Dead Meat Box Set, Vol. 2 | Days 4-6

by Clausen, Nick

  He’s not sure if the message comes across, and he has no time to stay and find out, because as the station wagon passes him, the horde of zombies, who are making their way up from the ditch, seem to lose interest in the car, as William is now the closest meal.

  Ozzy growls at his side, stepping forward.

  “No, Ozzy, come with me,” he says, running to the car. They both get in, and William speeds off down the road, taking up pursuit of the harvester.

  The zombie girl is still hanging from the side of the station wagon, but then one of her legs goes under the car and is caught beneath the tire. What happens to her can best be described as a doll being ripped apart between two kids fighting over it. Her arm gives way at the shoulder, as the rest of her body is torn under the car, flung around and spit out the front end, tumbling around a few times before lying still. The arm dangles from the window a few seconds, before it falls.

  “Jesus Christ,” William mutters, trying not to look as he passes the mangled girl, who—to his surprise and horror—immediately begins getting back up, despite several of her bones being obviously shattered, and most of the skin torn from her face and scalp.

  They keep going down the road for another couple of minutes, until the zombies are growing small in the rearview mirror. Then, the harvester slows down and stops.

  Immediately, the doors of the blue car are pushed open, and three persons come out: Dan’s father, a brown-skinned girl William’s age and a similar-looking boy around ten.

  William frowns. “Where’s his mother?”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Mille goes to the hallway, checks her pockets for the umpteenth time. She has her phone and nothing else, just like when she got here.

  She looks back and sees Birgit standing there. Holger, however, hasn’t followed her out.

  “Well, this is it,” Mille says, not really sure what she means, just wanting to gain a few more seconds before she goes out there.

  “You’ll be fine,” Birgit assures her.

  Mille takes out her phone as it begins vibrating. It’s Mom.

  “Yeah, Mom?”

  “We’re here now, honey. There are infected people outside, so you need to be very careful when you—”

  “I know. There’s a secret way. Tell Torben to place the car next to the well cover at the far end of the courtyard; I’ll be coming up from there.”

  “Oh. Okay. You hear that, Torben?”

  An affirmative grunt in the background.

  “Tell me when you’re ready,” Mille says, looking at Birgit, who looks back at her with an expectant smile.

  “Right. I think we’re good to go.”

  “Okay, I’m going out now. Be ready to open the door as soon as you see me.”

  “I will. Be careful, honey.”

  Mille disconnects the call and looks back at Birgit one last time. Birgit nods once. Mille nods back. Then she opens the cupboard and steps inside. She opens the secret backwall and is met by the smell of dirt. She uses the light from her phone to navigate as she steps down the narrow staircase and reaches a narrow tunnel. She follows it until she meets another staircase, leading back up. She steps up and pushes on the hatch. It swings open, letting in the bright early evening sunlight. Mille squints as she steps up and looks around.

  The car is parked right next to the hole. She climbs up and darts a look over at the house, where the zombies are clawing at the windows. Two of them have already turned around and are headed this way.

  The back door of the car opens, and Mom leans out: “Quickly, get in!”

  Mille jumps in and slams the door.

  Before she has time to look around the car, Mom throws herself at her, embracing her. The feel of the boney woman clutching her, the smell of her hair and the faint odor of cigarette smoke, are all exactly the same as Mille remembers, except that Mom feels smaller. But that’s probably just because Mille herself has grown; they’re actually the same size now.

  “I’m so glad to see you,” Mom says into Mille’s shoulder, her voice choked with sobs. “I’ve missed you so much.”

  Mille doesn’t know what to say, so she doesn’t say anything, just tentatively returns the embrace, feeling awkward.

  Torben puts the car in gear and drives out of the courtyard before the zombies can reach them, leaving a cloud of dust behind as they speed out of the driveway.

  Finally, Mom lets go of her and sits back into her own seat, wiping her eyes with the back of her hands. Her nails are shorter than Mille remembers and not painted over with red like they used to be. She’s also dressed differently; her shirt is not the kind with buttons or anything fancy, just a regular, nondescript Mom-shirt. No jewelry, either, except for one finger ring and a couple of discrete earrings.

  Mom herself looks different, too. More suntanned, but in a natural way, and her eyebrows aren’t plucked thin anymore. The skin seems to sit closer to the skull, and there are several tiny wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. It’s only been three years, but Mom looks ten years older.

  “Hello, Mille,” Torben says, sending her a look in the mirror. “Nice to meet you—properly, I mean.”

  “Hi, Torben,” Mille mutters, forcing a polite smile.

  The last time they saw each other was the day Mille ran away. Torben came over just as she was headed out the door. She only got a glimpse of him, but she remembers he was less heavy back then, and he didn’t have the moustache now grazing his upper lip.

  Torben turns on the radio at low volume. It’s some sort of news channel.

  “I’m so glad you’re okay,” Mom says, smiling. “With all the horrible images they’re showing on the news …”

  “I know,” Mille says.

  “We got here as soon as we could. I just had to find you. I’m so glad you returned my call; I honestly don’t know what I would have done if I hadn’t got hold of you.”

  “I’m glad you came,” Mille says. “Thank you.”

  “Oh, honey, you don’t need to thank me. I just did what every mom would do.”

  Mille tries another smile, but this one feels too awkward, so she looks out the window instead, just as they reach the highway.

  Torben turns right.

  “So, where are we going?” Mille asks.

  “To Sweden,” Mom says, still smiling.

  “Sweden?” Mille repeats. “Why?”

  “We need to get out of the country,” Torben says, even though Mille was addressing her mom. “I have a cabin way up in Östersund, out in the middle of nowhere. We can ride out the storm there, until this thing blows over. Even if it spreads to Sweden, we’ll be fine so far away from any major cities.”

  The thought of spending several days in a cottage with Mom and Torben makes Mille a little claustrophobic. But then again, she tells herself, is that really that different from Holger’s house?

  “Darn it,” Torben mutters, jerking the wheel and causing the SUV to swerve. “Here comes another one …”

  Mille looks out just in time to see a single zombie wobble out into the street, reaching uselessly for the car.

  “They’ve got no consideration for their own health, do they?” Mom asks with a shudder. “Just walk right out into the road. Like they aren’t even thinking.”

  “They’re not,” Mille says. “They’re braindead.”

  “Well, that’s a little harsh,” Torben observes.

  “No, I mean it literally,” Mille says. “Their brains have been shut-off when they died.”

  Mom sends her a curious look. “What do you mean, ‘when they died’? Obviously, they aren’t dead yet.”

  “Yes, they are, Mom. They’re zombies. Like in the movies.”

  “That’s silly,” Torben scuffs. “I think you’ve been listening too much to what people are saying online, if you really believe that such things—”

  “My friend died right in front of me, and he woke up a few seconds later. Then he killed my other friend, and she woke up right away, too.”

  Neither Torbe
n nor Mom seem to know what to say.

  “Believe me,” Mille says, lowering her voice and speaking to her mother. “Those people out there aren’t humans anymore; they are walking corpses.”

  To Mille’s surprise, Mom reaches over a hand and strokes her cheek. The gesture is so tender and unfamiliar, it’s all Mille can do not to recoil.

  “I’m so sorry for what you had to go through,” Mom says, her voice soft. “You want to talk about it? Get it off your chest?”

  Mille just stares at the woman next to her, thinking: Who are you?

  Then, she says simply: “No, it’s okay.”

  “You sure? Losing two of your friends like that must have been traumatic for you. It’ll probably help to talk to someone about it.”

  Mille is tempted for a second or two—her mother really does seem like she genuinely wants to hear about it, wants to listen, to help—but there’s something else in her voice, too, something Mille can’t quite put her finger on, something which makes her not want to lower her guard, not just yet anyway.

  She forces a smile. “Really, Mom, I’m fine.”

  Mom nods. “If you change your mind, I’m here.”

  “Thanks.” Mille looks out the window at the fields gliding by. The sun is headed for the horizon and will soon start painting the sky orange. A few hundred yards out, silhouetted against the sky, is a group of five or six people. No doubt dead ones.

  Torben slows down, and Mille stretches her neck, expecting to see more zombies up ahead. Instead, she sees a jeep parked across the road half a mile from here. Two soldiers are standing next to it, and they looked like they’re armed.

  Torben turns onto a narrow dirt road, which leads into a forest.

  “Why … why are we taking this way?” Mille asks. “I thought we were leaving the area.”

  “We are,” Torben says, adding no further explanation, as the car bumps along the uneven road.

  Mille looks at her mother, who shrugs. “They wouldn’t let us pass, but luckily, Torben knew about this old way, which they haven’t blocked.”

  “But … I thought you said you were allowed to pass … because of Torben’s diabetes?”

  Mom just looks at her, smiling faintly, then looks out the window.

  They lied, Mille thinks to herself, sinking back into her seat. They lied to get me to come.

  The dirt road leads them through the forest and out onto the other side, where it crosses a stream and leads them along the edge of a field, before it meets up with a highway. The dirt road has obviously not been in use for several years, which must be why the military didn’t think to block it.

  “And we’re out,” Torben says with a satisfied smile, turning onto the asphalt and speeding up.

  Mille doesn’t say anything, she just looks out the side window again. On the radio they’re talking about the government taking further precautions.

  “It’s in Aarhus now,” Torben mutters.

  Mille feels a chill. She prefers to not think about it. She really hopes William wasn’t right when he said this could turn into a world-wide pandemic. If that happens, no one will be safe—not even in a cabin way up in Sweden.

  Mom reaches over to the front seat and takes her handbag—it’s not the old, glossy pink nightmare Mille remembers, but a stylish, brown leather bag. She begins rummaging through it, then looks over at Mille. “Would you be okay with me smoking a cigarette? I’ll open the window.”

  “Uhm, sure,” Mille says, surprised that Mom would even be considerate enough to ask.

  She rolls down her window and lights a cigarette, making sure to blow the smoke out of the car with every inhalation.

  Mille feels her looking at her. Mom is smiling. “I quit drinking, you know.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “That’s great news, Mom.”

  “I know. Sixteen months sober in two days.”

  “So, how did you do it?”

  “I just decided it was time. I realized it was ruining my life, quite frankly. It made me into someone I didn’t want to be.”

  Mille just looks at her mom as she speaks, taking in every word. “That’s … amazing, Mom.”

  Mom smiles, but her smile turns sad. “I’m just sorry I couldn’t stop earlier, honey. I realize now how painful it must have been for you growing up with a mom who got drunk every weekend.”

  It was a little more often than just the weekends—at least at the end—but Mille says nothing; she’s just stunned at the level of insight her mom has gained into her own life. Mille would have never believed those words could come out of her mouth. Mom really has changed.

  “Can you ever forgive me, honey?” she says, putting her hand on Mille’s arm—the one not holding the cigarette. “Can you ever forgive me for being drunk so much of the time, when I should have been there for you?”

  “It … it wasn’t the drinking, Mom. Well, if you want to see it that way, I guess you can. But it was really how you acted when you got drunk. It was like … like the truth came out. Like all the things you couldn’t say sober just came spilling out.”

  Mom frowns. “Like what? What did I say?”

  There’s no defensiveness in her voice, and her expression is earnestly baffled. Almost like she truly doesn’t know.

  “Well, there are a lot of things …”

  “Give me an example, please.”

  “All right. Like the time you told me you wanted to down all your sleeping pills because you couldn’t stand the thought that I wouldn’t move away from home for another five years at least. You weren’t sure you could take it for that long—living with me in the house.”

  Mom’s face turns to a mask of horror. “Did I … did I say that? No, I couldn’t have said that.”

  “You did,” Mille says.

  “Are you sure? Look, honey, I’m not trying to deny your feelings or anything, it’s just … that really doesn’t sound like something I would say.”

  Mille throws out her hands. “Why would I make it up?”

  “Sometimes, memories can be tricky,” Torben says, interjecting himself into the conversation with no invitation whatsoever. “I mean, they tend to change over time. Grow worse, you know, the more you think about them. Turning a feather into five hens and all that. Perhaps that’s what happened here.”

  “No, that’s not what happened,” Mille says, feeling the anger tighten her stomach. “And I’d appreciate it if you stayed out of this, Torben. This doesn’t concern you.”

  Torben eyes her in the mirror, grunts and looks out the front window again.

  “Torben’s just trying to help,” Mom says, putting a hand on Mille’s arm.

  “He wasn’t around, so how would he know?”

  “He’s very clever when it comes to things like this. He’s almost like a psychologist. You know, it was him who got me to see a therapist.”

  “Mom,” Mille says, lowering her voice. “I don’t care if he’s Mahatma Gandhi; this is between you and me.”

  Mom smiles, and there’s something overbearing in the smile, which makes Mille furious. “It doesn’t hurt having someone neutral to mediate.”

  Mille pulls her arm away and shakes her head. “Someone neutral? How’s Torben neutral? He’s your boyfriend; of course he’s going to side with you.”

  “This isn’t about sides, Mille,” Torben says.

  “Shut up!” Mille exclaims. “I’m not talking to you!”

  “Honey,” Mom says, keeping her voice calm. “Perhaps this is why things didn’t work out between us in the past.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean you getting all riled up. Telling people to shut up. Raising your voice.”

  Mille puts both her hands to her forehead and looks down. Something is pressing in her throat, fighting to get out. She’s not sure if it’s a scream or laughter.

  “Honey, there’s really no need to act like this,” Mom says, still in her assumed therapeutic tone of voice. “Just say what yo
u’re feeling.”

  Mille looks at her. “What I’m feeling? Well, if you’re finally interested, I’ll be glad to tell you.”

  “Of course I’m interested.”

  Mille decides to lay it all out there, no matter how hurtful it’ll be. All those words have been bottled up for so long, and finally, here’s her chance. “All right. I feel like you don’t really care, and that you never did. I feel like you’re always siding with whomever you’re sleeping with at the time. You put yourself and your boyfriend’s well-being before your own children. That’s why Kim left as soon as he could, and I honestly can’t blame him, even though it hurt me to lose my brother. He was the one person I could confide in. Because I could never do that with you. You were too self-absorbed. And I get why; your life’s a mess, it has always been. The slightest ripple throws you back into the bottle. You wallow in self-pity and you live off of other people’s sympathy. But that’s not the worst part. The worst part is that you blame others for your misery. You make them feel guilty for not sacrificing themselves. You’re an emotional black hole.”

  Mille finally stops talking. Her heart is beating in her throat, causing her vision to go blurry around the edges as she stares at her mom, awaiting a reaction. To her surprise, none comes; Mom’s expression is blank.

  “That being said,” Mille goes on, realizing that this is the hard part. The words come less fluently now. “You’re still my mother, and I’d like to reconcile things—as much as it’s possible anyway. That’s why I’m here.”

  Mom nods. “Good. I’m glad to hear that.”

  Her voice is oddly non-emotional; Mille can’t get a read on her.

  “So … what do you think about what I just said?”

  “It’s a lot to take in. You’ll have to give me time to process.”

  “Sure.”

  Mom looks straight ahead, as though the conversation is over. And after a minute of silence, Mille realizes it is over. She doesn’t have anything else to say. She got it all out. And for better or for worse, she feels good about it. She feels lighter.

  She closes her eyes and leans back her head.