John Lindqvist - Handling The Undead

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.

Maybe Mahler's happiness was not so much to do with the sign of life in Elias, as with the fact that he was able to do something for him. He did not have to stand there at a loss and simply look at him. He could apply lotion to his body, he could give him something to drink. Maybe there were more things he could do, time would tell. Now…

Heady with his success, he took the glass again and brought it to Elias' lips. But he poured it too fast and it ran out again. Elias' throat did not move.

'Wait… wait…'

Mahler ran out into the kitchen and found a small plastic syringe that had come with a bottle of medicine he had bought the last time Elias had a fever. He filled the syringe with salt water from the glass and slowly squeezed ten mils of liquid between Elias' lips. He swallowed. Mahler continued until the syringe was empty. Then he refilled it. After ten minutes Elias had drunk the whole glass and Mahler lowered his wet head against the pillows.

There was no visible difference, but whatever Elias was now, it had a will, or at least an impulse to take something in from the external world…

Mahler tucked Elias into bed, and lay down beside him.

Elias still stank, but the bath had removed the worst of it. The remaining smell was now mixed up with the scent of soap and shampoo. Mahler

leaned his head against the pillow and narrowed his eyes, trying to see his grandchild, but it didn't work. The soft profile was competely altered by the jutting cheekbones, the sunken nose, the lips.

He isn't dead. He exists. It will be fine…

Mahler fell asleep.

The clock on the bedside table said half past ten when he was awakened by the telephone. His first thought was: Anna!

He hadn't spoken with her; maybe she had already had time to go to the graveside. He glanced quickly at Elias who was lying exactly as he had left him, then grabbed the phone on his side of the bed.

'Yes, this is Mahler.'

'It's me. Anna.'

Fucking hell. Idiot. How could he have slept? Anna's voice sounded shredded, trembling. She had been out to Racksta, Mahler lowered his legs over the side of the bed, sat up.

'Yes… hi there. How are you?'

'Daddy. Elias is gone.' Mahler drew in air in order to tell her, but did not get a chance before Anna continued, 'Two men were just here and asked me if I… if I had… Daddy, there has…last night… there are dead people who have come back to life.'

'What kind of men?'

'Daddy, do you hear what I'm saying? Do you hear what I'm saying! ' Her voice was hysterical, about to escalate into a scream. 'Dead people have come back to life and Elias… they said that his grave… '

'Anna, Anna. Calm down. He is here.' Mahler looked at Elias' head resting on the pillow, touched his forehead with his hand. 'He is here. With me.'

There was silence on the other end. 'Anna?'

'He… is alive? Elias? Are you saying that… '

'Yes. Or rather… ' there was a rattling sound on the line. 'Anna?

Anna?' Through the receiver, in the distance, he heard a door open and close.

Damn it…

He got up, groggy. Anna was on her way over. He had to…

What did he have to do?

Lessen, soften…

The blinds in the bedroom were lowered, but that was not enough to conceal Elias' appearance. Quickly, Mahler took a blanket out of the closet and hung it over the curtain rod. Some light came in through the crack on the side, but it was significantly darker.