Handling the Undead (15 page)

'What is it?' Magnus asked.

David let his hands rest on his knees, stared down into the pavement. He tried to will the glowing heat inside his head to cool off, to calm down. Magnus fussed with his backpack.

'Dad! I don't have any fruit!'

He displayed his empty backpack as evidence and David said, 'We'll buy an apple at the newsstand.'

The everyday words, the normal actions brought a stillness. A sliver of light opened and through it he saw his eight-year-old examine the bottom of his backpack; maybe there was an old apple hidden in there somewhere after all? The morning sun shone on the thin hair at the back of his head.

I'll never let you down, little man. Whatever happens.

The panic ebbed away, replaced by an enormous grief. If only it were this simple: it was a beautiful morning, the sun was pleasantly warm, throwing misty shadows on tree trunks and concrete. Here he was, sitting on a park bench with his son who was on his way to school and needed an apple for his snack. And he was the dad, who could walk into a store, fish out a couple of kronor and buy a large, red apple, and give it to his son, who would say 'nice one' and tuck it into his bag. If that was only the way it was.

'Magnus…’ he said.

‘Yeah, I’d rather have a pear’

'OK. But Magnus ... '

A great deal of the night had been passed thinking about this moment. What he should say, what he should do. Eva was the one who was good at this stuff. Eva handled the conversations about how Magnus should act if the big kids were mean, if he was scared, or anxious about something.

David could be supportive, could follow Eva's guide, but he didn't know where to start. What was right.

'It's just that ... Mum was in an accident last night. And she's in the hospital.'

'What accident?'

'She was in a car crash. With an elk.' Magnus eyes grew wide.

'Did it die?'

'Yes. At least I think so. But it's ... Mum will be gone for a few days so that they can ... make her better again.'

'Can't I see her?'

A lump grew in David's throat, but before it had time to dissolve into tears he stood up, took Magnus by the hand and said, 'Not right now. But later. Soon. When she's better.'

They walked for a while in silence. When they were almost at the school Magnus asked, 'So when will she be better?'

'Soon. Do you want a pear?'

'Mm.'

David ducked into the newsagents and bought a pear. When he came out, Magnus was staring at the newspaper headlines.

The dead awaken.

2000 Swedes came back from the grave last night.

The dead awaken.

Exclusive pics of the Fright-Night

.

He pointed, and asked, 'Is that true?'

David glanced at the black letters, screaming on a yellow background. He said, 'I don't know', and put the pear in the backpack. Magnus asked more during the last little bit before school, and David told some more lies.

They hugged at the school gates and David stayed crouched there for a while-saw Magnus walk in through the tall doors with his large bag thumping against his back.

He picked up snippets of a conversation between two parents

standing next to him, ' .. .like a horror film          zombies ... you can

only hope they manage to round them all up       think of what the

children ... '

He recognised them as parents of children in Magnus' class. He was gripped by a sudden rage. He wanted to throw himself at them, shake them and scream that this wasn't some movie, that Eva wasn't a zombie, that she had just died and then come back to life and soon everything was going to be fine.

As if she had felt his anger streaming toward her, the woman turned around and noticed David. Her hand flew up to her lips and immediate pity altered the expression in her eyes. She walked up to David with nervously fluttering fingers and said, 'I'm so sorry .. .I heard ... how awful.'          .

David glared at her. 'What are you talking about?'

This was apparently not the reaction she had been expecting, and her hands swung up in front of her as if to ward off his animosity.

'Well,' she said, 'I understand ... it was on the news this morning, you see .. .'

It took several seconds until David made the connection. He had completely forgotten the exchange with the reporters, had experienced it as something so meaningless that it couldn't possibly carry any meaning in the outer world. Even the man now came forward.

'Can we do anything?' he asked.

David shook his head and walked away. Outside the newsagents he

stopped in front of the headlines.

Magnus ...

Had any of the parents who had watched the morning news said anything to their children, so that Magnus would find out that way? Were people really so stupid? Should he go get Magnus?

He couldn't summon the energy to think. Instead he walked in and bought both papers, then sat down on a bench to read them. When he was done he was going to go out to the Medical Examiner's department and figure out what the hell they were up to.

He had trouble concentrating on the text. The words he had overheard from the other parents kept running through his head.

Horror film ... zombies ...

He never watched horror movies, but this much he knew: zombies were dangerous. Something that people had to protect themselves against. He rubbed his eyes firmly and focused on the photographs, the text.

The elevator starts with a jerk. I can hear screams through the thick concrete. The morgue level comes into view through the door glass ...

The article's rigorous tone of reportage gave way to a plea at the end that made David sit up a little. The writer-Gustav Mahler, David read-had completely inappropriately inserted his own voice in closing .

... we must nonetheless ask ourselves: Is it not for the family members to say what should be done? Can the state authorities alone decide a matter that in the final analysis is about love? I do not think so, and I think others feel the same.

David lowered the paper.

Yes, he thought. Ultimately this is about love.

He folded the newspaper into his pocket like a silent support and hailed a taxi to take him to Solna, where they were keeping Eva prisoner.

Vallingby 08.00

Mahler thought he had just closed his eyes for a few seconds when the alarm went off, but he had slept for three hours, sitting up in the armchair. His body felt like part of the chair, hard to dislodge. Elias was lying on the couch with his head right next to him. He stretched out his arm and placed his finger in Elias' palm; it responded.

He had a memory of writing something for the paper, and it made him anxious. Had he mentioned Elias? In some way he had, but he couldn't recall what. Composing it had been a forty-fiveminute rush of letters and cigarettes. Then he had retreated to the armchair, and switched off.

Enough. There were too many other things to consider. He heaved himself up out of the chair and went out on the balcony, lit a cigarette and leaned over the railing. It was a beautiful morning. A clear blue sky and not yet warm. A soft breeze set the cigarette glowing, caressed his chest. His whole body was sticky with dried sweat, and his shirt was stiff, oily. The smoke he was sucking into his lungs tasted of thick heat.

He looked across the courtyard at Anna's window.

I have to tell her.

At around ten o'clock she would visit the grave and see what had

happened. He had to spare her that shock, but he was afraid; did not know how she would react. Since Elias' death, only a thin membrane had kept her from tumbling into the final darkness. Maybe it would break now. There was one thing that spoke against this: she had not chosen cremation. She had wanted to have Elias' skin, face, bones to think of, down in the earth. Had wanted to keep him present. Perhaps it even meant that she would get through this. Perhaps.

He put out the cigarette, drew a couple of deep breaths, as deep as he could with his wheezing pipes, and went back in.

Now, with the outside air as a point of comparison, he could tell how bad the room smelled. Stale cigarette smoke mixed with dust and behind this, penetratingly, a strong smell of-

what is it called

-Havarti. Aged cheese. That smell that stayed on your fingers, in !

scent-memory, hours after you opened the plastic packaging. While       1

he stood still and drew in air through his nose it grew stronger. Elias'

belly was swollen like a balloon, yet another button had come off

during the night and now his pyjama top was fastened only by a

button at the neck.

She can't see him like this.

He half-filled the bathtub, then carried Elias to the bathroom and undressed him. Soon he would be used to it. Soon there would be no more surpnses.

Elias' skin was dark green, olive-coloured, and appeared thinMahler could clearly make out the blood vessels underneath. There were small fluid-filled blisters scattered across his chest as if he had chickenpox. If he could only eliminate the gas that was inflating his belly. It would make Elias appear less deformed, it would be possible to view him as ... as if he had severe burns or something like that.

Elias' face was unmoving as his clothes were removed. Mahler did not know if he could see anything. The eyes were only visible as two drops of dried sap under the sunken eyelids.

Mahler gently lowered him into the bathtub. Elias did not protest. As the water closed around his body he let out a sigh of fetid air. Mahler filled his tooth-brushing glass with water and held it up to the blackened lips. Since Elias made no move to drink it, Mahler tilted the glass so that a little liquid ran into his mouth. It ran out again.

Then he remembered something. Something he had read about Haiti, about the risen dead.

He resisted the impulse to go to the bookshelf and check, he daren't leave Elias alone in the bathtub. He painstakingly sponged off every bit of his body. The worst was the fingers, toes, the penis that were all blue-black with some kind of gangrene and completely bereft of life.

He finished by shampooing Elias' hair. As he slowly rubbed his scalp, Mahler closed his eyes and was able to pretend for a moment. It was basically no different than when he had washed Elias' hair before. But when he opened his eyes and was going to rinse he saw that tufts of hair were hanging from his fingers.

No, no ...

He scooped water over the hair, not daring to dry it for fear that more would fall out. The water in the bathtub was brown and Mahler pulled out the plug, then rinsed Elias off with warm water from the hand-held shower.

The belly ... that belly ...

He laid his hand on Elias' stomach and pressed lightly. When nothing happened, he pressed a little harder. It gave way with a farting sound. He pressed more. The farting continued, as when you let air out of a balloon; a light-brown fluid trickled out of the anus, ran down toward the drain and a smell rose up out of the tub that forced Mahler to turn away, open the lid to the toilet and vomit.

This will be fine ... this will be fine ...

Yes. Elias looked a little better now, he decided when he turned back. The body had lost its look of starvation, but his skin ...

Mahler rinsed Elias off once more, then lifted him out of the tub, swept him up in a white bath towel and carried him to his bed. He fetched a tube of body lotion and rubbed it into every centimetre of his leathery skin. To his elation he saw that after one minute the skin looked as dry as before.

That must mean it was absorbing it. He went over the body with lotion again and again until the tube was empty.

When he pinched the skin on Elias' armpit with his thumb and forefinger it was less hard than before. Less like leather, more like rubber. But just as dry. He would have to buy more lotion.

The work granted him a measure of relief. Softening his skin was the first thing he had been able to do for Elias, the only improvement he had been able to achieve.

Haiti ...

He did not need to read; he remembered.

In the kitchen he half-filled a glass with water, then poured in a teaspoon of salt and mixed it until it was fully dissolved. He tasted it. Super salty. He filled the glass to the top, mixed it and tasted again. Poured out half and filled it up again. Yes. Now it tasted more or less like sea water.

He hesitated when he came back into the bedroom. The very sick were often given glucose, a sugar solution. He only had superstition to lean on in order to justify this.

But surely it can't actually be ... dangerous. Can it?

Elias' life flame was so terribly weak. It felt as if it wouldn't take much to extinguish it completely. But surely a mouthful of salt water wouldn't ... ?

He sat on the edge of the bed with the glass in his hand.

Haiti was the only place in the world with a widespread belief in zombies. And what the dead need when they return to the world of the living is sea water. In all mythology there is some kernel of truth, otherwise it would not survive. So therefore ...

He cupped his hand behind Elias' neck. Drops from the wet hair ran down over the back of his hand as he lifted Elias into a sitting position and

brought the glass to his lips, tilted it and let a small quantity pour in. Elias' throat moved up in a short spasm. And down. He swallowed.

Mahler had to put the glass down on the bedside table and scoop Elias into his arms. He was careful not to use too much force, and risk injuring something in the frail body.

'You can do it, bud, you can do it!'

Elias did not move, his body was as stiff as before, but he had
done
something. He had drunk something.