‘Please,’ Marianne says.
‘It certainly looks like hell.’
‘Come and sit down,’ Vincent says. ‘You’ll drive yourself crazy, watching that—’
‘I think I’ll go crazy no matter what I do.’
Vincent nods, even though Madde can’t see him. ‘Maybe you should step away from there regardless. If one of them spots you, you might attract them.’
The sleeves of Marianne’s jumper feel like they’re shrinking, squeezing her so tightly they cut off her circulation. The hairs on the back of her neck are standing on end.
‘I don’t think so,’ Madde says. ‘I’d say they’re keeping themselves pretty busy.’
‘Come away from there, anyway,’ Marianne snaps.
Vincent stands up and joins Madde by the window. He scans the mayhem down there, looking for his friend.
What would he do if he saw him? Would he leave them? Yes, of course.
‘Do you think they … do you think they have any idea what they’re doing?’ Madde says, and looks at him. ‘Because Zandra, she was like … It was like no one was … inside.’
‘They must be acting on some kind of instinct,’ Vincent replies.
Madde sniffs. ‘I wonder why Zandra came back to our cabin,’ she says. ‘Why she wanted me. If it was because she likes me … or because she hated me?’
‘Why would she hate you? I thought you were friends.’
‘But we fought the last time I saw her. It was my fault. I was an idiot …’ And then she bursts into tears. The glitter on her back twinkles like stars under the black see-through fabric as her body heaves with each sob.
Marianne is close to tears herself. She can tell from looking at them how much it hurts to lose a dear friend, to be worried about someone you love. And yet she is jealous of their pain.
That is a kind of loss too: being forced to realise just how lonely you really are. Whatever fantasies she weaved about Göran, they were just fantasies. She rubs her moist palms against her skirt and wonders if she should write a letter to her children and leave it here, in the suite. Something someone might find when it is all done, in case she doesn’t make it. But she rejects the idea; that would feel like giving up. And she wouldn’t know what to write anyway.
Marianne gets up from the sofa, goes to Madde and puts her arms around her.
The embrace is accepted without protest. Madde weeps and wails into her sweaty jumper.
‘There, there,’ Marianne says, and pulls her closer, studiously avoiding looking out of the window. ‘There, there now.’
‘I just want to go home,’ Madde says.
‘Me too,’ she replies. ‘And I hate my flat.’
Vincent snorts; she isn’t sure whether he is laughing or crying, or if it matters.
Dan
He leans against the doorpost. He is not feeling good. Not good at all. His veins are vibrating. Jenny’s blood came back up as soon as he managed to swallow it. If only there was more time, then he would have saved her for later and relished the anticipation.
But the newborns behind him are still hungry. They’re desperate now they have smelled blood up close.
He looks around the mess: this paltry room full of the paltry people working here, all clinging to each other, screaming, trying to press themselves against the back wall, as if that will save them. The room is steaming with their smells. This is better than all the applause, all the fucks in the world, even all the drugs he has ever tried. He wishes he could kill them, every single one of them, personally. But watching is the next best thing.
If only he wasn’t feeling so sick.
His eyes are drawn to one of the losers in Jenny’s band. They laughed at him that time, even though he has had more and better pussy than they ever will. And that pompous Filip from Starlight, acting like some big-man protector? He’d probably hoped to stick it to her himself.
You go ahead. Just go and have at her. Scrape what’s left off the bathroom floor.
Next to Filip is a bearded bloke with two kids. Dan recognises the Asian boy who snapped him with his phone. The girl is maybe a few years older, but it’s hard to tell.
He sniffs and realises it was her trail he was following through the hallways from Alexandra’s cabin: the first smell he experienced with his new senses.
She’d be a real looker if she were allowed to grow up. You can already sense it behind the makeup on her childish face. He hopes she wakes up again after. She would grow older, but that tight little body wouldn’t change. He could permit himself to do her in a couple of years.
‘Don’t do this, I beg of you.’
The voice speaking is soft and melodic, so old-fashioned it is almost eerie: an echo from a bygone era. She speaks just like Adam. He knows instantly who she is.
‘The consequences of this are so much greater than you can fathom,’ she says, and steps out into the room. She looks like Adam too, despite her dark hair.
Dan leaves the doorway, straightening up to conceal how much pain he is in. ‘I understand just fine,’ he says. ‘That’s why I’m doing it.’
She shakes her head. ‘At least spare the ones who are here. You already got what you want.’
Dan has to laugh. He hasn’t got what he wants yet. He has saved the best for last. The cherry on top. ‘How noble of you to try to help them,’ he says, ‘but do you really think any of them would help you if they knew what you are?’
Adam’s mother glances around; he can see that he has thrown her off balance. It’s so easy. He takes a step towards her, sniffing dramatically, theatrically, so the wide-eyed audience is sure to understand.
‘You’ve fed since you came aboard. What do you think they would say about that?’
‘And what do you think my son is going to do to you once he no longer has any use for you?’ she hits back at him.
‘We have far-reaching plans, love,’ Dan says.
‘He has longed for his freedom for so long. Do you really think he will ever submit to anyone again, once he gains it?’
‘Why are you fighting this?’ he says. ‘Why are you torturing yourself?’
‘I can resist. I am not an animal.’
Dan looks at her. He would like nothing better than to silence her for ever. Adam would never know. But he is too weak right now.
It doesn’t matter, he tells himself. She can’t stop him either. There is just one of her, and he has an entire army.
He withdraws and takes up position next to the doorway.
The newborns pour into the mess.
The first one in is a skinny guy with blond dreads. Dan can smell his greasy scalp and something pungently cheese-like when he rushes into the room and grabs the girl who works in the casino. The first gush of blood from her throat lands on the floor but the rest spurts straight into the dreadlocked guy’s mouth as his lips close around the wound.
Albin
Time seems to stop; everything is moving far too slowly. Albin stares at the feet rushing into the room: feet in tube socks, high-heeled shoes clicking loudly, naked feet with neon toenails, a pair of boots. A trainer slips in a pool of blood. The woman lying under the man with dreadlocks has turned waxy and pale. She is almost out of blood.
Monsters exist, and they are here now. There is nowhere to run.
A sweet, sickly stench fills the room. There’s so much screaming. So many sounds like snapping scissors, like scissors cutting through meat. There’s the clatter of tables and chairs being upended or thrown aside, bones breaking, blood splattering the floor and walls, even the ceiling, painting the room red. The old security officer who was talking before is dragging himself across the floor, leaving a wet trail. And in the middle of the room is the woman who was just talking to Dan Appelgren.
Dan is standing by the door, watching everything with his red eyes, an insane smile on his puffy face.
Lo is pulling at Albin; her mouth is moving, saying something about getting out of here. Doesn’t she understand?
‘There’s no point,’ he says. ‘We can’t get out of here.’
She blinks. ‘Stop it, Abbe. You can’t give up now.’
He is just about to answer when his feet leave the floor and suddenly they are kicking at nothing but air. Hard fingers squeeze his ribs like a vice. He can smell blood and lipstick and catches a glimpse of shiny pink lips, dazzlingly white teeth, like uneven rows of bone fragments, a brightly coloured scarf on the woman’s head. She presses her mouth to his neck; he feels her tongue against his skin and screams.
The guy with the blond dreadlocks lunges at Calle just as he reaches out for Albin.
Lo’s scream cuts through all the others, Letmegoletmegoihavetohelphim!
Calle
Teeth: they are all he can see, snapping against each other millimetres from his face. A curtain of blood-smeared dreadlocks hangs at the edge of his vision. The body on top of his is so emaciated he can feel the bones through the jacket as he strains to keep the man away from him.
Calle manages to roll them both onto their sides. He climbs on top of the man, gets a hand around his throat and squeezes, but the man doesn’t react. His teeth continue to snap and the muscles of his neck writhe like snakes under his skin. Panic makes Calle grab a fistful of dreadlocks and slam the man’s head into the floor; he does it again and again, losing count. He can’t stop. The man doesn’t so much as blink, even though blood is pooling under his head.
When Calle lifts his head up again, a grey, glistening mass floats out onto the floor and the man’s eyes roll back. His teeth snap one final time and stop moving. Calle lets go, staring at the bloody lumps that used to contain thoughts, memories, opinions.
Trembling, he gets to his feet, retching as his stomach contracts painfully, but nothing comes up. He searches for Albin and spots Filip, who has his hands full holding Lo back. She is screaming Albin’s name; Calle looks to where she is trying to go.
The woman with the scarf around her head is on the floor. The yellow-handled breadknife is sticking out of her throat and blood is pouring out of her, more blood than there should be room for in a human body.
Like a mosquito right after it feeds.
Her mouth is opening and closing. Maybe she is trying to scream. She snatches at the knife, but her hand keeps sliding off the bloody handle; it is stuck
between the vertebrae? Oh my God, between the vertebrae?
There is a woman standing behind her, the woman in black who talked to Dan Appelgren. She is carrying Albin under her arm. Her hand is missing a couple of fingers. She walks towards them. Calle notices that the other infected keep well clear of her, watching her with some kind of reverence.
‘Hurry,’ she says, ‘before she comes after the boy again.’
Calle glances down at the floor behind her. The woman with the scarf is sitting up and staring wildly at Albin.
That is impossible.
But Calle doesn’t hesitate. ‘Come on,’ he says, and looks at Filip.
Lo shakes her head. ‘She’s one of them,’ she objects.
‘I just saved his life,’ the woman says, and sets Albin down in front of Calle. ‘You will have to arm yourselves if you want to protect the children. The heart or the brain must be destroyed.’
He nods mutely, and is suddenly aware that the mayhem in the mess is dying down. There are bodies everywhere.
The bloody knife is still lodged in the woman’s throat, but she has managed to grab hold of the handle now. There is a smacking sound when the blade slides out of her flesh.
You will have to arm yourselves.
‘We have to go to the galley,’ he says.
The woman walks to the doorway, where there is no longer any sign of Dan Appelgren. Calle takes Albin by the hand, and after making sure Filip and Lo are with them, follows her. A couple of the infected creep closer, but they hold back because of the woman.
They’re afraid of her. They think we belong to her. Maybe they’re right.
Calle pulls Albin closer as he hears Filip call out to Marisol.
‘Wait for us!’ Mika’s familiar voice shouts somewhere behind them.
They step out into the hallway. No Dan Appelgren here either, but yet more dead bodies crowd the floor outside the common room. Calle tries not to look as he steps over one of them; he doesn’t want to know if they are friends of his.
When the woman pushes open the door to the stairwell Calle hears screaming from the lower floors.
‘Hurry,’ the woman urges.
She looks sad, as if she wants to ask for forgiveness, even though she just saved their lives. He wishes he knew why she is helping them, whoever she is, but this is not the time to ask. He throws one last glance down the corridor. Antti and Mika are running towards them from the mess. Behind them are a couple of the infected.
‘Let’s take the lift,’ Filip says in Calle’s ear. ‘It goes straight down to the galley.’
Calle looks at the orange steel doors about thirty feet away in the stairwell and nods.
He squeezes Albin’s hand harder and starts to run. He trips right by the stairs but manages to recover and picks up speed again. Hearing Marisol and Filip and Lo behind him, he throws himself against the lift and jabs frantically at the button. It lights up and the heavy machinery slowly grinds into action. The children are screaming and clinging to each other. He pushes the button again, even though he knows it makes no difference, simply because he has to do something.
Antti pushes past the dark-haired woman, almost knocking her down. Mika is just a few steps behind.
‘Hurry up!’ Filip yells. ‘Hurry the fuck up!’
Calle is suddenly aware that the screaming downstairs has stopped. Now he can hear footsteps: slow, but much too close. Ascending.
He looks at the woman again. She is still in the doorway. She draws her lips back and Calle feels like freezing water has just rushed through him when he sees her yellowed teeth. They don’t belong in her youthful face.
The lift door rattles open and Calle whips around, afraid there might be infected waiting inside, ready to jump him— But the lift is empty.
He places himself in the way to keep it from closing while Marisol and Filip usher the children to the back of the lift.
Two of the infected are coming up the stairs. Three of them. No, five. Antti has reached full velocity and comes barrelling into the lift, holding his hands up in front of him to avoid crashing head-first into the back wall.
Mika has a few more yards to cover. Why is he so slow? He’s almost as slow as the infected coming up the stairs.
‘Hurry!’ Calle shouts, stabbing at the button for the eighth floor. Lo is jumping up and down, making the lift rock.
‘What do you think I’m doing?’ Mika replies, panting.
‘Go!’ the woman shouts. ‘Go without him!’
But Mika finally makes it into the lift and Calle backs inside. The doors are motionless for a second, two seconds; he screams with frustration before they finally start sliding closed.
He goes to stand with the others by the back wall.
The doors are almost completely shut when a freckled arm with thick gold bracelets pushes through the crack. The fingers are curled like talons, clawing at the air, trying to reach them. A gaping face is pressed into the opening. The doors shudder and start opening again. The children scream shrilly.
There’s a swift movement outside the lift, a glimpse of the baggy black cardigan. The face disappears from the crack between the doors. Anguished noises come from outside and Filip pushes the button again.
Calle’s pulse roars in his ears as he stares at the doors sliding shut.
It is only when they are firmly closed and the lift starts moving downwards that he realises he has been holding his breath.
Madde
Madde leaves the window. She can’t bear to watch any more of what is happening down on the bow deck.
In fact, she is barely able to stay awake. She has cried so much she feels beyond exhausted: steamrollered.
She slumps heavily on the sofa, wanting to lie down flat on the soft cushions and never get up again.
What if Zandra infected me somehow? Is that why I’m so tired?
Thinking about it makes her want to crawl out of her own skin.
Marianne glances at her as if she can read her mind.
What would they do if they thought I was sick? They’d throw me out of here. She stares fixedly at the bowl of jelly hearts. If she dies on this fucking ship, what has she really accomplished? What has she done that means anything to anybody? Her parents are going to miss her, of course. And her brother. But they don’t know her. Not the real her.
No one knew her better than Zandra. But Zandra is gone now.
Her tear ducts ache, but no more tears come. Maybe she has run out. Madde snorts up some snot and wipes under her nose with her index finger. She looks at the dining table. There are mirrors on the ceiling above it. She gets the feeling there have been more carnal feasts than food on that table.
She looks at the streamers hanging from the banister. The rose petals on the stairs. Between the balusters on the first-floor landing she can see a big banner above the bed: CONGRATULATIONS.
And she suddenly gets how everything is connected and doesn’t know whether to be grossed out or impressed. She looks at the old lady again. She must be rich, and Vincent must be very desperate.
She glances up at the mirrors on the ceiling again. ‘Are you guys getting married or something?’ she asks.
‘No,’ the old lady replies quickly, ‘no, not at all.’
‘Then what are you celebrating?’ Madde says.
‘Long story,’ the guy says, and turns away from the window.
His eyes look darker from a distance. He is actually incredibly fit. Zandra would have loved him.
Zandra.
‘Well, it’s not like we have someplace to be,’ Madde says. ‘I wouldn’t mind thinking about something else.’
Vincent takes a seat in the armchair across from her. ‘I was proposed to,’ he says, ‘by my boyfriend.’
Madde is relieved not to have to imagine Marianne and Vincent getting it on. ‘Where is he?’
Blood Cruise Page 33