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

by Clausen, Nick

  Iver stops talking as he seems to hear a noise coming from the right. He looks at the spot right beside the garage, but he can’t make out anything out there. Maybe it was just his imagination.

  He looks back at Fred pleadingly. “Look, we’ve got a weapon, too, and if we join forces …”

  Once again, Iver cuts himself off as he notices a movement from up ahead, just above the spotlight. A dark shadow moves across the garage roof. The light cast up from below reveals the face of a teenage girl as she leans forward to look down at Fred.

  The girl then looks at Iver and places a finger over her lips in an unmistakable shushing gesture.

  Iver is so surprised to see her that he doesn’t know what to do.

  Fred seems to think he’s simply looking up at the light: “You listen to me, boy. I’ve taken care of myself my entire life. I’m not about to stop doing that now, especially not by shagging up with a bunch of goddamn kids. Now, I’m not telling you again—”

  Fred’s final warning is cut off as the girl jumps down from the garage. She apparently aims to grab the weapon from Fred’s hands. She misses, though, instead connecting with Fred’s shoulder and knocking him to ground while landing on her back next to him, audibly punching the air from her lungs.

  Fred gives a roar of pain and surprise as he makes it back to his knees with surprising speed for an old guy, scrambling for the gun.

  A yell of attack as a guy comes rushing in from the right—from where Iver heard the noise just a minute ago. Iver just gets a brief glimpse of a buff dude wearing a tight T-shirt clutching his well-trained body. He goes for the shotgun, stretching out his tattoo-covered arms and throwing himself at it.

  But Fred gets to if first. He picks it up by the barrel, pulls back out of reach of the guy, flips the shotgun over and fires it before the guy can make another attempt.

  The shot rings out into the night—not quite as deafening as the shots Chris fired inside Agnete’s living room, but still ear-piercing.

  The guy’s head is flung back and for a moment Iver gets a clear view of his face. Or rather, the place where his face used to be. Then he collapses onto the concrete, his arms and legs giving off a couple of spasms before lying still.

  Iver picks up the shovel.

  The girl—who has just managed to get back up, heaving for her breath—now begins wailing at the sight of the dead guy.

  “Nooooooo! Lasse! Noooooo!” She turns to Fred, her face a mask of rage. “You piece of shit! You killed him!” She launches herself at Fred like an animal.

  Fred has gotten back up and is prepared for her. Iver is sure he’ll shoot her too. Instead, he flips the shotgun back around, connecting the butt end with the girl’s jaw, sending her back down for the count.

  A dead man comes waddling out of the darkness and enters the scene, headed for Fred and the girl.

  Iver is about to cry out in warning as a hand grabs his shoulder. He instinctively thrusts himself forward, a set of teeth clapping right next to his ear, missing it by mere inches. He wheels around, swinging the shovel blindly. The blade hits the zombie’s skull, knocking it over.

  Another figure comes out of the dark before the first one can get back up.

  Iver turns around and sees Fred take aim and fire the shotgun a second time, removing the top of the head of the oncoming zombie, and it collapses atop the dead guy.

  Two more come into view.

  Fred goes for his pocket and pulls out two new cartridges, then seems to realize there’s no time, and instead heads for the garage.

  Iver has no other choice than follow him. One side is blocked by the house, and the others are completely obscured. Running out into the darkness will likely mean running straight into the arms of a dead person.

  Fred goes for a switch on the wall, flipping it, and the door starts coming down.

  Iver bolts for safety, jumping over the corpses, swinging the shovel at a dead woman trying to cut him off. He strikes her on the throat with a crushing blow, sending her stumbling backwards, but only causing her a minor inconvenience, as she immediately comes at him again. Iver dodges her and is about to run into the garage when he sees Fred pointing the shotgun at him.

  “You stop right there! Get the hell back!”

  Iver looks back and sees at least a dozen zombies coming into the driveway from every direction, closing him in.

  “I can’t!” he cries out at Fred. “There’s nowhere to go!”

  “Not my fucking problem!” Fred roars as the door comes down from above, cutting him from view.

  Iver spins around and takes a swing at the closest dead person, knocking him over. In an instant, he realizes he’s done for. He’s pinned between the house and the soon-closed garage. There are too many zombies for him to outmaneuver them and make it to safety. And he can’t take out all of them with a shovel.

  Then Fred cries out from behind: “You get out of here!”

  Iver turns around again to see the girl who’s crawled for safety, sitting on her hands and knees below the garage door. It presses down on her back from above, but as it meets resistance, it stops, still four feet from the ground. Iver can see Fred struggle with the girl from the inside, trying to push her out, but she claws back, fighting to get in.

  Iver doesn’t waste a second. He drops the shovel and throws himself down half a second before the closest zombie can grab him. He rolls under the door and into the garage, the table leg falling from his bag. He grabs it and gets to his feet.

  Almost immediately, the zombie he just narrowly escaped—a young boy—comes crawling under the door.

  Iver takes a running swing at his head hard enough to send painful shockwaves up through the table leg and into Iver’s hands and arms. The skull cracks open and the boy falls to the ground. Iver uses the table leg to try and shove him out as the next zombie comes crawling under the door.

  Fred is still struggling with the girl. She has grabbed onto the shotgun and refuses to let go, her face screwed up into a determined sneer, despite Fred roaring at her and punching her arm.

  Then she screams out in pain as someone begins attacking her legs, dragging her backwards. Fred is pulled along, his hands slipping outside for just a moment.

  Then he rips the shotgun free and backs away. The girl is dragged out of the garage, her nails clawing at the concrete as she screams. Fred takes aim and fires the gun at the zombie who has made it under the door and is getting to its feet. He only hits it in the shoulder, though, sending to the ground, but it immediately begins getting back up.

  “It’s too late!” Iver hears himself cry out. “We need to get inside the house!”

  Fred looks down at the zombies squeezing under the door, then obviously decides Iver is right and turns on his heel and runs for the door leading into the house.

  Iver beats him to it, bursting into Fred’s scullery and holding the door open for him. As soon as Fred is inside, Iver slams the door and turns the key.

  From outside, the girl is still screaming. But only for a couple of seconds. Then eager hands begin groping at the door.

  Iver steps back and looks at Fred.

  The old guy is standing there, panting and resting one hand on his knee, the other holding the shotgun. He stares from the door to Iver, his upper lip curling into a snarl.

  “Now look what you’ve done, you little shit! I just lost access to my car!”

  Fred looks livid, and for a moment, Iver prepares himself to fight, as he’s sure Fred will take a swing at him—or maybe even turn the gun on him.

  Instead, he turns around and goes into the hallway.

  Iver just stands there for a long moment, shaking all over, listening to the zombies moaning outside the door.

  Then he follows Fred.

  THIRTY-THREE

  William buckles up and makes sure the belt is tight. Then he takes the pieces of napkin he has kept in his pocket, squeezes them up into little balls and stuffs them in his ears.

  Might as well try and get some
sleep.

  He leans up against the wall as the helicopter gets ready to take off. The roar of the engine, the slowly rising whoop-whoop of the rotors gaining speed, even the vibrations against his back is soothing.

  Outside, the evening is growing darker, the sun is painting the sky and the ocean red.

  A wet snout nudges his knee.

  William opens his eyes and looks at Ozzy. The dog is staring up at him, giving him a very meaningful look.

  “Don’t you start,” William mutters. “We’re not doing it. We’re not getting ourselves killed for that little prick.”

  Ozzy slants his head to the side, as though trying to understand.

  “Look, he already caused us too much trouble. If it hadn’t been for him, we would still be safe and sound at Holger’s place.”

  William realizes he’s talking out loud and glances around to see if anybody else has noticed. They haven’t; they’re all either sitting with eyes closed or looking out the windows. Besides, no one can hear him over the roar of the rotors, which have almost reached full speed now and are ready to lift them off the ground.

  William ignores Ozzy and looks around at the rest of the group. They are only five people left now, counting William.

  Sebastian, Lærke, Josefine and Ali.

  Five people making it out alive. Not bad. There are probably more, of course. Maybe hundreds. Maybe even thousands.

  All are fleeing in different directions, hoping to reach safety somewhere, hoping to find a somewhat normal life until this thing is sorted out.

  Will it ever, though? You don’t really believe that. The authorities won’t be able to stop it. And there won’t be a cure. Dan was right about that.

  Ozzy nudges his knee again.

  “Stop that!” William exclaims, pulling his leg away.

  Josefine, who’s sitting opposite him, holding Ali, opens her eyes and looks over at him and mouths: “What?”

  William shakes his head: “Nothing.”

  Just my stupid dog trying to tell me something …

  William doesn’t want to think about it. He doesn’t want to think about Dan walking back to Denmark on foot, alone. It’s his damn choice. And William has made his own.

  “I’m not going with him,” he tells Ozzy. “I’m not.”

  Ozzy just keeps looking at William like he’s trying hard to make him understand something important.

  “I’m not doing it,” William says again, turning his face away and looking out the window.

  “You guys ready?” Sebastian calls out from the pilot’s seat. “Let’s get out of here. Next stop, Faroe Islands!”

  Ready, William thinks to himself. And he wants to call it out. But the word that comes from his mouth is slightly different: “Wait!”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Iver walks through Fred’s house, which isn’t nearly as neat and tidy as Agnete’s was. In fact, it bears clear signs of an old guy living alone.

  He reaches the living room and finds Fred sitting in his armchair, the shotgun resting across his lap. He takes off the cap, drops it to the floor and rubs his bare scalp, giving off a deep sigh. “For God’s sake, what a mess.”

  The curtains are drawn on all the windows, but Iver can hear the zombies outside.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, stepping closer. “I obviously didn’t mean for anything like that to happen. I just came over here to talk.”

  Fred scowls at him, saying nothing, then looks away, muttering: “You’re lucky I don’t throw you out the window.”

  “I didn’t attack you,” Iver says, pointing back. “They did. They caused all this.”

  “You were the one who got me to open the garage door in the first place.”

  “You didn’t need to do that.”

  “If I hadn’t, you would have broken a window to get in here.”

  “Of course I wouldn’t,” Iver says, feeling oddly offended. “Like I said, I just came to talk, not put anybody in danger.”

  “I don’t care what you came for,” Fred says, leaning forward. “I want you out of here!”

  “Well, that’s not possible right now,” Iver says, nodding towards the windows. “Unless you’re going to force me to leave?”

  The question hovers between them in the dimly lit room for several seconds.

  Iver is still holding the table leg, hanging by his side. There are only a few steps from him to Fred’s chair. He’s not sure he can close the distance before Fred can turn the gun on him and fire, but he doubts the old guy will do that. He’s just bluffing, and Iver is calling it.

  Finally, Fred sighs again. “They came by here just ten minutes before you showed up. They drew a bunch of dead guys with them. They wanted to come in. They’d come from the mainland, they said, seeking refuge. Well, they didn’t find it here, I told them. They should try another house. Apparently, they decided to wait around instead, looking for the opportunity to surprise me.” Fred glances at Iver. “You gave them that opportunity.”

  Iver throws out his hands. “I had no way of knowing.”

  Fred gets up from the armchair with a groan. He shuffles to a liquor cabinet, looking suddenly a lot older as he takes out a glass and a bottle. “You drink?” he asks, not looking at Iver.

  “No, thank you.”

  “Of course you don’t,” Fred mutters. “Young people nowadays. You think you’re so damn important.”

  Iver pretends not to hear. He puts the table leg on Fred’s dining table and sits down on a chair. The muscles in his legs are happy to get a break after running around outside.

  Fred shuffles over and slumps back down into the chair. He pours himself a drink while murmuring: “I’m almost glad you’re not here to see this, Grethe. Things are really turning to shit. We’ll probably all be dead soon. At least that means I’ll get to see you again.”

  Iver recalls Agnete telling them something about Fred having recently lost his wife, and he feels an unexpected stab of sympathy for the old guy.

  He takes out his phone and is about to call up Chris, when Fred asks: “Whaddya doing?”

  “I’m calling the others to let them know what happened.”

  “No,” Fred says, shaking his head slowly. “You’re not calling anybody.” He comes over, puts his glass on the table, then holds out his hand. “Give me that.”

  Iver frowns. “Why?”

  “Because I don’t want you calling them and planning something stupid.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know, them coming over here, maybe.”

  “Look, that’s not happening. I just want to let them know—” Iver stops talking as he notices a scratch on the inside of Fred’s wrist. “How did you get that?”

  “Get what?” Fred looks down. “Aw, that’s nothing, just a scratch.”

  “Yeah, but from what? It’s fresh, which means it just happened.”

  “I don’t know. Must have got it from that crazy bitch. She probably scratched me when she jumped on me.”

  Iver looks at Fred thoughtfully, recalling him fighting to get the girl out from under the garage door. She could very well have clawed him there.

  But there was also that moment when Fred’s arms went outside. It was only a second before he pulled them back in.

  But a second was enough.

  “Why are you eyeing me like that, boy?” Fred growls. “I told you, I’m fine. Now hand me that phone.”

  “I didn’t say you weren’t fine,” Iver says calmly, handing Fred the phone.

  Fred puts the phone in his pocket, eyeing him closely. “What did you say then?”

  “Nothing. I just wanted to know how you got that scratch.”

  “And I told you.”

  Iver nods. “Can I go to the bathroom?”

  Fred takes the glass from the table and is about to take a swig, then hesitates. “Why?”

  Iver throws out his arms. “Do I really need to answer that?”

  Fred chews on his tongue. Then he nods. “Fine, go. But don’t ta
ke too long.”

  Iver gets up and leaves the living room. Just before he walks out into the kitchen, he glances back to see Fred slump down into the armchair. He looks very tired. Exhausted, actually. He seems to be muttering to his dead wife again.

  Iver closes the door almost all the way, then he quickly goes to the windows. Even through the curtains, he can hear the dead people groping the glass. It sounds like there’s a lot of them. There’s no way he’s getting out this way.

  Instead, he runs down the hallway to the bathroom. There’s only one window in here, but a couple of hands are groping it.

  “Fuck,” Iver mutters, closing and locking the door. He goes to the mirror and looks at himself. “Think, goddamnit.”

  The version of Iver looking back out at him seems ten years older than the one he saw in the mirror just yesterday. His face is pale and there are dark rims below his eyes. His hair is also all messed up.

  He has no way of calling Chris. Even if he could find another phone, he doesn’t recall his number. And getting his own phone back from Fred would be near impossible.

  Which means he needs to find a way out of here. Even if he could open one of the windows without Fred noticing, he would have no one to help him distract the zombies.

  But is Fred really infected? Or is Iver just overreacting?

  That scratch on the old guy’s wrist looked not-good at all. In fact, the more Iver thinks about it, the more he feels certain it wasn’t done by the girl. The way the skin had reddened and was swelling up just slightly around the scratch told him it might be infected.

  If he is infected, how long will it take him to die? Iver asks his mirror image. Probably not long. Half an hour? Twenty minutes?

  The people on the ferry turned within moments. But they were a lot more badly wounded than just a scratch, so it was likely a matter of minutes rather than seconds before Fred would die and wake back up. But maybe—

  A sudden banging on the door makes Iver jump. “Jesus Christ, what?” he calls out.

  “Let me in!” Fred growls from the other side. “Now!”

  “I’m not done in he—”

  “Open that damned door or I’ll shoot my way in!”