“The head!” one of the men roars. “Aim for their fucking heads!”
That won’t work, Dorte thinks to herself. There’s no brain activity …
The men take aim and fire a new round of shots. This time, to Dorte’s surprise, there’s much more effect. Two of the infected go down immediately, apparently dying for real, as they simply collapse and don’t move anymore. Soon the rest of them follow suit, as the men hit their targets.
Dorte frowns, for a moment snapping back into rational thinking. How’s that possible? How does destroying the brain make any difference, when the entire central nerves system is already switched off?
“What the hell are you doing?” one of the men by the water cannon bellows and runs to the men who just put down half a dozen infected. “Are you using live rounds? Are you insane?”
“We had no choice!” one of the soldiers defends himself. “It was us or them!”
“We can’t go around killing these poor pricks! How do you think WHO will react once they find out we’re executing sick people? They’ll hang us out like goddamn Nazis!”
“When are you going to listen, Troels?” the other soldier shouts back, punctuating every word by jabbing a finger in the chest of his colleague. “They … are … fucking … zombies!”
“Will you stop spouting that movie nonsense?” the guy retorts, shoving away the other’s hand. “I’m in charge here, and I say we follow orders. And the orders are to treat these people like sick individuals. We keep our distance, we pacify them and bring them in, and we don’t use lethal force! Got that?”
The two men are so wrapped up, they don’t see the three infected coming from the alley and heading right for them.
“Look out!” Dorte screams, but she’s too far away, and the sound of the water cannon drowns out her warning.
Luckily, the third soldier notices the threat just in time, and the two others jump out of the way. They begin dealing with the infected by throwing nets over them and using long poles which reminds Dorte of the ones dog catchers use.
She decides she’s seen enough and turns to leave.
And that’s when she sees her.
Coming towards Dorte from the alley, the figure emerges from the shadows. Dorte recognizes her right away.
No, it can’t be her … she can’t have come this far … it’s a four-mile walk …
But it is her.
And Rikke looks like she’s been very busy: her hands are black with blood and so is the front of her shirt and the lower part of her face. Some of it is still red and shiny. Something has happened to her face, too; the left cheekbone appears to have been caved in a little, the skin torn open in a couple of places, the eye squeezed almost shut. Like someone clubbed her with something. Or maybe Rikke has simply fallen over and landed on her face. Either way, the injury seems of no concern to her; instead, she’s focused on Dorte.
“Rikke,” she croaks, backing up. “It’s me.”
She knows it’s pointless. She knows Rikke can’t hear her, much less comprehend the words or recognize her sister. She might as well be talking to a coma patient. And yet her mouth keeps trying.
“It’s me, Rikke. Please listen to me. Don’t you remember my voice?”
Rikke ups her speed as she closes the distance and lets out a groan of hunger.
Dorte walks backwards, almost running now, trying to get her eyes off of Rikke, trying to force herself to turn and flee, but she can’t, and she’s still talking and now she’s also crying.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I couldn’t help you. I tried; I really did.”
Then she’s finally able to spin on her heel and sprint down the alley. She turns left on the street where the men are still battling the oncoming horde and she almost bumps into a new group of infected, managing to avoid a tall, skinny guy at the last possible second and bolt past them. She looks back to see the group taking up pursuit.
Dorte runs every other day, and she’s in great shape. But she hasn’t slept for almost two whole days, and her body is functioning mostly on adrenaline. Up ahead, the road slopes upwards as it turns into a bridge, and Dorte decides to cross it, since that will bring her away from the city center.
She runs at a reasonable speed, putting distance between her and the group of infected while at the same time not exhausting herself—as she darts a look back, she realizes the infected are still pursuing her. Luckily, she can’t see Rikke, who must be at the back of the group.
The amount of parked or crashed cars grows larger the farther she comes up onto the bridge. At the highest point, the road is almost closed off due to a tipped-over truck.
And that’s when she sees the other group.
It’s even bigger than the one following her; at least two dozen infected. They’re less than fifty yards away, huddling around something, pushing and shoving each other.
They’re eating someone, Dorte thinks and stops abruptly.
This second group is way too big; they’re blocking the entire road, and there’s no way she can get past them. She looks back to see the pursuing group, which has spread out somewhat, as some of them are walking faster than others. The front runners have already reached the bridgehead and have begun the ascent towards her. Even though there aren’t as many in the first group, there are still enough of them to cut her off, as many cars narrow the road. Which means she’s effectively trapped.
Oh, shit …
Dorte looks back and forth, trying to determine which way is the least dangerous, which one offers her the best chance of making it, but neither of them seems a good choice. And now the members of the second group seem to lose interest in whatever poor soul they were gorging themselves on, and one by one they break out and begin walking towards the next closest meal: Dorte.
Oh, shit, shit, shit!
Dorte considers for a moment climbing atop the truck, but she’s not sure whether the infected will be able to climb after her, so she heads for the bridge’s railings. Looking down at the motorway, she feels her gut tighten, as the jump is at least sixteen feet—and she’d land on concrete, most likely breaking both ankles.
Maybe if I hang from my arms … that will shorten the fall with six feet or so …
It’s still a big risk, but a brief glance over her shoulder tells her that she’s running out of options fast: the fastest from both groups are closing in at a scary speed, wobbling away almost too fast for their dead legs to carry them, as though they sense their prey is about to escape.
Dorte climbs the railings and swings her legs over. The metal bars are cold, and her palms are sweaty from running, so she grips firmly to not slip. Still, it’s difficult finding anything to place her feet on—the railings were obviously not designed for scaling. She fumbles, swears and looks up to see the infected come rushing.
Fuck! I won’t make it!
She’s halfway hanging, halfway standing, clutching the railing awkwardly, and is just about to jump blindly out into the void, when a voice calls her name.
“Dorte! Hey, Dorte!”
She looks down, blinking sweat from her eyes, straining to focus.
A car is parked right below her. The driver—a young man in a white T-shirt, revealing his tattooed arms—is standing next to it, looking up.
“Goddamnit, I thought that was you!” he calls out, grinning.
“William?” Dorte croaks, not loud enough for him to hear her.
“You gotta jump!” he calls out, jumping up onto the hood of the car, then up onto the roof. He reaches his arms up towards her. “Just do it! I’ll catch you!”
Dorte is just about to tell him she can’t, when she hears a snarling growl right next to her, and she whips her head around and screams as a dead-eyed face with grey skin comes rushing at her, mouth wide open.
It’s more of a fall than a jump.
Dorte flies through the air, screaming and flailing, for what feels like several seconds. Then she lands with a metallic bang, feeling a couple of hands halfway catch her.
“It’s all right, you’re all right,” Williams tells her, as his face appears in front of her, smiling. “Hey. Long time, no see.”
Dorte tries to answer, but the shock of falling has left her gasping for air. She lets him help her down onto the hood of the car. A man Dorte hasn’t seen before, considerably older than William, comes out from the car and takes her by the arm, helping her down onto the concrete.
Another car comes speeding by, causing Dorte to jump and reminding her they’re standing in the middle of the motorway.
“We should probably get going,” the man says, leading her towards the open back door.
“Wait a second,” William says. “Are you hurt, Dorte?”
Dorte looks at him, then down her own body. She shakes her head. “No, I’m okay. It didn’t hurt. Thank you for catching me.”
“You’re welcome. But what I mean is, were you hurt before? Any scratches? Any wounds? Did any of them touch you?” He points up, to where the infected have gathered at the railing, pushing up against the metal bars, a forest of arms are reaching out, grasping at the air.
She shakes her head again. “No, I haven’t been in close contact with any of them. I’m not infected.”
“Glad to hear it. Then get in.”
Dorte climbs into the backseat. A teenage boy with golden hair is looking at her with big, serious eyes, and beside him a young woman is sitting with a small boy on her lap. Both the woman and the younger boy are Middle Eastern.
The man gets into the front seat, and William gets in behind the wheel.
Something sniffs the back of Dorte’s neck, and she turns to see a German shepherd looking back at her from the trunk.
“Everyone, this is Dorte,” William says, putting the car into motion, quickly getting up to speed with the rest of traffic. “She and I went to high school together, but we haven’t spoken for—what, four years?” He looks at her in the mirror.
“I … I guess that’s about right,” Dorte says, forcing a smile.
The Middle Eastern woman smiles back at her. “Hi, Dorte. My name is Nasira, and this is my brother Ali.”
Dorte nods and looks at the teenager.
“I’m Dan,” he mutters.
“What are the odds of us meeting like this?” William goes on. “I can only interpret it as fate. Where are you headed?”
“I … I don’t really know, honestly. I’ve lost my … I’ve lost … everyone.” The last word comes out as a whisper, and Dorte realizes to her horror that she’s on the verge of tears. The last thing she needs right now is crying in front of a bunch of strangers.
“Sorry to hear that,” William says, the cheerful tone gone from his voice.
“It’s okay,” the Nasira girl says in nearly perfect Danish, looking at her. “We’ve all lost someone.”
Dan nods his silent agreement, and to Dorte, those big eyes suddenly seem a lot older than the rest of his face. The boy looks like someone who has recently lived through a lot worse than Dorte herself, and she feels an unexpected pang of sympathy for him.
“So, you want us to drop you off somewhere, or are you going along for the ride?” William asks.
Dorte breathes in deeply. “I have no idea, to be honest. Where are you going?”
“The plan is to find a guy I know down in Haderslev and get him to fly us out of the country before things get completely out of control.”
“That sounds a little …”
“Rash?” William guesses.
“Well, are you sure it’s necessary to leave the country?”
“Wow, shit!” William swerves to avoid a handful of infected who have made their way out into the motorway and are reaching for the oncoming cars with no regard for their own safety. He looks back at Dorte. “You tell me if it’s necessary. I for one don’t think it looks very promising. We would love to have you along—right, guys?”
The others nod or sound their agreement.
Dorte looks down at her hands. “Okay,” she says. “I guess it’s as good an idea as anything else I’ve got. Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.” William is quiet for a moment. “So … are you up for telling your story? Or do you want to hear ours first?”
“I think I’d prefer to listen rather than talk right now,” Dorte says.
“That’s fine. You’re going to love this. Our story’s got Voodoo in it. Right, Dan? You care to start?” William looks at the teenager, who yawns.
“Actually, I was hoping to get some sleep.”
“Oh, sure. Mind if we talk?”
“No, not at all.” He leans his head back and closes his eyes.
“I’ll do my best to tell you what Dan told me, then,” William says, sending her a wink in the mirror—Dorte can’t believe his spirit is this high, considering the circumstances. But then again, this is exactly like she remembers him—carefree and laid back, but also smart and decisive when the situation calls for it. “I mean, we’ll be driving all night, so it’s not like we’re in a hurry or anything.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Mille must have dozed off, because the next time she opens her eyes, it’s dark outside. They have reached some town Mille doesn’t recognize, the streetlamps glowing yellow overhead. The air conditioner is still blazing, and the inside of the car is nice and chill. On the radio the broadcaster is still talking in a serious voice about the situation.
She looks to her mother, who’s still sitting next to her, looking out of her own window. Mille checks her phone. No messages or missed calls. It’s eleven forty-five. She’s been gone for a few hours. Surprisingly, she feels very well rested.
“We’d better fill her up,” Torben mutters and pulls over at a gas station.
Mom stretches and looks over at Mille. “Oh, you’re awake. Did you get a good rest?”
“Sure. Where are we?”
“Frederikshavn,” Torben says, unbuckling. “The ferry leaves in half an hour; we’re just in time.” He gets out of the car with a grunt, the weight of his body causing the SUV to sway.
“… not only Aarhus, but several of the smaller surrounding towns now also face the problem, as the so-called Rhabdovirus seems to be spreading at a terrifying speed no one could have predicted. Medical experts now call for immediate action on the part of the authorities, urging them to put out a complete curfew in large parts of the country, hoping it’s still possible to contain the spread of the infection or at least slow it down enough that an effective vaccine can be found. So far, medical tests have come up empty in the attempt of curing the disease, and the outlook isn’t very good …”
“Not exactly uplifting, huh?” Mom says. “What a crazy situation this is turning into. I mean, this could become worse than when the country got occupied during World War II.”
“I know,” Mille says, watching Torben put his credit card into the slot. She looks at her mother. “We’re going with a ferry?”
Mom nods. “That way, we can bring the car, you see.”
Mille bites her lip. “Is it legal?”
Mom raises her eyebrows. “To bring your car to Sweden?”
“No, to leave the country.”
“Oh, you mean because of the … situation? Well, if that was the case, I think they’d cancel the ferry, don’t you?”
“I guess.”
A moment of silence. Torben walks around the car, unhooks the hose and begins filling up the car. Mille can’t help but notice how he walks, like his legs are hurting. It’s probably just because of his weight, though. He reminds her of John Goodman when he was at his biggest. She can’t fathom what her mother sees in him.
“How’s Kim doing?”
Mille looks at Mom, surprised at the question. “You tell me.”
“You mean you haven’t spoken to him recently?”
“No, it’s been forever.”
“Oh. I thought you guys kept in touch.”
“We did to begin with, but … it just kind of died out.”
“That’s a sham
e.”
“You haven’t spoken to him either?”
Mom sighs. “I tried calling him a couple of times, but he doesn’t return my calls. I’m not even sure I’ve got the right number anymore. He’s living in Stockholm these days, did you know?”
“I had no idea. Why did he move there?”
“He met a girl. A really pretty blonde. They married earlier this year.”
Mille is confused for a moment. “How do you know … oh, you stalked him on Facebook, didn’t you?”
Her mother shrugs. “I just wanted to know how my son was doing.” She looks out at Torben briefly, who’s still filling up the tank. “I was thinking we could maybe drive by and … ask him if they wanted to come with us. It would be so nice to have the family back together.”
Mom smiles at her. Mille can’t quite bring herself to return the smile.
“That would mean bringing Dad back,” she says.
Mom nods slowly. “I know. But we can’t. No matter how much we wanted to.”
Mille eyes her mother intently, trying to figure out if she’s being sincere. Dad left when Mille was five; she can barely remember him. But what she can remember, is that Mom basically drove him out. And that her drinking escalated drastically from that point. Mille has never heard her talk anything but trash about Dad. And now, she’s suddenly inferring that she actually misses him?
What’s her game? Has she really changed, or is this some ploy to get something from me?
“I know Torben will never be able to replace your father,” her mother goes on, “but he’s a good man. Clever. Helpful. He wants the best for all of us. He’s even okay with us bringing Kim too, if he wants to come. We could become like a family again. Wouldn’t that be great?”
Mille frowns. “It’s a little late for that, Mom; I’m seventeen. I don’t need a new dad.”
“Of course you do,” Mom says, smiling. “Every girl does, no matter how old she gets.”
“Well, Torben isn’t exactly …” Mille is just about to say something cruel, but she manages to keep it in.
“I know,” her mother says. “But if you could give him a chance, I think he will grow on you.”
Dead Meat Box Set, Vol. 2 | Days 4-6 Page 17