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

by Clausen, Nick

  “No. I’m sorry, William.”

  “Fuck your sorry,” William says, a sudden sneer in his voice. “You’re out of your goddamn mind. What do you think this is? A fucking movie? You think you’re Frodo? Going to save the world all on your own?”

  “I don’t think—”

  “You’ll get yourself killed!” William shouts, pointing south. “We just barely got out of there! The whole stinking country is crawling with zombies by now! There’s no way in hell you’ll even make it across the border before they eat you alive!”

  William’s lips are quivering. His eyes are turning moist. Dan wants to look away, but he can’t.

  “I’m sorry,” he says again, his own voice trembling now.

  “You will be,” William says, nodding fiercely. “You will be sorry when you get yourself killed. And I’m not coming with you. You hear me? I’m not sacrificing myself because you suddenly got some stupid divine inspiration and want to die as a martyr.”

  “I understand,” Dan says, feeling suddenly like he too is on the verge of tears. And he realizes then that he had hope, secretly, that William would come with him. After what they’ve been through together, he thought there was at least a small chance that William would understand what Dan was feeling, that he could somehow pick it up on an emotional level even if he couldn’t grasp it intellectually.

  But of course William doesn’t share Dan’s insight. How could he? From William’s point of view, there are no good reasons to do what Dan is suggesting.

  Dan takes a deep breath. The thought of going alone is almost too scary to handle. And yet it doesn’t change his decision, not for a second.

  William turns away, probably wanting to hide his tears, and Dan lowers his head.

  Ozzy comes over to him then and begins licking his hand, whimpering uneasily. Like he’s saying goodbye.

  “Ozzy,” William says, glancing over his shoulder. “Come on, buddy. We’re leaving.”

  He begins to walk back to the helicopter, but to Dan’s surprise, Ozzy doesn’t follow right away. It’s the first time he’s seen the dog not obey William. He just keeps licking Dan’s hand.

  William stops and looks back: “Ozzy!”

  Ozzy turns around and slinks over to William, ears low.

  Dan looks at the rest of the group and holds out his hands. “I guess this is goodbye.”

  They nod sporadically, apparently not knowing what to say or where to look.

  Josefine steps forward with a backpack and the metal rod she used as a weapon earlier, putting both of them on the ground in front of him. “Here. It’s your share of the rations, plus a little extra of mine. There’s food for four or five days.”

  “Thank you,” Dan says.

  “Good luck,” Sebastian says.

  “You too,” Dan says.

  And that seems to be it.

  They all turn around one at a time and go back to the helicopter where William and Ozzy are already waiting. Except Nasira, who kisses Ali, then begins walking towards the ocean. Ali makes one last weak objection before Josefine takes his hand and leads him along with the rest of them.

  Dan watches Nasira disappear from sight without looking back.

  He then picks up the backpack and puts it on. He takes a deep, shaky breath, filling his chest and feeling the gnawing sense of dread grow more intense as he turns south and looks over the landscape.

  In front of him is at least fifty miles to travel. Then there’s the Skagerrak, the strait separating Norway from Denmark. And beyond that is another sixty miles to Holger’s house.

  How Dan will get there, how he will overcome that immense challenge of travelling by foot through land filled with living deads, much less crossing the water, he has no idea. All he knows is he has got to try.

  So he begins walking.

  THIRTY

  Iver sits down on a chair across from Chris. Without the table between them, it feels weird. He crosses his arms.

  “I’ve got a mission for you,” Chris says, pulling out his pack of cigarettes. He takes his time lighting up one. Then he inhales deeply and lets the smoke seep out through his nostrils.

  “I’m not sure Agnete is happy with you smoking in here,” Iver remarks.

  “Consider it the price of protection,” Chris says, taking another drag. “Now, listen. If we’re going to make it, we need at least one of three things. If we can get all three, then we’re golden. If we only get one, we might just make it anyway.”

  “And what are those three?”

  Chris holds up his fingers and counts it out. “More shooters. More guns. More ammo.”

  “What about food?”

  “Fuck food. There’s plenty of that on this island, and most of it is in cans and the like, so it won’t spoil anytime soon. But without weapons, we can’t get to all that food.”

  “So you want to leave the house?” Iver asks, raising his eyebrows. “And what—go rob the neighbors?”

  “At some point, we’ll have to leave the house,” Chris says. “Our supplies won’t last forever, and I’m afraid Just Eat will go belly up pretty soon. I’m not saying we go rob anyone, though. I don’t think it’ll have to come to that. I think most of the people on this island will be dead within a week or so, because they slip up somehow and the zombies will get to them. And once they’re dead, it’s not really stealing, is it?”

  “That’s a fairly grim outlook,” Iver says.

  “It’s also very realistic. Most of the folks around here are seniors. Judging from the amount of gunshots I’ve heard since we came here, not many of them are armed, either. They won’t be able to fight off the zombies for long.”

  “You just said we needed more shooters and more guns.”

  “Exactly. And since both are scarce, we better act fast to find them.”

  Chris takes a break from talking and inhales deeply on the cigarette.

  “So, you need me to go out and scout for anyone with a gun?” Iver asks.

  “No, that would be suicide. The island is crawling with zombies by now. I’m sure they’re standing around pretty much all the houses. But there is one guy we know off who can handle a gun. And he’s probably still alive, because I heard him fire a shot just twenty minutes ago.”

  Iver heard the gunshot too, while he was upstairs with Adam. “You’re talking about Fred?”

  “Bingo.”

  “So what, I go over there? Convince him to come stay with us?”

  “That would be the ideal. If he won’t, then at least find out if he has any spare weapons.”

  “If he has, he probably won’t give them away.”

  “So you’ll have to steal them. And take as much ammo as you can carry. Just make sure it’s a fit for the weapons, or it would be a waste of time.”

  Iver shakes his head slowly. “If I go over there and steal his weapons and his ammo—even if I could—that would leave him in a pretty bad situation.”

  Chris shrugs. “He will probably die anyway.”

  “You don’t know that. And even if he does, I’ll still be speeding it up by stealing from him.”

  “Which brings us back to what I said at the beginning.” Chris leans forward. He hasn’t looked directly at Iver since they sat down, but now he pins him down with his piercing grey eyes. “The boy. I get why you want to defend him. And if you really do, then you can’t just sit around and wait for a miracle.” Chris raises his hand and points in the direction of Fred’s house without taking his eyes off of Iver. “There’s one old guy over there. We are five people here. Four of us are young. Who do you think should make it?”

  “That’s … that’s not up to me to decide,” Iver says.

  “But it is. You can stack the deck in our favor. If you convince that old prick to come over here and join us—great! That increases our odds dramatically, and his too. If you get a gun or a bag of ammo, then that’s also a big help. But if you do nothing, then more and more windows will start to crack, and once we run out of ways of barric
ading them, you’ll wake up one night to find one of those fucking things out there chewing on your face. Or even worse, on the face of that little boy up there.”

  Iver feels his chest tighten. He’s well aware that Chris is manipulating him, but the mere thought of the boy dying is so horrible, he can’t bear to think about it. Besides, he can’t really see the flaw in Chris’s logic, either. Even though he’s a cold-hearted bastard, he’s probably right that help won’t come from the outside any time soon, and they need to secure their own survival.

  “If I bring back a gun,” Iver says, “who will use it? Charlotte?”

  Chris shakes his head. “She’s never fired a gun.” He takes one last drag on the cigarette, then puts it out against the sole of his shoe while looking Iver squarely in the eye. “But I can teach you to do it. If you have the nerve?”

  THIRTY-ONE

  Nasira is ready.

  As ready as she’s ever been.

  Ready to see her mom and dad again, along with all the other family members she’s lost back in Iraq.

  Hopefully she won’t see Ali for many years to come.

  She’ll miss him, of course, but that’s okay. She knows he’s safe with the people now taking care of him.

  Nasira keeps walking down the hill even as she can hear the helicopter lift off behind her. She walks against the setting sun dipping towards the ocean. She listens to the seagulls crying. She feels her breath going in and out.

  She feels the infection, too. It’s more present now. Filling every corner of her body.

  Except it’s not an infection, not really. It just appears that way. Just like the waves on the ocean seem to be separate things when really, they’re all just water.

  This thing which is slowly taking over her body is something else entirely. It’s evil. Nasira can feel it push against her spirit. Trying to exterminate her.

  She’s still not spiking a fever, and she could probably keep it off for a few more hours.

  But there’s no point anymore.

  It’s time.

  She won’t let the thing take her over. Won’t let it use her body after she’s left it.

  She reaches the point where the hill is suddenly cut off by a steep fall. She walks close to the edge at peers down. Far, far below the waves are crashing against the cliffs.

  Nasira looks around and sees a rock protruding from the ground. She goes to sit down. Folds her legs. Turns her face against the sun and closes her eyes.

  She wants to feel it just a little longer. Wants to take in the beauty of this world for another minute or so.

  So she sits there, doing nothing but feeling and breathing and living and dying.

  The sound of the helicopter grows distant and then dissipates, leaving her with the sound of the evening breeze and the waves below.

  She feels grateful that she got to live a life in this world, flawed as it may be. And she feels even more grateful that by the end of it, she got to know God intimately. That He revealed Himself to her when she needed Him the most. Assuring her there was no reason for fear or grief or regret.

  Only love.

  Only love.

  Nasira gets to her feet. She’s smiling as she begins walking, eyes still closed, towards the edge.

  THIRTY-TWO

  As soon as the daylight turns to twilight, Iver gets up and gets ready.

  He brings the shovel as his first-choice weapon and one of the table legs as his backup, sticking up from the backpack like a baseball bat.

  Agnete agreed reluctantly to let him take the table leg, as she realized the table would probably never be used to serve dinner at again.

  “All right,” Chris coaches him in the kitchen. “Remember the plan. You jump out as soon as I draw them away. When you come back, you call me a couple of minutes in advance, and we’ll do the same to let you back inside.”

  “Got it,” Iver says, focusing on his breathing.

  “You’ve got your phone?”

  He pats his pocket. “Right here.”

  “It’s fully charged?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And what is your primary objective?”

  “To convince Fred to come over here.”

  “And if that fails?”

  “Then I’ll try to bring back weapons and ammo instead.”

  “Perfect,” Chris says. “You ready?”

  “As ready as I’m going to be.”

  Chris nods. “You tell me when.” Then he walks into the living room. Iver can see him take up position by the terrace door. He looks back out at Iver.

  “Okay,” Iver says. “Go.”

  Chris pulls the curtain aside, revealing the horde of zombies outside. He taps the glass with his fingers, immediately causing the undead to get riled up and begin pushing up against the glass.

  Iver climbs up onto the kitchen table and places his face close to the glass in order to look outside. He sees a couple of zombies disappear around the corner of the house, drawn by the raucous from the other side.

  Then he pulls the hasp, swings open the window and climbs out. He looks back briefly to make sure Agnete closes the window behind him.

  Then Iver runs out to the gravel road. His head is on ball bearings as he begins jogging towards Fred’s house, his eyes wide and scanning every direction. From the town farther down the road he can make out figures in the dusk, waddling around between the houses. And in the horizon, from the direction of the ocean, still more are coming, swarming the island like a Biblical plague of locusts.

  He clutches the shovel and keeps running, focusing on the task at hand. If he lets his mind think too much about the fact that he’s running around out in the open in the middle of an island with probably several hundred zombies roaming free, he’ll just panic.

  Fred’s house comes up ahead, a single lamp burning by the front door, but all the windows are dark. The old guy might have gone to bed. Or maybe he’s just trying not to draw attention to his house. Iver can make out the zombies crowding the garden, though, so turning the lights off apparently isn’t enough to trick them. They seem to be able to sense living people from very far away.

  There are also quite a few dead zombies on Fred’s lawn—probably ones Fred has shot from inside the house.

  Iver looks back to make sure no one is following him. When he looks ahead again, a figure comes waddling out in front of him from behind a bush by the roadside.

  Iver yelps and runs around the dead woman grabbing for him. He’s way too fast, though, and makes it past her fairly easily. Still, the way she appeared out of nothing scares the crap out of him, and he becomes even more aware of his surroundings as he jogs on, quickly widening the gap to the old lady.

  A few moments later he hears a groan from the other side of the road, and as he peers out into the murky landscape, he can make out three silhouettes coming for him. He speeds up and passes them by.

  I’m good, he tells himself. I’m good. As long as I keep running, they can’t catch up with me, and I’m good.

  Which means, of course, if he makes a stupid mistake like falling or twisting his ankle, he’ll lose his advantage—and maybe his life as well.

  I won’t fall. I’ll be careful. And I’ll be good. Just need to keep focusing.

  He reaches Fred’s house, and the zombies groping the windows begin turning around one at a time as they sense him coming closer. The last thing Iver wants is to stop moving, but he forces himself to do so anyway. He stands right outside Fred’s driveway, holding the shovel ready, peering all around, while particularly keeping an eye on the oncoming group of zombies from Fred’s house. There are ten or twelve of them.

  As soon as they’re close enough that he can smell the sweet, salty and rotten reek coming off of them, he begins moving again, walking quickly farther down road.

  “That’s it,” he whispers, still making sure that every direction is clear. “You follow me now …”

  He leads them maybe fifty yards down road. Then he steps out onto the roadsi
de, and as soon as they follow his lead, he runs to the other side of the road and heads back towards Fred’s place, leaving the group of zombies behind.

  He reaches Fred’s house once more, his breath coming faster now, sweat beading his forehead and upper lip.

  He stops for a moment in the driveway, holding his breath and listening. He can’t hear any groans or footsteps nearby. He’s bought himself maybe three minutes before the group will make it back here. Which means he needs to hurry.

  As he heads for the front door, the driveway is suddenly lit up by a strong searchlight from atop the garage door, effectively blinding him.

  Iver stops and shields his eyes. At first, he figures the light has been automatically triggered by a sensor picking up his movements. But then the garage door begins rolling up, revealing a black Peugeot and, in front of it, Fred pointing at him with his shotgun.

  “What did I just tell you? Get the hell off my property, you scavengers!”

  “Don’t shoot!” Iver says, holding up his hands, dropping the shovel. “I just came to talk!”

  Fred looks at him intently. “Who the hell are you?”

  “My name’s Iver. I’m staying at Agnete’s place. We met earlier today.”

  “Oh, it’s you,” Fred growls. “Well, it makes no real difference who you are; you’re still not welcome here!”

  “Listen,” Iver says, looking to the sides, shielding his eyes. “Could you please turn off the light? I can’t see anything around me.”

  “If you’re uncomfortable with the light, I suggest you get the hell out of here. Those dead fuckers will show up any moment now.”

  “I’m not armed,” Iver tries. “I just want to come in and talk for a minute.”

  “We’ve got nothing to talk about,” Fred says, taking a few steps out of the garage. “You’ve got nothing I want, and I’ve got nothing you can have. So scram!”

  Iver darts another glance around, but his surroundings have turned to a black mush, which could contain everything or nothing. He listens but can’t hear anything.

  “Please,” Iver says, trying one last time. “We’re stronger if we stick together. We can help each other …”