John Lindqvist - Handling The Undead

As the blood ran down the man's arm his friend Markus pulled off his shirt, ripped off the arm that already had a tear and said, 'Come on, we'll have to apply a pressure b… '

His injured friend did not appear to hear him. He frantically ripped open the backpack, produced a couple of plastic bottles, unscrewed the caps and splashed liquid over the heap of bodies still quivering, searching.

'What about this, you bastards!' He ran around the perimeter of the heap, spraying from both bottles until they were empty. 'Let's see you bite now!'

The paralysis that had overcome Flora was wearing off; the other four guys had calmed down, having battered themselves into a state of exhaustion. Only the injured one's hysteria pierced her head like a saw, a saw through metal…

No…

It was the other sound she was hearing. There was nothing she could do to stop the guys, it was too late. She looked around. There, on the other side of the courtyard, she spotted herself on her way toward the lamppost. It was still hard to look, there was a force that told her to look away, but it was as if she was getting used to it-she pushed the whining into the back of her mind and left her thoughts free.

Do something, do something she thought at the figure, so like herself, who had moved, between one breath and another, to the edge of the heap of corpses where the guys were now getting a box of matches out of the backpack. They did not see her, but apparently they heard the sound and spotted her in their peripheral vision because their heads whipped round and they started shouting. 'What the hell is this, what the hell, what the hell…'

Death spread her arms, an invitation to embrace and-as if mesmerised-Flora did the same. She was a mirror image. The guys managed to light a match and Death took a couple of steps into the mass of bodies. She bent down and stretched her hands out, making small plucking movements as if she was picking berries, gathering something.

The match sailed through the air and Flora screamed, 'Look out, get away!'

At the instant the match landed, Death lifted her head and met Flora's gaze. They were identical to one another. There was nothing forbidding or dark in her eyes, they were simply Flora's eyes. For a second they had time to look into each other, share their secrets. Then the petrol exploded into fire and a wall of flames bloomed between them.

The guys stood frozen, staring at the bonfire. The highest flames stretched up almost to the rooftops, but after a few seconds the fumes had burned away and the fire took hold of the fuel itself; a sputtering crackle as hospital gowns and flesh charred.

'Come on, let's get out of here!'

The young men watched the fire a moment longer, as if to imprint it on their memories for good, then turned and jogged away from the yard. The one called Markus, his torso now bare, paused for a moment, looked at Flora and raised his index finger. But if he was planning to say something, he decided against it and followed the others. After a couple of minutes their minds were out of her reach.

The flames died out. Flora knew from the stillness in her mind that Death was gone. She walked up to the bonfire-no more than isolated little flare-ups and a strong, cloying smoke now, billowing up into the sky. Maybe it was because the dead had so little flesh, so little fat, that the fire hadn't really caught.

Everything was black. The doubly dead lay curled up with their elbows against their sides and their fists sticking straight out, as if boxing into the dark. The stench that rose from the heap was nauseating and Flora pulled a corner of her jacket over her nose and mouth.

They were dancing a moment ago.

Her chest filled. Grief, as deep as an abyss. The opposite of that wondrous awe she had felt for the dance of the dead. Grief for all humankind and its paths upon the Earth. And the same thought that had gripped her then returned now, in a different light:

This is how it is.

Norra Brunn 21.00

David had let Sture talk him into this and was already regretting it. As expected, Leo had cancelled him. There was a message on his answering machine that he had not listened to. He got a beer and went to join the others in the kitchen. A condoling silence. The jokes and laughter from just a moment ago died away.

This was not the place for serious conversation. If you couldn't joke about it, it didn't get said. The comedians were all, as individuals, regular people with the same capacity for sadness and joy as everyone else, but as a group they were a flippant lot, unable to handle anything that could not be expressed as a one-liner.

Right before the show was about to start, Benny Melin came up to him and said, 'Look, I hope you don't… but I have some stuff about all this with the reliving.'

'No, no,' David said. 'Do your thing.'

'OK,' Benny said and his face grew lighter. 'It's such a big thing, it's hard not to get into it, you know.'

'I understand.'

David saw that Benny was on the verge of trying out some of his material on him so he raised his glass, wished him good luck and backed away. Benny grimaced faintly. You didn't wish someone good luck, you said break a leg or something and David knew it, and Benny knew that David knew. To say good luck was very like an insult.

David went to the bar. The staff nodded to him but no one came up to talk. David downed his beer and asked Leo to pour him another.

'How's it going?' Leo asked as he poured. 'It's going,'

David said. 'That's about it.'

Leo placed the beer on the counter. There was no point answering the question in more detail. Leo dried his hands on a towel and said, 'You'll have to give her my regards. When she's better.'

'I will.'

David felt that he was close to tears again. He turned away from the bar, toward the stage, and sank half the glass greedily. Better now. Now that he was left alone and no one had to pretend that they could understand any of it.

Death makes us strangers to one another.

The stage lights went up and via the ghost mike, Leo wished everyone a warm welcome and asked them to put their hands together for the evening's host, Benny Melin.

The place was full and the clapping and whistling that accompanied Benny up on stage gave David a twinge of longing to be back here, in this real world of unreality.

Benny gave a quick bow and the applause died down. He adjusted the mike stand-a little up, a little down-and the microphone ended up in the same place it had been from the start. He said, 'So, I don't know about you, but I'm a little worried about this thing with the Heath. A suburb full of dead people.'

The room was silent. Tense with anticipation. Everyone was worried about this thing with the Heath; maybe there was a new twist to the whole thing that they hadn't considered.

Benny wrinkled his forehead as if contemplating a difficult issue. 'And the one thing I'd really like to know…’

A rhetorical pause.

'Is the ice cream van going to want to drive there?'

Relieved laughter. Not funny enough for applause, but not far off.

Benoy went on, 'And if it's going to go there, will it sell anything?

'And if it sells something, then what?'

Benny waved his hand through the air, sketching a screen that everyone was supposed to look at.

'Just imagine. Hundreds of dead people lured from their homes by…' Benny started up a rendition of 'Greensleeves' and then quickly switched to being a zombie staggering along with outstretched arms. People giggled and when Benny groaned, 'Popsiiiic-eeeel, Popsiiiiceeeel…' the applause came.

David downed the last of his beer and slunk out behind the bar.

He couldn't handle this. Benny and all the rest of them had every right to joke about something as current as this, in fact they were obliged to, but he didn't have to listen. He walked quickly through the bar and out of the doors onto the street. A new round of applause fired off behind him and he walked away from the sound.