John Lindqvist - Handling The Undead

© 2008

Sveavagen 13 August 22.49

'Salud, comandante.'

Henning held up the box of Gato Negro and toasted the metal plaque in the sidewalk. A single withered rose lay on the spot where Prime Minister Olaf Palme had been gunned down sixteen years earlier. Henning crouched down and ran his finger over the raised inscription.

'Damn it,' he said. 'It's all going to hell, Olaf. Down, down and further down.'

His head was killing him, and it wasn't the wine. The people walking by on Sveavagen were staring into the ground too; some had their hands pressed against their temples.

Earlier in the evening it had simply felt like an approaching thunderstorm, but the electric tension in the air had gradually, imperceptibly, become more intense until it was now all but unbearable. Not a cloud in the _ht sky, though; no distant rumble, no hope of release. The invisible field of electricity could not be touched, but it was there; everyone could feel it.

It was like a blackout in reverse. Since around nine o'clock, no lamps could be switched off, no electrical appliances powered down. If you tried to pull out the plug there was an alarming crackling sound and sparks flew between the outlet and the plug, preventing the circuit from being broken.

And the field was still increasing in strength.

Henning felt as though there was an electric fence around his head, torturing him, pulsing with shocks of pure pain.

An ambulance went by with sirens blaring, either because it was on a dispatch or simply because no one could turn them off. A couple of parked cars were idling on the spot.

Salud, coman dante.

Henning raised the wine cask to face level, tilted his head back and opened the tap. A stream of wine hit his chin and spilled down over his throat before he managed to divert it into his mouth. He closed his eyes, drinking deeply while the spilled wine trickled down over his chest, mingled with his sweat, and continued on.

The heat. God almighty, the heat.

For several weeks all the weather charts had shown enormous happy suns plastered across the entire country. The pavement and buildings steamed with heat accumulated during the day and even now, at almost eleven o'clock, the temperature was stuck around thirty degrees.

Henning nodded goodbye to the Prime Minister and traced his assassin's steps toward Tunnelgatan. The handle of the wine cask had broken when he lifted it out through an open car window and he had to carry it under his arm. His head felt larger than usual, swollen. He massaged his forehead with his fingers.

His head probably still appeared normal from the outside but his fingers, they'd definitely swelled up from the heat and the wine.

This damned weather. It's not natural.

Henning steadied himself against the railing, walking slowly up the steps cut into the steep footpath. Every unsteady step rang through his throbbing skull. The windows on both sides were open, brightly lit, music streaming from some. Henning longed for darkness: darkness and silence. He wanted to keep drinking until he managed to shut down.

At the top of the stairs he rested for a couple of seconds. The situation was deteriorating. Impossible to say if he was the one getting worse or if the field was growing stronger. It wasn't pulsating now; now it was a constant burning pain, squeezing him relentlessly.

And it wasn't just him.

Not far from him there was a car parked at an angle to the side- walk. The engine idling, the driver's side door open and the stereo playing 'Living Doll' at full blast. Next to the car, the driver was crouched in the middle of the street, his hands pressed against his head.

Henning screwed his eyes shut and opened them again. Was he imagining things or wad the light from the apartments around him getting brighter?

Something. Is about to. Happen.

Carefully, one step at a time, he made his way across Dobelnsgatan; reached the shadow of the chestnut trees in the Johannes cemetery, but there he collapsed. Couldn't go on. Everything was buzzing now; it sounded like a swarm of bees in the crown of the tree above his head. The field was stronger, his head was compressed as if far under water and through the open windows he could hear people scream.

This is it. I'm dying.

The pain in his head was beyond reason. Hard to believe such a little cavity could pack so much pain. Any second now his head was going to cave in. The light from the windows was stronger, the shadows of the leaves cast a psychedelic pattern over his body. Henning turned his face to the sky, opened his eyes wide and waited for the bang, the explosion.

Ping.

It was gone.

Like throwing a switch. Gone.

The headache vanished; the bee swarm stopped abruptly.

Everything went back to normal. Henning tried to open his mouth to let out a sound, an expression of gratitude perhaps, but his jaws were locked, cramped shut. His muscles ached from having been tensed for so long.

Silence. Darkness. And something fell from the sky. Henning saw it the moment before it landed next to his head, something small, an insect. Henning breathed in and out through his nose, savouring the dry smell of earth. The back of his head was resting on something hard and cool. He turned his head in order to cool his cheek as well.

He was lying on a block of marble. He felt something irregular under his cheek. Letters. He lifted his head and read what was written there.

CARL

December 1918 -18 July 1987

GRETA

16 September 1925 -16 June 2002

There were more names further up. A family grave. Greta had been married to Carl, but she'd been widowed these past fifteen years. Well, well. Henning imagined her as a small grey-haired woman, wrestling her walking frame through the door of a grand apartment. Pictured the inheritance wrangle that would have broken out a few weeks ago.

Something was moving on the face of the marble and Henning squinted at it. A caterpillar. A spotless white grub, about as big as a cigarette filter. It looked troubled, writhing on the black marble and Henning felt sorry for it, poked it with his finger to flick it onto the grass. But the caterpillar didn't budge.

What the hell…

Henning brought his face up close next to the caterpillar, poked it again. It might as well have been cemented to the stone. Henning extracted a lighter from his pocket, and flicked it on for a better look.

The caterpillar was shrinking. Henning moved so close that his nose almost brushed the caterpillar; the lighter singed a few hairs. No. The caterpillar was not shrinking. It was just that less and less of it was visible, because it was drilling down into the stone.

Naaah…

Henning rapped his knuckles against the stone. It was definitely stone all right. Smooth, expensive marble. He laughed and spoke out loud, 'No, come on. Come on, caterpillar… '

It was almost completely gone now. Only one last little white knob. It waved at Henning, sank down into the stone as he watched and was gone. Henning felt with his finger where it had been. There was no hole, no loose fragments where the caterpillar had dug through. It had sunk down and now it was gone.

Henning patted the stone with the flat of his hand, said, 'Well done, little feller. Good work.' Then he took his wine and moved up toward the chapel in order to sit on the steps and drink.

He was the only one who saw it.