Daniel Åberg - Virus - Stockholm - S1

STATION CLOSED IN ACCORDANCE WITH POLICE DIRECTIVES. The sign on the locked gate is handwritten and sloppy, as if it was scribbled in a hurry.

“What the hell…” Amanda tugs angrily at the gate, just to show her irritation. She needs to get home. Her stomach is churning and the splitting pain in her head is getting worse.

She turns towards Rådmansgatan. That station can’t also be closed, surely? The shutdown must have something to do with the blue lights yesterday, something has happened to the building, a workplace accident. At the next crossing a bus passes and comes to a halt at a stop twenty metres on. It’s heading towards, the next subway station, but in the wrong direction. She doesn’t think, just jumps, wants to sit down and OW OW OW, the pain sends a wave of darkness across her vision as her feet hit the ground. She slips through the rear doors, protected from view by a father reversing a twin buggy out. She sits quickly in the nearest seat, hoping the driver hasn’t seen her. She has money in the emergency pocket in her bag, but what good will that do her when they don’t take cash and without a mobile she can’t buy an SMS ticket. She decides it’s their fault that she’s riding without paying.

The bus runs west along Odengatan. The outdoor café in Vasaparken is empty, the chairs are stacked and locked with a long chain. A homeless man lies crumpled under a table.

She gets off at the end of the park, continues on, down to the station. No cordon here, at last she is heading home. She sneaks through the barrier behind a stressed, middle-aged woman, the jaws almost clamping down on her back foot. Fast down the static escalator, her head thumping, stomach aching. Next train is in two minutes. She leans against a pillar, rests her forehead against the cool tiles and enjoys every soothing millisecond.

Then the clanking on the rails starts – oh how she loves the sound of an incoming train. The loudspeaker system dings a confirmation.

She finds an empty four at the back, the air is stuffy, but she just wants to be home, home, home. She can hold her breath to Södermalm if she has to. Then her stomach churns again. No, not here. What did she drink last night?

Before closing the doors, the driver makes an announcement.

“By order of the police, there are no trains stopping at Odenplan this morning. So please exit either here, or Rådmansgatan. No disembarking at Odenplan.”

And the doors close.

The train has hardly had the chance to gain momentum before the driver brakes again and rolls the train slowly towards Odenplan. Despite her befuddled head, Amanda pulls herself up from her slumped position, keen to see what’s going on.

She doesn’t understand at first, then she sees that the lights in the station have been extinguished. The glare from inside the carriage illuminates the platform momentarily as they pass. A supermarket bag on the floor by a bench: a couple of tins and a tomato have rolled out across the platform. Further ahead stands a lone suitcase. She watches the scene, turns her head so as not to lose sight of it. Why did they leave their things? Then she sees the tent.

In the middle of the station, on the other side of the platform, almost on the tracks. A white tent, about ten metres long. Inside, two beams of light have been directed towards the ground.

“What the…” she mumbles and gets to her feet, wobbles as a wave of dizziness washes over her. She steadies herself on the seat in front, her eyes still fixed on the tent until it disappears out of sight. The train rolls onwards and her gaze shifts momentarily back into the carriage. She wants to see if anyone else found the whole thing as peculiar as she did.

She stares out of the window. Someone in a yellow protective suit is sitting on a bench just before the end of the platform. As the train moves into the tunnel, she watches the person slowly place their elbows on their knees and rest their head in their glove-clad hands. Then the moment is over, she is staring at a grey, concrete wall swishing past as the train gathers speed.

She looks around. Didn’t anyone else see? There are only eight people in the carriage, but they either didn’t notice the person in the suit or were just strangely untouched. When the doors open she steps out and walks along the platform to the next carriage and they start rolling on towards Hötorget. Hardly anyone in here either, only two young guys talking loudly.

Amanda walks towards them, just as one says, “Well, I heard it. Whole damn force was out, and I live three streets away.” The other man shrugs, “I didn’t notice a thing. What time was that?” The first man replies with the same jerk of his shoulders, “Nine maybe, maybe before.” The second shakes his head, “Nope, didn’t notice a thing. What does the paper say about it?”, but at that moment, the first man looks up at the door, pats his friend on the shoulder and says, “this is us,” and tucks the Metro newspaper under his arm.

Hello? Who takes the Metro with them? Amanda sighs and walks on in the direction of the train, the carriage lurches and the driver brakes sharply. Amanda stumbles into an older man who is sitting down. They look at each other and she wonders if he recognises the pained look in her face the way she does his. What’s happened to the thermostat in here? It’s boiling.

“Sorry,” she says and the doors close again. The nausea returns, something is welling, it reaches her throat and the disgusting, but unfortunately all too familiar taste of the night before fills her mouth. She lunges for the door, come on, out of the tunnel. Light returns as the train surfaces and approaches the overland station, faster please, she can’t puke here, she’s too old, there’d be no youthful charm to it, especially not a Tuesday morning when people should be heading to work not be in the last stages of a walk of shame.

With a mouth full of vomit, she leans her head against the door, open, open, open, and then finally, the sound of doors jerking apart and she tumbles. As she is falling she looks up at the sign for the opposite platform, next train 4 mins. Enough time. She stumbles across and sits, supporting herself with her arms, and vomits over the edge onto the empty tracks. She is huffing, my God the pain in her stomach, it’s as if someone is gnawing at it from inside. She retches, dry this time, there’s nothing left, her mouth is like sandpaper and she is sweating like a fountain.

Finished, she pushes herself back away from the edge, ignoring the stares.

The speakers ping, a train is arriving. Amanda pulls herself up onto shaky legs, gathers her strength and steps on board. The red line. Finally.

Slussen passes as if in a fog. She hears the automated voice announce the next stop, and stands once again. With the help of the overhead bar, she makes her way through the carriage to the door. The gnawing inside her continues, a hint that it’s about to start again, come on, open, and then it does and she falls out, ah the cool breeze soft against her skin, but she doesn’t have time to enjoy it. She is losing her balance but she manages to stumble to the escalator . It doesn’t move at first, tears gather, she can’t walk up it, then the motor whirs and it starts moving, up, towards home.

Amanda sits down on the ribbed treads, holds her stomach and notices a dark spot on her top, just above her breasts. A sweat patch? What’s going on? Why does her stomach hurt this bad?

She tumbles off the escalator, her legs too slow, and her left slams into something OUCH ! She closes her eyes, trying to think away the fresh new pain pulsing in her leg, shuffles sideways so that no one has to step over her.