John Lindqvist - Handling The Undead

She withdrew to her previous place, concentrating on reading the people approaching. What she sensed dislodged a clump of fear that dropped into her stomach. She read excitement, terror. And just as she managed to disentangle the confused thoughts and identify them as belonging to five people, they entered the courtyard.

Five young men. Too far away for Flora to see properly but they had things in their hands. Sticks or… no. Flora hugged her belly, suddenly sick with comprehension and horror. They were holding baseball bats. Their thoughts were so agitated and mixed up that she could barely isolate any clear images, and she recognised this, knew that it was because they were very drunk.

The dead continued in their dance, apparently unaware of their new audience. One of the guys said, 'What the fuck are they doing?'

'Dunno,' said another. 'Looks like a disco.'

'Zombie disco!'

The guys laughed and Flora thought They're not going to… . they can't. ., but knew that they were thinking it and were fully capable. One of them looked around. He was almost as unsteady on his feet as those who had come out of the buildings.

'Hey,' he said. 'There's someone here, isn't there?'

The others stopped talking, scanning the area. Flora bit her lip, sitting absolutely still. It was a completely new situation for herothers reading her thoughts as clearly as she could read theirs. She tried not to think. When that didn't work she used the static she had tried on Peter.

'Fuck it,' one of them said, gesturing at his head. 'It was just

something.'

They walked closer to the dead. One of them wrenched off a

backpack, said, 'Should we light 'em up right away, or what?'

'Nah,' said another and waved his bat. 'Let's have a feel first.'

'Damn, they're ugly.'

'They're gonna get even uglier.'

The guys stopped only a couple of metres from the dead, who had now stopped their dance and turned towards them. The hatred and terror that had been emanating from the young men grew stronger. And stronger.

'Hello gorgeous!' one of them shouted.

'Aaaaahhhhhh… ' another said and an image of a zombie from Resident Evil flashed in Flora's head. When she had caught it, other images linked to it. Zombies from movies, monsters from games. This was what the guys' excursion was about: they'd headed out to get a little live action.

I can't…

Before she had made a conscious decision-it was hard to think with the guys' agitation crackling in her head-she got up and shouted 'Hello!'

It would have been comic under any other circumstances, all of the young men turning their heads in her direction at once. Flora stepped out of the shadows. Her legs shook; no amount of willpower could get them to stop. Trembling, she moved forward half-way to the lamppost, stopped.

'I'm watching you,' she said. 'Just so you know.'

That was all she could say. The only threat she had to brandish.

But she knew that her voice, her thoughts betrayed her fear. Their thoughts were set on destruction and human consideration paled.

'A girl!' one of them called out and Flora felt her own body looked over by five minds, picked up twinges of lust, the impulse to fuck her into the ground, before or after they had done what they were going to do. She instinctively backed up a step.

'Go home to bed!' she shouted at the one who seemed to be the leader. He let his bat swing back and forth at her. 'Start thinking with your head

instead of your dick, because you can't do this!'

The guy smiled broadly. His hair was combed back and his smile… professional. He was dressed in a light blue shirt and clean jeans. They were all dressed the same way-less like a lynch mob than a social club from the Business School; they'd just wound up a meeting and decided to go out and have some fun.

'Show me the law that…' the guy started and Flora saw an older man, presumably the young man's father, sitting at the kitchen table in a suit, saying until the laws are changed the reliving are defenceless since they have already been legally determined to be deceased. The guy didn't get any further, however, because one of his friends shouted, 'Markus! Watch out!'

While the guys were looking at Flora, the reliving had started to move closer to them, nourished and goaded by their hatred. The closest, a stick-thin old man a head shorter than the one they called Markus, stretched out his hands and took hold of Markus' shirt.

Markus jumped back and a low tearing of cloth could be heard.

He looked down at the rip and screamed, 'Are you going to tear up my shirt, you bastard?' and swung his baseball bat against the dead man's head.

The blow connected perfectly right above the ear and made a sound like someone cracking a dry branch over their knee, before the force of the blow slung the dead man away a couple of metres, spinning a half-turn in the air and landing on his head e, He rolled through another half-rotation in the same direction and collapsed on the concrete.

Markus held his hand up in the air and one of his pals high-fived

him. They moved in on their prey.

Flora was unable to move. It was not only the terror that kept her feet nailed to the spot-the blood lust and hatred blazing from the men was intense enough to paralyse her mind. She lost command of her body, her thoughts swamped by theirs. She stood. She watched.

The dead were no match for five young, fit men. They went down one by one, accompanied by shrieks of triumph. Even when they were on the ground the men kept hitting them. It was as if they were demolishing a wall that had to be smashed into little pieces, small enough to be carried away in sacks. The dead made no effort to protect themselves. Even after their legs were broken they just kept crawling towards their attackers, taking more blows. The brittle snapping sounds went on but the dead did not stop, they only moved more slowly.

The young men lowered their bats and moved a couple of paces away from the crawling mass at their feet. One of them took out a pack of cigarettes, offering them round. They smoked and regarded their work.

'Damn,' said one. 'I think one of them bit me.'

He held out his arm and displayed a dark spot on the light fabric.

The others recoiled in feigned horror, holding up their hands and shouting, 'Ahhh! He's been infected!'

The guy who had the bite smiled uncertainly and said, 'Oh, come off it. Do you think I should get a tetanus shot or something?'

The others picked up his concern and went on ribbing him about how he'd soon turn into a zombie hungry for human flesh until the guy told them to shut up. They laughed at him and he crouched nonchalantly next to the closest wreck of what had been a person, a little old lady whose one arm was so shattered it lay limply across her neck. He held out his injured arm to her mouth and said, 'Yum, yum. Come on, have a snack.'

The woman's mangled mouth, its few teeth protruding between crushed lips, opened and closed like a fish on a riverbank. The guy smiled and looked up at the others, and at that moment something happened that Flora had been fervently hoping for: the old woman's other arm shot out to grab his, and her teeth sunk into his flesh.

He screamed and lost his balance then quickly regained his feet.

The teeth refused to let go and the old woman was dragged up from the ground like a ragdoll, hanging from his arm.

'Someone help me, God damn it,' the young man screamed and shook his arm, but even though the old woman was only a pile of broken bones in a sack of skin, her jaws were locked and she dangled along with his movements.

The man she'd latched onto wrenched his arm and gave an incoherent scream of revulsion as a substantial piece of flesh was torn out of his lower arm. He hopped around stamping his feet as if he could only think of getting away somewhere-anywhere but in this situation.