holds out his foot with a sigh of annoyance, and William steps closer, leaning in to study it.
“Turn it over,” he mutters.
Eli does so.
“Dan, come over here,” William says without taking his eyes off the foot. “Tell me if you see anything.”
Dan steps over and takes a look. There are no marks of any kind that he can see.
“I think it’s clean,” he says.
“Clean is the last word I’d use,” William says, wrinkling his nose. “It smells like shit. When’s the last time you showered?”
“Fuck you,” Eli mutters.
“But I don’t see any scratch marks, either,” William says, addressing the group. “I think he’s okay.”
“Great,” Eli says. “Can I put my fucking shoe back on now?”
“You can. Now, let’s get out of here before more trouble finds us.”
FORTY-FOUR
Dennis used to be a heavy sleeper before all of this happened. He would usually be gone the minute his head hit the pillow. Now, every time he lies down, it’s a struggle to even drift off.
And tonight is no different; in fact, tonight is worse. Because tonight, he doesn’t even have Mom sleeping next to him.
Instead, he’s lying on a couch in Holger’s upstairs bedroom. Like the rest of the house, this room is crammed with unusual stuff like pieces of machinery, tools, piles of books and weird posters all over the walls. There’s a slanting window showing him a rectangular cutout of the black night sky. Dennis tries to identify any constellations to get his mind off of things—but he only knows Orion and the Big Dipper, and he can’t see either of them from this angle.
His digital Spiderman watch has a nifty button that lights up the screen, and Dennis keeps checking the time every five minutes or so. The clock is getting close to midnight.
Is Mom sleeping right now?
He tries to imagine her, down in the bunker, lying on the bed. But he has a hard time picturing Mom sleeping. Instead, he sees her pacing back and forth, waiting impatiently for him to bring her what she needs.
A strand of hair.
From Silas.
Dennis has no idea how he’ll be able to get it without Silas noticing. He was planning to wait until Silas was asleep, but wouldn’t you wake up if someone pulled out one of your hairs?
Dennis’s own hair is golden and buzzcut and a lot shorter than Silas’s. He picks one out at the top of his head and gives a short, hard tug. The pain isn’t too bad. In fact, he could barely feel it.
But will Silas?
And if he does feel it, what will he do to Dennis?
Still, Dennis knows there’s no way around it. Mom needs him. He can’t fail her. He needs to try.
Dennis takes a deep breath, and at that exact moment, the television turns off downstairs. He’s been listening to the hum of it all evening, but now the house falls completely quiet.
A voice from downstairs: “Going to bed.” Silas.
Another voice replies: “Did you check the windows?” Jonas.
Dennis holds his breath and strains to hear.
“Uh-huh. You sleeping downstairs?”
“Nah, I think I’ll crash here. Hey, since you’re up, could you grab me another beer?”
“You getting hammered might not be the smartest move.”
“Fine, I’ll get it myself.”
“We’ve got a lot of work cut out for us the next couple of days.”
“Sure, Mom. You sleep tight now.”
“Asshole.”
Snorting laughter. Then, footsteps across the floor. A door opens and closes again. Silence.
Dennis just lies there for a couple of seconds, his heart throbbing in his throat.
From what he just heard, Jonas went to bed—probably in Holger’s bedroom. But Silas stayed up. He wanted another beer. And he’s going to sleep on the couch in the living room.
If Silas gets drunk, maybe he’ll sleep heavier. Maybe this is the chance Dennis needs.
He waits fifteen minutes, waiting for Silas to hopefully drift off. He tries to prepare himself. Tries to come up with an excuse in case Silas wakes up and sees him reaching for his hair.
He can’t use the bug thing again; Silas will see right through that. The more he thinks of it, the more he realizes there is no good excuse for him to be sneaking up on Silas while he sleeps and trying to pluck a hair from his head. If he does wake up, Dennis will simply have to take the trash.
Maybe Silas will beat him up. Maybe he’ll even kill him. Most likely, though, he’ll lock him up with Mom. And honestly, that would probably be the best thing to happen to him right now—even if he had to take a beating first.
Besides, that way he could bring the hair to Mom. As long as Silas doesn’t notice it, and a hair shouldn’t be difficult to hide in your hand; Dennis has already succeeded in it once.
The thought of being with Mom again gives Dennis just enough courage to get up and leave the room. Luckily, neither the door nor floorboards creak as he slips out to the stairs. He walks down one step at a time, touching the banister lightly with his fingertips and listening intently for any sounds.
Halfway down, the staircase turns, and by crouching down, Dennis can peer through the banister and get a view over the living room.
The room is dark except for a single point of light which immediately draws his eye. On the couch facing the turned-off television lies Silas, his head resting on the armrest. The light comes from his phone, which he’s browsing, the display lighting up his greasy forehead.
He reaches out one hand and, without taking his eyes off the phone, grabs a beer can from the coffee table. He chugs down several big gulps, then lets out a burb and resumes scrolling on the phone.
Dennis feels pretty safe from where he’s crouching, the banisters are mostly hiding him, and even if Silas gets up and looks over here, he’ll have time to slip back upstairs before he sees him. So, he decides to stay where he is and wait.
Turns out, he only needs to wait a few minutes.
Silas suddenly mutters: “Well, fuck you too, bitch,” then turns off his phone and throws it haphazardly onto the table.
Then he yawns and turns onto his side, facing the back of the couch, folding his arms across his chest.
Dennis’s eyes are used to the dark by now, and he can make out a lock of Silas’s thick, brown hair dangling over the armrest.
Dennis can’t believe his luck.
It’s almost like the hair is inviting him.
Dennis waits another ten minutes or so—although it feels more like ten hours. He wants to make sure Silas is sound asleep. Soon, he begins snoring.
Okay, it’s time. I can do this.
He gets up from his crouched position, his knees aching from sitting there so long, and begins slowly moving down the last steps.
He manages to reach the living room floor without making any noises, and he makes his way towards the couch, making sure not to touch any of Holger’s stuff.
The living room is completely quiet besides Silas’s snoring, and Dennis hardly dares to breathe. One step at a time, he edges closer to the couch, moving in from the side. His eyes are so focused on Silas’s hair that he doesn’t notice much else.
That’s why it’s not until he’s within reach of the couch that he sees the rifle leaning against the table, its barrel pointing up to the ceiling.
Denni
s feels his gut tighten at the sight of the weapon. It’s like it reminds him just how risky this is. He has no way of knowing how Silas will react if he wakes up. Maybe he’ll simply grab the rifle and shoot Dennis dead, not even asking any questions.
Maybe I should take the rifle?
The thought almost makes him jump. It’s crazy, of course. He wouldn’t have the nerve to use it on anyone, not even Silas. He’s not a killer.
So he decides to press on as planned. He fixes his gaze back on Silas’s hair. And just as he manages to force his hand to move forward, Silas’s phone lights up on the table and sends out a deafening BLEE-BLEEP!
The sound really isn’t that loud, but Dennis reacts to it like it was a gunshot. He drops to his hands and knees just as Silas gives off a grunt and begins to move.
Dennis makes himself as small as possible, not daring to move a muscle, holding his breath, listening to Silas turn around on the couch.
Turning his head ever so slightly, Dennis can make out the coffee table and the gun resting against it out of the corner of his eye. He expects Silas to reach out a hand and take the phone, but no hand comes into view.
Instead, Silas smacks his lips, clears his throat, and then falls silent again. A few seconds later, he begins snoring again.
Dennis’s heart is pounding so hard in his chest, his vision is going blurry and he feels light-headed, as though he could faint any minute.
It’s okay. He didn’t wake up. Not really. It’s okay. He’s gone back to sleep.
He tries desperately to reassure himself, and it slowly works, his heart rate falling gradually to a steadier level. The sweat is prickling all over his back, and his hands are shaking now. He waits another couple of minutes for his body to relax a little.
Once he feels relatively okay again, he dares to look up. Silas’s hair is right in front of him, still hanging over the armrest, even though Silas is now facing the other way.
Dennis lifts up his hand and carefully touches the hair, trying to single out a strand. It’s hard because his hand is shaking, and he bites down hard in an effort to make it stop.
Surprisingly, it actually works. Dennis manages to grab a single hair and hold it tightly.
Here goes …
He holds his breath and yanks at the strand of hair.
Dead Meat Box Set, Vol. 2 | Days 4-6 Page 41
