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

by Clausen, Nick

“What the hell are you doing in here?” he exclaims, his voice distorted by the breathing mask. “No one is allowed in the patients’ rooms!”

  “He’s my father,” she says, as though that explains anything.

  “Christ, we’re trying to keep people safe,” he mutters, then walks to the bed, his suit swishing and swooshing. “Per?” he exclaims. “Per Rasmussen? Can you hear me?”

  “He’s gone,” Josefine hears herself tell the man in the hazmat suit. “He died less than two minutes ago.”

  The man looks at her, and she can make out his eyes through the protective glass. He’s younger than she thought. Around her own age. “You really shouldn’t be in here,” he tells her, and this time, the voice is almost compassionate.

  And Josefine knows he’s right. But she doesn’t want to leave.

  “I’m fine,” she says. “I’m going with him.”

  “You are?”

  “Yes. They told me one relative could go.”

  “Yes, but …”

  Josefine never finds out what comes after “but,” because the man in the suit is interrupted by a throaty noise coming from her father.

  His chest jerks upwards, and for a second, it looks to Josefine like he’s suddenly begun breathing again, but then she realizes it’s simply his body cramping, as he thrashes his head from side to side and tries to lift his arms and pull up his legs. He’s stopped by the straps. Instead, he cranes his neck and stares directly at her.

  Josefine thought she was prepared to see him like this. She thought the years of dementia had gotten her used to looking at his face and seeing a stranger.

  But this …

  This is different.

  It’s not a stranger glaring at her from those empty eyes. It’s no one. It’s a dead thing. And as much as Josefine wants to feel pity and grief for the thing strapped to the bed, she finds nothing but horror in her heart.

  The thing bares its grey teeth and growls at her.

  Josefine automatically takes a step backwards.

  “The patient in room 14 has just turned,” the man in the suit says, and when Josefine looks dreamily over at him, she sees him talking into a walkie. “I need two of you to come and help me secure him.” Then, he looks over at Josefine. “You really don’t need to be here for this.”

  “It’s fine,” her voice tells him. “I want to.”

  The man looks at her a moment longer, then shrugs. “Suit yourself. But I warned you.”

  He opens a small medical purse Josefine hasn’t noticed till now and produces a syringe and a tiny bottle from it. Even with the big gloves on, he manages to prepare the syringe with no real trouble; he’s obviously trained in doing it.

  “What are you giving … him?” Josefine asks, hesitating at the final word, weary at even referring to the thing on the bed with a pronoun.

  “It’s a sedative,” the man answers. “It won’t hurt him, but he’ll be unable to move for about four to six minutes.”

  Josefine takes a deep breath. First the straps and now a forced injection. Somehow, that’s what she finds most scary about this whole thing: the fact that nursing homes are treating the people like inmates in a high-security prison. Or like psychotic people in a 1920’s asylum.

  The door to the room opens, and two more suits enter, bringing a gurney and what looks an awful lot like a straightjacket. They look at Josefine, but ask no questions. After briefly coordinating amongst them, the three men take up position around the bed, where the dead thing is still struggling and groaning, trying to get at anybody.

  “Ready?” one of them asks. “I’m giving it now.”

  He plunges the needle into the inner thigh of the thing that was Josefine’s father a few minutes ago, swiftly pushing the clear liquid into the body.

  The effect is almost immediate.

  The thrashing subsides and the groans die out. The milky-white eyes close halfway and the mouth stops biting.

  “Okay, let’s do it!”

  The men work like they’ve done this at least a dozen times before; working together as a team. Within ninety seconds, the body has been unstrapped, hoisted up, dressed in the straightjacket and placed on the gurney. They then fasten another set of leather strap around the shoulders, chest and waist.

  They step back and watch the thing strapped to the gurney as it makes a few halfhearted attempts to move its sedated and secured limbs.

  “Great job,” one of the men says, letting out a discrete sigh of relief. “He isn’t going anywhere.”

  “Is the other patient ready?” another one of them asks.

  “Yeah, we loaded her into the chopper twenty minutes ago. The tranq must have worn off by now, so she’s probably alive and kicking.”

  “Then let’s get this guy out there before he wakes back up, too.”

  They go to open the terrace door and roll the gurney outside. As they pass by Josefine, who’s standing by the wall, watching silently, one of the men—the first one—stops and looks at her. “You coming or what?”

  EIGHT

  Mille returns to hallway B and finds door number 55 open. From inside, she can hear her mom and Torben speaking.

  “Ouch!” Torben exclaims. “Be careful, that stings like hell.”

  “It’s supposed to sting,” Mille’s mom tells him. “That’s how you know it works.”

  Mille pushes the door open all the way and steps inside the crammed cabin. There are four bunks and a single, narrow window at the end, letting in the early, greenish twilight.

  Torben is sitting on one of the bunks, his head tilted to the side, his shirt buttoned down to show one hairy, brown nipple.

  Mille’s mom is busy dabbing at the scratch right above his collarbone—which looks glowing red—with a wad of wet toilet paper. In her other hand is a bottle of what looks like chlorhexidine.

  Torben already looks feverish; his forehead is beaded with sweat and his cheeks are pink. Also, the air in the cabin is stuffy and moist.

  He’s dying even faster than I feared, Mille thinks, feeling her stomach tighten.

  Torben winces and is about to say something when he notices Mille. “Oh,” he groans. “She’s back.”

  Mom turns her head, sees Mille, and her face turns blank. “What are you doing here? I thought you were going to get them to turn the ferry around …”

  “Mom,” Mille says. “Can I talk with you outside for a moment?”

  “I’m kind of busy,” her mom retorts coolly.

  Mille looks at Torben, and he scowls back at her. “What?” he barks.

  “You look terrible.”

  Torben shoves Mille’s mom’s hand away as she tries to resume rinsing the scratch. “Don’t you start again. I’m fine, it’s just a goddamn scratch, and it’s been disinfected thoroughly.” He points a fat finger at Mille. “You get the hell out of here! I don’t need you around to be a pain in my ass.”

  Mille answers in a calm voice: “You obviously have a fever.”

  “No, I don’t,” he scuffs, pulling out his shirt and fanning it. “I’m just warm. It’s very warm in here. Damn, honey, get me a Coke, will you?”

  “Sure,” Mille’s mom says.

  Torben sends Mille one last, triumphant look.

  Mille simply turns and leaves the cabin. She darts a look down the hallway to see Iver standing by the end. He sends her a questioning look, and Mille shakes her head. He steps out of sight.

  Her mother joins her a moment later, gently closing the door behind them, right after telling Torben: “I’ll be back in a jiff, honey.”

  “Hurry up,” Torben groans. “I’m burning up.”

  Mille’s mother looks at her defiantly. “So, is this how you’re going to play it? Act all grown-up on me.”

  Someone needs to, Mille thinks, but keeps the thought to herself. Instead, she says: “You can’t go back in there. He’ll be dead within half an hour. Probably sooner.”

  “Will you stop with that nons—”

  “Please believe me, Mom,�
� Mille says, surprising them both by reaching out and taking her mother’s wrist gently. “It won’t be safe for you with him. As soon as he dies, he won’t recognize you. He’ll only want to attack you.”

  A host of different emotions flicker across her mother’s face. Then she settles on disgust and pulls free her arm. “You have no way of knowing what’ll happen to Torben. He’s strong as a bull. He’ll fight it off.”

  “No, Mom. He won’t. No one can fight it off.”

  “Torben can,” her mother sneers, putting her face close to Mille’s. “You’ll see.”

  Then she walks right past her.

  Mille stands there for a moment, considering her options.

  I need to secure the door.

  Mille looks around. A few doors down the hallway a trolley containing cleaning supplies are parked. The cabin door opens in, however, which makes it impossible to barricade from this side. But Mille’s gaze fall on the roll of extension wire hanging from the trolley, and she reacts without thinking.

  She runs to the trolley and drags it back to door 55, placing it right up against the door. It’s just wide enough that it can’t pass through the doorway. Mille grabs the wire, twirls it a few times around the handle, then secures it tightly to the trolley.

  Just as she pulls a firm knot, she hears heavy footsteps from the other side, and then the handle turns and someone pulls the door. It only opens half an inch, though, before the wire pulls the trolley up against the doorframe.

  “What the—” Torben’s voice from the inside. Another tug at the door. Then Torben’s face appears at the crack, one bloodshot eye peering out at the trolley. Then the eye fixes on Mille, and the gaze turns icy. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Where’s your mother?”

  “It’s important you stay out of contact with an—”

  “You open this door at once!”

  The handle is pulled violently back—so hard, in fact, that Mille for a moment is sure something will give.

  But the extension cord holds, and so does the handle itself. The trolley slams up against the walls as Torben pulls the handle again, even harder. Still, the blockade works.

  Mille is about to leave, when the door to the neighboring cabin opens and a woman pokes her head out. “What’s going on? We’re trying to sleep.”

  Mille sees the woman looking at the trolley serving as a homemade barricade, and her expression darkens.

  “Why is someone locked inside that cabin?”

  Torben yanks the handle again, and Mille has no idea what to say to the woman.

  Then, suddenly, Iver steps in front of her and addresses the woman in a low voice: “Hello, and sorry for the disturbance. The passenger in cabin 55 is possibly infected and contagious. You need to stay inside your own cabin. Please don’t tell anyone. The situation is being dealt with.”

  Mille is amazed at how calm and assertive Iver sounds, talking with an authority she didn’t sense in him before.

  The woman seems to take him very seriously, because her eyes widen immediately. “Is it … is it that virus they’re talking about?”

  “We don’t know yet,” Iver lies without flinching. “But we don’t want to take any chances. The doctor will see to the person very soon. The best thing you can do is stay inside your cabin until further notice.”

  The woman nods, looks over at the trolley again, then back at Iver. “All right,” she whispers. Then she closes the door and locks it.

  “Well done,” Mille praises him, and Iver smiles briefly. “Let’s go.”

  “You come back!” Torben shouts, his voice already sounding strained and raspy. “You open this door! When I get my hands on you, young lady, you won’t like it! I swear!” Then he breaks into a nasty cough.

  Mille and Iver are about to walk away when a shrill voice comes from behind: “What the hell are you doing?”

  Mille spins around to see her mother standing there, a Coke in her hand, glaring at her open-mouthed, eyes wide in disbelief.

  “Have you lost your mind completely? Torben is sick, he needs medical attention. And you’re locking him in? And who are you?” Staring at Iver. “You told the crew about Torben? How dare you?”

  “Torben is infected, Mom,” Mille says. “He can’t get into contact with anybody. It’s only a matter of time before he …”

  Her mother obviously isn’t listening. Even as Mille is speaking, she puts the Coke on the trolley and makes to undo the wire.

  Mille grabs her wrist hard and flings it away. “You stop that!” she shouts, looking her mother dead in the eye. “Listen to me! For the last time: you can’t let him out! He’ll endanger everyone on this ship.”

  “But … he needs help …” her mother croaks, apparently taken aback by Mille’s sudden anger, and—as she always does when she can’t bully someone—resorts to her hurt-little-girl-demeanor. “It’s cruel locking him up like that …”

  Torben is still coughing and banging at the door.

  “It’s too late, Mom. I’m sorry. I really am.”

  Her mom’s lips start quivering.

  Mille feels an unexpected stab of sympathy, and she reaches out to take her mom’s hands. “Listen to me, Mom. I’m going with Iver to talk to the captain now. They’ll decide what to do.”

  “Will they … will they cure him?”

  Mille shakes her head. “They can’t.”

  Her mother starts crying.

  “But … I’m sure they’ll do everything they can to ease his discomfort,” Mille goes on, offering what is probably a white lie. “We need your help, Mom. Are you listening?”

  Her mother looks at her through wet eyes. “What?”

  “You need to stay here and guard the door. Make sure no one comes by and tries to open it. Okay? It’s very important.” She points to the door. Torben has fallen silent on the other side now. Mille says very firmly: “If that door is opened, a lot of people will die. You hear me?”

  She holds her mom’s gaze, watching the struggle on her face. Then, she nods in resignation.

  “Good,” Mille says, smiling vaguely. “Thank you, Mom. I knew I could trust you.”

  Her mom nods again, avoiding her eye.

  Before she can stop herself, she puts her arms around her mother and whispers: “You’re being very brave. I know how difficult it is. I lost my best friend just two days ago. I was right there. I … I know how it feels.”

  She pulls away gently, and her mother sobs, nods again, but still doesn’t look Mille in the eye. Mille squeezes her arm and whispers: “Stay strong until I come back, Mom.”

  Then she walks away, waving Iver after her. It takes an effort not to look back.

  NINE

  “I told you it was a bad fucking idea! Didn’t I tell you?”

  Malthe’s voice is shrill with shock, cutting through the music blaring from the speakers.

  Aksel ignores him, concentrating instead on the road and the many obstacles in the form of living dead people staggering back and forth, grabbing hopelessly at the car.

  “You fucking asshole, you just had to do it, didn’t you?” Malthe goes on, running his hands through his slicked-back hair. “And now look at you! Your hand is all fucked-up!”

  He reaches over and grabs Aksel’s wrist.

  “Let go of me!” Aksel snarls, swatting at Malthe—then instantly regretting it, as the movement sends a pang of pain through the busted hand.

  “Ugh!” Malthe shrieks and pulls back. “You got blood on me, asshole! This is my best shirt.”

  “Then keep your fucking hands to yourself,” Aksel mutters, blinking sweat from his eyes and clutching the steering wheel as he swerves the Mercedes to narrowly avoid a dead woman with one tit hanging out of her tank top—and not a bad tit at that, Aksel has time to notice.

  “Hey, you saw that broad?” Eli croaks from the backseat. “She was half-naked!”

  “I thought you were out cold,” Malthe remarks and looks back at Eli. “After you downed that last rum, I was sure y
ou were out for the night.”

  “No, no way,” Eli says, hoisting himself up from the seat.

  Aksel notices in the rearview mirror how Eli’s head dangles from side to side, his eyes swimming in their sockets. He burps and laughs. “I could go for another cold one. We got any more beers?”

  “I think you had enough,” Malthe says.

  “Fuck you, Mom,” Eli grins, reaching out his hand. “Gimme! Or I’ll start kicking your seat.”

  Malthe bends down, takes another can from the box, then throws it over his shoulder. “Here, catch!”

  “Ouch! You hit me right on the fucking nose!”

  Malthe snorts laughter, and Aksel can’t help but smile despite the pain in his hand at the sight of Eli in the mirror, rubbing his nose, looking at it cross-eyed, like a goddamn cartoon character.

  “Hey, what was that about some naked chick?” Eli asks.

  “I don’t know, you tell us!” Malthe blurts out. “You were the one who mentioned her!”

  “Oh, right. I saw her out the window. Had one boob hanging out.”

  “’One boob’,” Malthe repeats. “How old are you, five? They’re called tits. Or bazookas. Or melons. Or anything but boobs, really.”

  “I call them whatever the boob I want,” Eli grunts and opens the can. “The point is, it was hanging out.”

  “Was she dead?”

  “Huh?”

  “I asked you, was she dead?”

  “No, she was walking around.”

  “That doesn’t mean she wasn’t dead,” Malthe says grimly.

  “What are you on about?” Eli asks, sipping his beer and spilling half of it down his shirt. “Hey, where are we?”

  “In Aarhus, you drunk asshole. You forgot? You wanted to see real-life zombies, so we drove here.”

  “All the way from Fredericia?” Eli asks earnestly.

  “Yeah, and you slept through most of the trip. So take in the view, because we’re leaving again.”

  Just then, Aksel turns on to the freeway and speeds up. The number of dead people decreases drastically, so does the number of cars abandoned on the road, making it possible for him to get the car in fourth and floor it.

  “No, wait,” Eli says, turning in the seat to look back. “Why are we leaving already? I want to see more of them!”