Blood Cruise

by Mats Strandberg

  ‘Cilla?’ he calls, and takes a swig from the bottle. ‘Are you in here?’

  He enters, the soles of his shoes squeaking softly against the plastic. He passes the doors to the changing rooms, the sauna, glassed-in treatment rooms with massage benches. Now he can make out the bow deck on the other side of the windows. There are piles of bodies. A man in a cornflower-blue windbreaker is dragging himself forward on his elbows.

  Mårten takes another swig. ‘Cilla?’ he calls. ‘Where are you?’

  His intoxicated voice echoes back at him. He has never felt more alone.

  Water sloshes over the edge of the pool and he notices that it is tinged faintly pink. He forces himself to take a step closer so he can see down into the water. There are red streaks in it, but there is no one in the tub.

  ‘Cilla?’

  He hears something wet moving, smacking against the floor.

  Mummy. She’s here now.

  A hand gropes its way into the air on the other side of the hot tub, grabs hold of the edge, and Cilla’s profile appears, reflected in and distorted by the water. She turns her head, looking straight at him with empty eyes. Her neck crunches loudly. Water drips from her short hair into her face. She leans against the edge of the tub and pulls herself onto her feet in front of the windows. Her wet jumper clings to her delicate frame. He can’t stop staring at her legs, which are clearly visible through her dripping skirt. They are much too thin, after being unused for so long. Her thighs don’t touch. Her knees look like enormous growths.

  Her skirt squelches when she takes a step towards him. She stumbles, but doesn’t fall. She takes another step.

  How?

  Her face has contracted into a grimace of agony he recognises; he’s seen it before. She always tries to hide it, always has to act so bloody stoic, but this time she doesn’t even seem aware of it: she doesn’t seem to be aware of anything, except him.

  What is going on behind those vacant eyes?

  ‘Cilla?’ he says.

  Another step. Her teeth snap together with a sound like scissors.

  Mårten drops his bottle. It bounces against the non-slip carpet, clattering loudly as it rolls over the edge and away across the tiled floor.

  Cilla tilts her head, looking at it uncomprehendingly.

  The announcement said bites are contagious.

  She is infected – sick – but she can walk. How is that possible? Nothing is how it should be, and yet it feels like his whole life has led up to this moment.

  Cilla reaches out for him, and he grabs her skinny arms and shakes her. Her head wobbles back and forth, her neck creaks and clicks. He hears himself scream at the top of his lungs as he shoves her as hard as he can. Cilla totters backwards, falls and almost smacks the back of her head against the edge of the pool.

  Mårten’s body feels light, as if he has thrown off a burden he has carried all his life. He is getting out of here. He is going to find Abbe up by the life rafts.

  He is going to have Abbe to himself.

  Mårten runs back towards the glass-brick wall and hears slop, slop behind him as Cilla gets back up. He tears open the door and steps out into the reception area.

  The gloomy room is teeming with them. The broken glass crunches when they start moving towards him. He can hear the snapping of their teeth. More are filing in from the hallway. There is nowhere to go.

  Slop, slop. The lights have gone out on the wheelchair Cilla no longer needs.

  She wraps her arms around his neck and presses herself against him, making the back of his T-shirt cold and wet. Her lips brush against the skin of his neck. He can feel the teeth underneath.

  Albin

  The sea is grey and choppy; it looks like it’s made of stone. The first life rafts have been lowered into the water and bob peacefully on the surface.

  Linda is still crying, squeezing him and Lo tightly, and yet they are barely touching because their life vests are in the way.

  ‘Come on, Abbe,’ Linda says, and stands up. ‘It’s time.’

  He shakes his head. A raft is dangling from the davit in front of them and people are already seated under its orange dome. Some of them are trying to use their phones, but no one can get reception. Marisol asks everyone climbing up if they have been bitten, but how is she supposed to know if they are lying?

  ‘Abbe,’ Lo says, ‘we have to go.’

  It is all far too similar to the last time she tried to persuade him to get on a raft. It hardens his resolve and he stubbornly shakes his head. ‘Not without my mum,’ he says, ‘and not without Calle.’

  Calle sinks down onto his haunches next to him and turns him around so they are facing each other. ‘I’m going to wait here to see if my boyfriend is coming. Just a little while longer. You have to get on this raft now.’

  ‘And then what?’ Albin says. ‘What happens after that?’

  ‘If they don’t find Cilla and Mårten by tonight, you will come with us to Eskilstuna,’ Linda says, ‘and we’ll wait to hear from them together.’

  ‘What if we don’t hear from them?’

  ‘Then you will stay with us,’ Linda says. ‘We’re going to get through this, you know. Please, Abbe, let’s go now.’

  Abbe presses his lips shut. He notices Calle and Linda exchanging a look, then Calle calls out to Marisol that she can fill the last spots on the life raft and launch it; they’ll take the next one.

  A red-haired old lady in a striped jumper comes up to them. Albin peers up at her. She looks nice, but she is nervous.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says, ‘but is your name Calle?’

  ‘Yes?’ Calle says, and stands up.

  ‘I saw your ring,’ the old lady says. ‘I … I knew it was you.’

  Something white moves at the edge of Albin’s vision; when he turns to look, he realises it is a seagull. It flaps its wings, opens its beak to let out a screech.

  If the gull is here, they can’t be far from Finland. At least, he thinks that is right. He has never thought about how beautiful they are: the curved beak, so perfect for catching prey; the pretty lines formed by the darker feathers on its wings.

  ‘Can I tell you something?’ he says to Lo. ‘In the olden days, they thought seagulls were the souls of dead sailors.’

  The gull lands on the railing right next to him, looks straight at him and tilts its head. The wind ruffles its feathers. It opens its beak again.

  Calle has started crying behind him, and Albin understands that it is about the man Calle has been looking for all along.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ the old lady tells him, ‘I’m so very, very sorry.’

  Albin reaches out to touch the gull; it emits a final screech and flies off.

  ‘I’m going to tell you everything,’ the old lady says to Calle, ‘as soon as we’re off this ship.’

  Albin turns to Calle.

  The old lady is holding his hands and she is crying too. ‘He loved you very much,’ she says.

  Albin wants to tell them that he knows who that seagull must have been, but Calle wouldn’t understand right now. He will have to tell him some other time.

  It is time to get off the ship.

  The Baltic Charisma

  The dark-haired woman is sitting on the petrol-soaked floor, holding her son’s body close. He almost disappears in her arms. He feels so small; he feels like her little boy again. If she closes her eyes and tries to ignore the smells, she can almost imagine that they are back at the turn of the last century, that he has fallen asleep in her arms. Eternal sleep. She reluctantly opens her eyes and looks at the newborns through the shimmering fumes. She pulls the gold lighter out of her cardigan pocket. It clicks loudly when she opens it.

  Time is short now, but she is scared of what she has to do, much more scared than she had expected. She tries to tell herself that it doesn’t matter if a few people have already made it off the ship, as long as they are not infected, that it doesn’t matter that they are bringing videos and photographs with them. The
only thing the world will see is a lot of people acting incomprehensibly and violently; no one will believe the truth, not if the bodies that have turned are gone.

  Humans are so skilled at finding explanations that fit their world view. They have done so before, and they will do it again, if she succeeds in her task. She can’t know for sure what will happen once she ignites the petrol. She can only hope.

  The woman hugs the boy tighter still and sniffs the nape of his neck, but he smells only of death. She tries to conjure the good memories: cold nights in Russia before the Great War; the fifties, all those beautiful, impoverished teenagers travelling to the Riviera to chase forbidden adventures; the fireworks marking the new millennium, when she remembered the dawn of a different century. She kisses her son’s chubby cheek. Will they meet again on the other side? The Spiritists were convinced there is a life after this one, but she and her son have already crossed death’s border once. What will be left after they pass it again?

  The tiny wheel on the lighter spins under her thumb, sparks crackle and the flame burns bright and clear. She closes her eyes again, throws the lighter down, hears the fire whisper to life. Feels the heat of it. The newborns scream in panic, but she is not letting go of her son. The fire will melt them into one. It caresses her petrol-soaked clothes, devours her hair in one breath and spreads across her skin. The pain is unbearable, but it will soon be over. The smell of charred flesh is spreading. The voices of the newborns are growing shriller, louder, but her mouth remains closed. Her eyes stay shut.

  The fire reaches a lorry with Finnish plates. Its driver was one of Adam’s first victims. In the trailer are empty acetylene canisters the hauliers never declared. Olli didn’t know, and no one checked his cargo before he rolled aboard.

  The explosion shakes the Baltic Charisma, can be felt in walls and floors and ceilings. It rips a hole in the poorly maintained hull. The gash extends down below the waterline. The sea can finally make its way in.

  The fire spreads through the car deck, melting plastic, shattering windows. It consumes the curtains of a coach; it burns in the wide-open mouths of the newborns. The water from the sprinkler system is powerless against this inferno. The flames spread towards undamaged fuel tanks, the LPG canisters in the dark-haired woman’s caravan. The smoke filling the car deck is thick and acrid.

  The heat makes the woman’s skin crack; the flesh underneath bubbles and sizzles. The rubber soles of her son’s shoes have melted.

  For a moment after the explosion the sun deck went absolutely quiet. Now everyone is screaming in terror.

  The ship is taking on ever more water. It floods deck two, lifting the remains of Vincent’s body off the floor.

  Having heard and felt the explosion, people flee their cabins, fighting to reach the stairs, trying to keep their balance as the floor starts tilting almost imperceptibly under their feet. The bottles in the bar at Charisma Starlight slide off their shelves. The microphone stand topples off the edge of the stage. Glasses slip from the tables. In the tax-free shop, bottles of perfume and bags of candy fall from the shelves.

  The more the Charisma lists, the more water she takes on, and the more water she takes on, the more she lists.

  People are staggering, bracing themselves against the walls as best they can. Bodies roll across the carpets, across the outer decks and plunge into the water. People cling to the brass banisters of the staircases; some fall and others are knocked down by panicked passengers trying to get past, get up, get out.

  Madde

  ‘Hurry!’ shouts Marianne, who is already seated in the last life raft on this side of the ship. She is holding on to Stella, whom she has wrapped in several blankets. The bottom of the raft is resting against the Charisma’s hull. They are going to have to slide down the steep side of the ship and hope the raft stays upright when it hits the water below.

  Madde clings to the railing, looking at the people who have managed to climb out of the ship, only to end up in droves against the railing on the other side of the deck. Some are trying to dash up the slippery uphill slope to their side; others have found life vests and are jumping from the railings into the water. Madde hopes they don’t end up under the Charisma when the ship finally settles onto her side.

  There is barely room for Madde in the raft, but Calle holds out his hand. His ring sparkles faintly. It’s identical to the one Vincent wore on his left hand.

  She straddles the edge, thrusting her foot under the rope that runs around the outer edge of the raft to keep from falling out and holds on to Calle for dear life.

  She nods and the girl who worked in the bar at Starlight cuts the lines. They start sliding. There is not a sound inside the raft. Madde tries to focus on keeping her balance, watching the edge of the hull rush nearer and the steel-grey water below. She can’t judge the drop. She closes her eyes when there is nothing but air under the raft. Her stomach flips. The blanket around her shoulders is torn away by the wind.

  The raft hits the water and Madde flies off the edge, hurtling through the air. There is a terrible pain in her ankle, then, suddenly, she is in the water and the cold shocks her entire system. Her ears ring. Everything is so dark, and so cold her face is already numb. She shuts her mouth and eyes tight and tries to swim, but she can no longer tell up from down.

  And then finally, finally, she breaks the surface. She can hear the screaming from the other rafts, hears the Charisma sigh and creak behind her. She shoves a suitcase floating towards her aside and spots the life raft bobbing on the water not too far away. Marianne is shouting something at her, but she can’t make out the words.

  She tries to swim, doing her best despite the pain in her foot, but she can’t get anywhere in the gently billowing swell. Someone on the raft has put paddles in the water. She squints. Are they coming for her, or are they going to leave her here?

  How many minutes before she freezes to death?

  Madde looks around, panicking. The ship is listing even more, exposing its enormous belly to her. She pumps her legs faster, but her head keeps ending up under water and now she is swallowing big gulps of it. She can’t get away from the Charisma. The ship is pulling her in. She vaguely remembers something about eddies around sinking ships. She’s panting heavily. The coldness of the water is numbing her ankle, dulling the throbbing pain. It feels like her lungs are going to explode, but the raft is coming closer.

  Calle leans over and holds his paddle out to her.

  Her fingers slip on it. She gropes at the air, but she can’t reach it again.

  Something touches her ankle. Cold fingers brush against her skin.

  She kicks out behind her with her uninjured foot and feels silky smooth hair slip between her toes. One of them.

  She screams, afraid to kick again in case she comes into contact with the teeth that are probably snapping under the surface of the water.

  The fingers are there again, closing around her ankle, tugging it, pulling her back down.

  Her mouth fills with water when she screams.

  They don’t breathe, they don’t breathe, they don’t care that they’re under water.

  She manages to pull her foot free of the slippery grasp and breaks the surface again, but the hand could grab her at any moment. She splutters and gasps for air.

  They don’t need air.

  And this time the people in the raft reach her, strong hands grab her arms, wiggle in under them and hoist her up. She kicks her legs wildly to help, and there is loud splashing behind her and cold droplets on her back. The edge is so high, so fucking high. The hands in the water graze the sole of her foot and she screams, pulls her knees up, trying to find purchase against the rope with her uninjured foot. And the strong hands keep pulling her up until she falls into the raft, landing on her knees.

  ‘Can you see anything?’ she shouts. ‘Have I been bitten? I can’t feel anything. Have I been bitten?’

  The raft starts to tilt when some of the passengers quickly shift to get further away from he
r, until the girl who works at Starlight yells admonishments.

  Madde coughs up water while Marianne inspects the back of her legs and feet and assures her there are no bites as far as she can tell.

  Madde looks down at the water. She can’t see any of them, but she knows they are there, under the surface. Would they be able to climb onto the raft?

  ‘They don’t need to breathe,’ she says. ‘They don’t need to breathe under water.’

  The Baltic Charisma

  The newborns flail under the surface, kicking their legs, but they can’t move fast enough to stay afloat. Their open mouths let in freezing water, making them heavier, pulling them ever further into the depths.

  The ship has settled onto its side. The sun has come up, gleaming in the portside windows. They face the sky now. On the starboard side there is nothing but water outside the windows that are now hundreds of feet deep. Bodies float past: some have their eyes open; they stare back at anyone looking out. Walls have turned into floors; floors have become walls. Everything has been overturned, and still a few people are fighting to climb out of their cabins and find ways out.

  The dark-haired woman and her son are nothing but ashes and bone fragments now, dissolved in the currents on the car deck.

  The water inside the ship is rising fast, filling the hallways.

  In the galley, cupboard doors have swung open, spewing out their contents.

  In Poseidon, glasses and white linen tablecloths and chairs are floating on the swirling surface.

  The long serving tables in Charisma Buffet are on their side, barricading the entrance.

  When the water reaches the generators, the emergency power cuts out and all the lights on board go off.

  A dressing gown billows gently around the man with a knife in his stomach. He is floating in the water filling the stairwell on deck five. He opens his eyes.

  The woman who was always saying she wanted to live aboard the Charisma has had her wish fulfilled. She is stuck under an arcade game that has tipped onto its side on the eighth floor. Her teeth snap against the rising water.