He studies the man’s face. He can’t be saved. There is nothing Filip can do for him, no matter how much he might want to.
But after closing the door behind him and following the others, he can’t shake the feeling that he is responsible for everything that happens to the man from now on: as if he personally has signed his death warrant.
The Baltic Charisma
The man who worked on board several years ago crosses the sun deck with the two children. The stairs to the promenade deck are too narrow for them to run side by side, so he lets go of their hands and walks down ahead of them, surveying the chaos. He tries to identify the infected, but it is impossible. Suddenly there is tumult behind him; he turns around, sees bodies knocking into one another at the top of the stairs, takes the children’s hands and they jump the last few steps. He pulls them close, starts walking towards the door leading into the ship.
‘Hold on tight to me,’ he says.
The hallways of the Charisma are full of running people. There are bodies everywhere, dead, dying, in the process of waking up. Some of the newborns have eaten far too much; they lie motionless while their bodies try to process all the blood they have consumed.
Hundreds upon hundreds of people have locked themselves in their cabins, where they sit listening to the sounds from the corridors outside. One of them is the man called Mårten. Alone in his cabin, he is sitting on the edge of the bed. His wife’s cries for help from the hallway still reverberate inside him. The curtains remain drawn. From time to time, he stands up, walks to the telephone and calls the cabin next door. He hears the phone ring through the wall, but no one picks up.
Calle
The glass door is just thirty feet away, and once they reach it, there are only a few more steps to the unmarked door leading to the staff quarters. Calle has bowed his head and is holding the children’s hands once more. He keeps an eye out for Vincent while being careful not to meet anyone’s gaze.
On the sun deck above their heads, there are loud screams. He catches a glimpse of something fluttering by on the other side of the railing and realises someone probably jumped. There’s more screaming behind them and he whispers, ‘Don’t look,’ as much for his benefit as theirs.
He can’t bear to see the screamers. He doesn’t even want to think of them as human. That would make it all far too real, far too obvious that it might as well have been him or the children; that they might be next. That it may be too late for Vincent.
Calle focuses on the light coming from inside the ship. Fifteen feet left. Ten.
When they reach the glass door they push into the warm glow. Calle spots bodies further down the stairs, a few of them moving. He reluctantly lets go of the girl and boy, pulls out Filip’s pass and swipes it, yanks the door open and ushers the children in ahead of him, terrified someone might grab him from behind at any moment. He pulls the door shut behind him, relief washing over him when the lock clicks.
The girl glances around the grey corridor. It is so calm in here, and so hard to imagine the bedlam out there.
Calle wonders whether he should have brought more people in here; if he might have been able to save someone else. But he can’t be sure who is infected.
There is no point dwelling on it now. At least, that is what he tries to tell himself.
He squats down and looks the children in the eye. ‘There are people here who can look after you. People who work on board.’
‘Like that security guard who beat you up?’ the girl says. ‘I bet the people he helped are real fucking grateful right now.’
‘Can’t you stay with us?’ the boy asks.
Calle takes a deep breath, trying to assume the role of resourceful adult. He shakes his head firmly. ‘I have someone I need to go look for.’
‘Who?’ the girl wants to know.
‘My boyfriend.’
If he even still is.
‘But we can go with you,’ the boy says. ‘We can help you. And you can help us find our parents.’
‘It’s better if you wait here. I can’t take you with me – you’ve seen what it’s like out there. We can call your cabins. Maybe they’re already there.’
‘But what if they’re not?’ the boy says desperately.
‘Then I promise to keep an eye out for them.’
They look at each other.
‘Let’s take it one step at a time,’ he adds.
Dan
He is standing on the afterdeck, gazing out across a sea of blackest ink under a bottomless tar sky. There are a thousand nuances of black, gradations Dan had never been able to see before.
There is a burning in his veins, in the capillaries of his fingertips; his heart muscles are seizing up. Too much blood. He’s unable to control himself. All this floating tissue has made his body heavy, sluggish; it’s soaked his brain, flooded his seizing heart, filled out his cock. He is prickling as if from a thousand needles.
Behind him, sighing and moaning is coming from inside Club Charisma. Someone keeps repeating, ‘I’m going to die, aren’t I? God help me, I’m really going to die.’
There are other sounds too: the first tottering steps of newborns, their anguished screams, hungry and afraid.
He turns around.
The deck is littered with bodies. One of the glass doors to the lower floor of the club is shattered. A woman is lying on her front, face down. The broken glass is red with her blood. She is still breathing. Dan steps over a few bodies and stops next to her, puts the tip of his shoe under her chin, lifts her head with his foot and studies her profile. There are pockmarks under her thick makeup. Her eye stares up at him, squinting against the rain as her breathing grows shallower and more rapid.
And then she dies. She simply stops breathing. Life is extinguished in her, without a sound. Her eye stares back at him, unseeing, as raindrops land on her eyeball.
It is time to go. Dan strides across more bodies. A hand reaches out to grab his trouser leg; it belongs to a man with the same chin-length hairstyle he used to have in the nineties. His mouth opens wide as he looks at Dan. Several of his teeth have already fallen out. His fingers squeeze Dan’s trouser leg. Dan kicks his foot to shake him off.
For a split-second, Dan is filled with intense unease. The drifts of bodies are a taste of what awaits the unsuspecting world. All this dead flesh, rubbed in lotions, painted bright colours, perfumed, dressed in cheap fabrics: soon, it will rise again.
There is no going back. He comprehends it fully for the first time, and it is like when a car hydroplanes or an airplane flies through severe turbulence: like free-falling, knowing there is nothing you can do.
And then it is gone as quickly as it came, leaving only the dull ache in his chest, the veins burning beneath his skin. But all that will pass.
Dan curses himself. He has been cowed by life for so long he is afraid of his new-found power, but he is a different Dan now: he is as good as invincible, the one who will stand strong while the rest of the world falls. And he is going to enjoy every second of it.
The wind drops abruptly when he steps into the lee of the superstructure on the portside promenade deck. The smell of blood is stronger when not dispersed by the wind. More bodies are strewn about here, all the way to the stairs that lead up to the next floor, where the promenade deck stretches on towards the prow. A woman is draped over the railing. Her spine has been bent backwards and snapped, turning her body into an L. She has just woken up and the tips of her court shoes are sliding back and forth across the slippery floor as she tries to find traction, to get back on her feet despite the incongruous shape of her body.
A tanned man in a neon-yellow football shirt is being chased down the stairs by a couple of newborns. He calls out for help, running straight for Dan as if he is some kind of white knight. His shouts turn into a stream of vowels when the newborns catch him, tugging at his arms as they fight over their prey. The man manages to break free and looks at Dan as if still expecting help. But there is no help to be had.
And suddenly the man has jumped over the railing, disappeared into the night. One of the newborns clumsily climbs after him, throwing himself off the edge, but the other one stays where he is, watching Dan as he walks away.
The glass door leading into the ship is wide open. Dan can hear the newborn following him. Inside, the air is thick, almost quivering with discharges from the still-warm bodies scattered about the entrance of Club Charisma.
He walks down the stairs. One of the newborns, an old man Dan recognises from the karaoke, is on all fours. The body he is straddling is still breathing, the khaki-clad legs twitching, but he is about to die any moment. The newborn looks up, blood pouring over his lips. He slowly turns his head as Dan walks past.
Dan descends to the eighth-floor hallway to find even more bodies littering the corridor in front of Starlight. When he turns around, the old man and the newborn from the promenade deck are standing there, eyeing him warily.
Euphoria stirs in him again. It is just as Adam told him it would be: he needs only to be for them to follow him. To the newborns, Adam and he are the indisputable alpha males. The Charisma is their Hamelin and they are the Pied Pipers.
He can hear the sounds of people trying not to make a sound: two people breathing as one in the casino. There’s the scent of old people, old flesh, sour sweat and urine.
One of them smells familiar from earlier tonight and he can’t resist the opportunity.
He peers into the gloom to see a pair of fat calves in practical walking shoes sticking out from under the blackjack table.
Dan walks across, squats down and pulls aside the croupier’s stool.
The old bat’s tight outfit is sopping with perspiration. The old man is no longer wearing his sweater-vest; his shirt is loose over his emaciated body. His rheumatic hand looks so pitiful in her meaty paw; she must surely have crushed every bone in it.
They squint at him in terror in the dim light, but he can see them perfectly clearly. ‘Well, well, if it isn’t Birgitta from Grycksbo,’ Dan says with a big smile. ‘This probably wasn’t the ruby wedding you were hoping for.’
It is a brilliant parody of the Dan Appelgren who was on stage earlier tonight. He can almost feel their relief.
‘Oh my dear God, Jesus Christ in heaven,’ Birgitta whispers in her sing-song dialect, and sobs. ‘We thought you were one of them.’
‘Shhh,’ Dan says, and holds his hand out. ‘Come on out and I’ll help you get to your cabin.’
Birgitta shakes her head. ‘They’re everywhere,’ she breathes.
‘Don’t worry,’ Dan says. ‘Everything is under control.’
The newborns are shifting excitedly in the corridor. Birgitta looks at her husband, who shakes his head at her.
‘Everything is going to be okay,’ Dan says. ‘Help is on its way and we’ve locked up all the sick people.’
‘But we heard some …’ Birgitta starts saying.
‘It’s finished. Come on now. You can’t just sit here.’
‘Are you really sure?’ the old man says, and his accent is, if possible, even thicker than Birgitta’s. ‘Is it really over?’
‘We have seen such things as you would never believe,’ Birgitta says with another sob.
‘Me too,’ Dan says. ‘Me too, but you’re safe now.’
It is all he can do not to burst out laughing. One of the newborns snaps his teeth: the piles of meat outside Starlight are moving, but Birgitta clearly can’t hear them. She has decided to trust Dan.
He waves for them to come out, smiling so big his swollen cheeks almost force his eyes closed. Birgitta takes his hand and he helps her up. When he puts his arms around her short, fat body Birgitta begins to cry, hiding her face in her hands and leaning into him, sobbing harshly behind her fingers.
The old man struggles out from under the table. Every part of his wizened body creaks and cracks when he gets to his feet, supporting himself on the table.
‘I don’t understand what happened,’ Birgitta says. ‘One moment we were having a wonderful time, and then everything was like a nightmare … We were so afraid …’
‘I understand,’ Dan says in his most purring voice. ‘It must have been awful. But at least you had each other.’
Birgitta nods, her sobs now racking her whole body.
‘I don’t know what I would have done if anything had happened to Birgitta,’ her husband says, wiping his eyes.
‘I understand,’ Dan says, ‘although I haven’t had the privilege experiencing that kind of great, everlasting love. Not everyone gets to these days.’
Dan hugs the squat body in his arms tighter.
Birgitta falters in the middle of a sob.
‘I suppose you’d do just about anything for Birgitta, wouldn’t you?’ Dan says, fixing the old man with his eyes.
‘Yes, of course.’
Birgitta squirms in Dan’s grasp; she’s grown warmer in his embrace and a new waft of pungent sweat emanates from her.
‘Yeah, people like you always say that, but would you really give up your life for her?’
‘Please let me go,’ Birgitta croaks.
‘I’m going to give you a chance to prove it now,’ Dan says to the old man. ‘If you really love her that much, I will let her go and kill you instead.’
‘You’re … hurting … me …’
He squeezes her harder, the last of the air rushing out of her lungs with a guttural groan. She is not going anywhere.
‘What do you say? What’s it going to be?’
‘Let her go,’ the old man says, fresh tears pouring down his cheeks.
‘I’m not hungry any more,’ Dan say, while Birgitta writhes in his arms. ‘It’s not going to be quick, and it’s going to hurt, more than you can imagine. But I’m giving you an out: all you have to do is say the word and I’ll have little Birgitta here instead.’
The old man hesitates.
Say it, Dan thinks to himself. Say it, you old twit, and make it the last thing Birgitta hears in this life.
The old man shakes his head. ‘Then take me,’ he says, ‘you blasted devil.’
Dan hates him for lying to himself, even now.
It is time to end this, but he doesn’t want her; he doesn’t even want the taste of her on his lips. He puts his hands around her neck and squeezes as hard as he can. It is warm and doughy and Birgitta’s eyes are big and round, bulging from their sockets. His face is going to be the last thing she sees.
The old man’s feeble hands pound against Dan’s head, a hail of punches he can hardly feel, like a swarm of tiny birds. Dan takes no notice of them. This is about him and Birgitta. He lays her down on the green felt of the blackjack table. It’s now: the moment when she realises it is all over, that she is going to die, and that it is because of him. He makes sure he commits every movement of her face to memory, knowing that he is going to enjoy reminiscing about it time and again.
He lets the newborn from the promenade deck take care of Birgitta’s husband. It is over quickly.
When he comes back out, more newborns get to their feet in the hallway and follow him: his hungry army, his pliable children. His subjects.
Adam is waiting for him outside Charisma Buffet. Looking unbearably smug, he gestures towards the throng of newborns following him. A pang of irritation needles Dan. Granted, everything may have started with Adam, but he would never have done this well without Dan, he admitted as much himself. Adam wouldn’t have known how to cut the Charisma off from the rest of the world, to make sure they remain undisturbed. He wouldn’t have known what they have to do next.
‘You’ve overeaten,’ Adam says. ‘I warned you. You’re going to make yourself sick.’
Dan can sense the two groups of newborns watching them. He wonders how much they comprehend.
Does he need Adam? Does he have more to learn? It doesn’t feel like it; it feels like he is never going to need anyone ever again.
‘Don’t worry about me,’ he says, ‘but I appreciate y
our concern.’
‘My concern is for the plan. Can you do it on your own?’
‘Why wouldn’t I be able to?’
‘Good then,’ Adam says. ‘Meanwhile, I will attempt to locate Mother.’
‘You do that.’
You little mama’s boy. Not as easy to cut the apron strings as you thought, is it?
He pulls out his pass, but his hand stops in mid-air above the reader next to the door to the staff quarters. A scent has reached him. He can’t believe how familiar it is. Of course that’s what she smells like. He just hadn’t been able to tell before.
A contraction in his chest pushes more blood out into his body, making his skin flush. He looks back at Adam. ‘There’s just one thing I have to do first.’
The boy’s smooth forehead furrows. ‘What?’
Never you fucking mind. He doesn’t need to explain himself to this brat. If they are going to work together, he is not going to assume a subordinate role from the start. If you agree to be fucked up the arse once, you have to keep putting up with it again and again.
‘You go and look for your mummy,’ he says, putting his pass back into his pocket.
He walks to the men’s room and calmly pushes open the swinging door. The synthetic smells almost overpower him: cleaner and cheap soap and the stink of the citrus urinal cakes. But the smell of her is strong too.
The soles of his shoes slap hard against the floor; he knows she can hear them.
The newborns file in behind him, eagerly sniffing the air. Several of them haven’t eaten yet; there’s not a lot of food left in the public spaces. Most people who have avoided being bitten have escaped to their cabins. But Dan will lead them to food, and in here is a little appetiser to start.
He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirrors above the sinks. The bloated blood vessels in his eyes have burst, turning them so red they look like lesions in his face.
He stops at the flimsy door of one of the stalls, where he can hear her trying to hold her breath. She knows she is trapped in there, helpless. Her smell is becoming more like a hunted animal’s with every heartbeat.
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