John Lindqvist - Handling The Undead

Flora lay dawn again but could not fall back to sleep. She alternated between '''ring" the ceiling, the golden-yellow rectangle and Peter’s pimply face on the pillow. After an hour she got up and started to heat water for tea on the kerosene stave.

The hissing from the kitchen area woke Peter. He sat up, looking at the window to judge the time of day, rather than the dock, said, 'Early' and slumped back dawn on the bed.

When Flora had let the two tea bags sit long enough in the simmering water, she poured out two cups heaped two teaspoons, of sugar in each and took them with her into bed. When they had downed a few sips Peter said, 'Those things, you told me when you got here…’

'Yes?'

'Is it true?'

'Yes.'

He nodded, giving the tea cup a shake, then said, 'Good.' He got up and poured one more teaspoon of sugar in and came back to bed. There were, periods, when be lived exclusive1y on tea and sugar.

'You think it's good?' Flora asked.

'Of Course.'

'Why?'

'I don't know. Is there more tea?'

'No. The water's finished.'

'We'll get more later.'

Peter got up to pee. His ribs jutted out sharply, as if he had much thinner skin than other people. He removed the wet rag from the pee bucket, got on his knees and tilted it in order to get the right angle. A faint rumble could be heard as the stream hit the metal side. Flora couldn't handle all that. When she was here she dealt with her needs in one of the portaloos outside the area. Even though the county did not want to acknowledge the existence of the Heath, they had brought in the portaloos several years ago and had them emptied regularly after the patch of forest around the corner had become a shit-smelling litter of toilet paper and urine-burned plants.

'It's good if the police have something else to do,' Peter said. 'And it's good if this kind of thing happens. It has to happen.'

'But don't you think it's strange?' Flora said.

'I think it's strange it hasn't happened before. Should we go get more water?'

They put their clothes on and Peter took out the moped. It had taken him half a year to restore and repair the pile of scrap that he had found abandoned and stripped in the woods. Basically, he had only been able to salvage the frame and the wheels. But with found and bartered parts he had managed to make it roadworthy, mounted a cargo tray, sprayed it metallic silver and written 'The Silver Arrow' on the tank in black letters. It was the only possession he cared about. If Flora pictured Peter as Snuffkin from the Moomin books, then the moped was his harmonica.

Flora brought the water container along, sat down on the flatbed. They made a round of the area, helping themselves to three containers that were outside the gates. This was Peter's entire business; he guarded bicycles and fetched and carried-water, among other things. He kept himself alive on food bought from the surplus store with the thousand or so kronor this brought in. Sometimes the market traders in Rinkeby let him have a box of left-over vegetables at the end of the day.

They drove, bumping across the field, onto Akallavagen, and Peter filled up the water containers at the Shell station. It was shortly before nine o'clock and the headline screamers were out.

The dead awaken.

2000 Swedes came back from the grave last night.

The dead awaken.

Exclusive pics of the Fright-Night.

The paper that promised the pictorial spread had a snapshot of what looked like a fistfight on the billboard screamer. People in white were fighting with naked old people between metal Counters. The other one looked more like a classic horror film poster; a number of old people in shrouds among gravestones.

'Check that out,' Flora said.

'Yes,' Peter said. 'Can you help me with the containers?'

Together they loaded up the four ten-litre containers. Flora looked around and couldn't help being disappointed. Everything looked normal. The sun shining sleepily on people filling up their cars, walking along the footpath. She went into the station and bought both newspapers. The clerk took the money in silence. When she came back outside there was a guy crouched beside his car filling the tyres.

As if nothing…

Peter started the moped, and she squeezed on holding onto the containers as they drove back across the rutted field. There were no signs anywhere that the world had gone over the edge last night.

She had seen Romero's zombie trilogy and even if that wasn't what she had expected, then… something. Anything, other than the newspapers getting a new story to feast on. Peter didn't ask anything, was not getting worked up. That was why she had sought him out; to get away from it. But now as she sat on the shaking flatbed, hugging the containers, she almost longed to get back to the city, to her school, to the hysteria she assumed must be in full bloom there.

What if that's the end of it? Something to talk about for a week and then… gone.

She punched her fist into one of the containers and blinked as the rising tears stung her eyes. She boxed the container again. Peter did not ask why.

Industrigatan 07.41

'How are you, dear? Are you sick?'

'No, I'm just… I just slept badly.'

'How did things go at Norra Brunn?'

'That ended up being cancelled. That thing with the power. I think I have to get going now.'

David reached past his mother for Magnus, who smiled broadly and said, 'I watched TV until ten-thirty! Didn't I, Grandma?'

'Yes,' she said with a sheepish smile. 'It wouldn't turn off, and my head was hurting so much… '

'Mine was too, actually,' Magnus interrupted. 'But I watched anyway. It was Tarzan.'

David nodded mechanically. A lava flow was welling up inside his head, behind his eyes. If he stood here one more second he was going to erupt in some way. He had not slept at all. It wasn't until six o'clock in the morning that someone had told him Eva had been moved to the Medical Examiner's department. He had tried in vain to get more information, then gone home and splashed cold water in his face, listened to messages on the answering machine.

Nothing from the hospital. Only reporters, and Eva's father who was wondering what had happened to her. David couldn't bring himself to talk to either him or his mother. Luckily she had not heard anything.

When Magnus took his hand, he pulled him along somewhat too forcefully. His mother wrinkled her brow and asked, 'And how are things with Eva?'

'Fine. We have to go now.'

They said goodbye and David hurried Magnus down the stairs. On the way to school, Magnus told him about the episode of Tarzan he had seen and David nodded, grunting without listening. Half-way there, he guided Magnus to a park bench.

'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.