Handling the Undead

by John Ajvide Lindqvist

  ‘No, of course…’ Flora could imagine Elvy slapping her forehead lightly, ‘of course not. How silly of me.’

  There was silence for a couple of seconds. The dark floors of Rissnes apartment buildings glided by outside the window.

  ‘Nana? You heard him too, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The minister didn’t notice anything. And you couldn’t see it on Gramps. He was just lying there.’

  Silence again. Flora took her walkman out of her bag. It was such an ancient model that you had to take the cassette out and turn it to switch sides. She flipped the tape over from Holy Wood to Antichrist Superstar. Then she waited.

  ‘I…thought I saw something,’ Elvy said finally.

  ‘What?’

  Elvy hesitated for two seconds and then said, ‘I just wanted to hear that everything was all right with you. Are you on a bus?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Flora didn’t add anything, and Elvy had run out of questions. They ended the conversation with a promise to be in touch the next day. Flora curled up in the corner of one of the seats, put the earpieces in and pushed play, leaned her head against the window and closed her eyes.

  We hate love…we love hate…we hate love…

  After the bus let her off at Tensta centrum she had to walk a kilometre. The Akalla path brought her almost the whole way, but on the last bit across the Järva field there were no trails other than those that the construction machines had left behind ten years earlier, and even they were returning to nature now.

  She came up on a hill and looked out across the Heath. A hint of dawn brought the grey buildings out in sharp relief. She had been here at night once before, this spring. In the full dark she hadn’t been able to make out the city at all from this vantage point. It had been present only as suggestion, a change in the soundscape.

  There were no street lights, no lamps on in any windows, neither power, water nor drains had been laid all the way. They had never gotten that far.

  As Flora walked down the slope with ‘Tourniquet’ winding through her ears, dawn slowly turned up its light and glinted in the few windows that remained unbroken. Until a few years ago the area—in theory still a construction site—had been enclosed by a fence but since the residents of the Heath created new entrances for the umpteenth time it had finally been left as it was. Large parts of the fence had had other uses found for them, and what was left lay fallen, scattered in the grass.

  The graffiti clean-up crews had given up long since and the lower portions of the buildings were a profusion of spikes and real art. The court case to determine the party responsible for the demolition of the Heath had been underway for five years. Until it was resolved no one was going to do a thing. The Heath was a blot of shame on the city; a failed and slightly dodgy construction project, now a gathering place for those displaced from the rest of the city. From time to time the police went in and cleaned the place out, but since there were no resources for dealing with the results, they really didn’t want to know.

  Flora stepped from grass to asphalt. The sign on the building next to her indicated that she was now on Ekvatorvägen. A graffiti design around the sign made it look like a naked, laughing devil with dreadlocks holding an enormous erection in his hand.

  Flora turned off her walkman in the pause between ‘Tourniquet’ and ‘Angel with Scabbed Wings’. In order to have room for the album on the tape she had been forced to weed out some tracks and the choice had been simple. She took the earpieces out and turned her deafened eardrums toward the silence, chiding herself for the fear that whimpered in her stomach—

  middle-class loser

  —because the only thing you could hear in the area were the sounds of people. They had never got as far as planting trees and bushes, and therefore there were no birds, no rustling leaves. Only people; voices, cries. She turned with rapid steps from Ekvatorvägen onto Latitudvägen and came to Peter’s courtyard.

  Broken glass crunched underfoot and the sound was magnified, bouncing back and forth between the bare concrete walls. All of the buildings around were three storeys high and the courtyard was dominated by the large structure in the centre. According to Peter it had been planned as a combined laundry, social space and refuse centre. However, there was no water to wash with, no garbage collection, and no desire for social gatherings.

  Flora gingerly made her way across plastic bags and strips of cardboard, but could not help stepping on the glass. She was noticed. Someone who had been slumped against the iron door to the laundry room stood up and started to approach her. Flora kept moving, a little faster now.

  ‘Hey there…babe…’

  The man placed himself directly in front of her on the narrow path. Flora’s eyes scanned the surroundings. There was no one else around. The man, who was a head taller than she, had a Finnish accent. A smell she could not identify wafted from him. When the man raised his hand and she saw the bottle, she recognised the smell: T-röd. He held it out to her; a juice bottle with something, maybe bread, stuffed down the neck like a filter.

  ‘Hey Pippi Longstocking, do you want a drink?’

  Flora shook her head. ‘No, I’m good.’

  Her voice appeared to spark some thought in the man. He leaned over, studied her face. Flora stood still.

  ‘Jesus…’ the man said. ‘You’re just…a kid. What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m here to see a friend.’

  ‘Ah.’

  The man stood swaying, thinking this over. He placed the bottle carefully on the ground next to him. Flora watched him closely, prepared to jerk into action if necessary. The man spread out his arms.

  ‘Can I get a hug?’

  Flora didn’t move. Admittedly, the man did not look mean, just pathetic. But the bad guys only look bad in children’s movies. The lowest buttons on his shirt were either unbuttoned or missing, revealing a white belly. His face looked too small for the swollen body and even in the weak light you could see the veins on his cheeks and nose. The man let his arms sink down.

  ‘I have a daughter…had a daughter…she is alive, but…she is your age now, I think.’ He reflected. ‘Thirteen. Haven’t seen her for eight years. Kajsa. That’s her name.’ He motioned to his pants’ pocket, then let the motion die in a not-there gesture. ‘Had a picture, but…’

  He hunched his shoulders and Flora thought he was going to start crying. When she walked past him he stayed put, muttering something to himself.

  Peter’s window was at ground level and the glass was intact. Since his rooms were originally intended to serve as bicycle storage—and did actually function as such—the window was made of reinforced glass and it would take some determination to smash it. Flora crouched down and knocked.

  She heard dragging steps behind her, turned and saw the Finn towering up above her. His arms were outstretched again and an image worthy of Manson flashed through Flora’s mind—

  crucified broiler

  —then the Finn pouted and said in a baby-voice, ‘Can I get a wittle hug?’

  Flora stood up and moved out of reach. The Finn stayed where he was, arms spread, dog-eyed. Flora narrowed her eyes and tilted her head. ‘Don’t you get how disgusting you are?’

  A flashlight went on behind the glass and she heard Peter’s voice, ‘Who is it?’

  Without taking her eyes off the Finn, Flora said, ‘It’s me.’

  She walked down the small stairs in the bike ramp and came to a locked metal door, decorated with a spray-painting of a summer landscape. It was one of the few doors in the area that had a lock, since Peter had put it in himself. The lock rattled and the door opened. Peter was holding a thin sleeping bag around himself with one hand; in the other he had a flashlight.

  ‘Come in.’

  Flora cast a final glance at the Finn who was still standing there, swaying, still with his arms outspread to the night and the memories. Once Peter had closed the door behind them and his flashlight swept across the room she coul
d have been in any residential area. The bicycles were neatly lined up along one side of the room while another wall was reserved for Peter’s delivery moped.

  Peter continued down toward the far end of the room, the divided section he had built himself, and opened the door hidden in the wall mural. He had managed to avoid eviction every time the police came in; they never noticed his hideaway in their cursory searches.

  The room behind the wall was only six metres square. There was room for the bed that Peter had found in a skip and driven home on his moped, a chair, and a table where food items were arranged, a kerosene stove and a container of water—nothing more. On the floor next to the bed he had a boombox connected to a car battery. As if he was playing with the constraints of his environment, Peter used an electric toothbrush and razor. He had a Gameboy and an alarm clock, a mobile phone. The flashlight was an exception, of course. Flora usually brought batteries as a gift.

  Peter locked the door and jumped into bed, unzipping the sleeping bag so it became a blanket. Flora took off her shirt and pants, curling up next to him and leaning her head against his shoulder.

  ‘Peter…’

  ‘Mm?’

  ‘Do you know what’s happened? Tonight?’

  ‘No.’

  She told him the whole story. From the part where she woke up at Elvy’s to where she rode into town in the ambulance. When she finished Peter said, ‘Strange,’ and nestled his arm around her head. After a couple of seconds she heard his breaths deepen, asleep.

  Dawn had made a light grey rectangle of the only window by then and Flora lay staring at it for so long that it hovered on her retina for a long time after she closed her eyes.

  She could tell by the pressure in her head that she had only been sleeping for a few hours when she was woken by noise in the next room. She sat up in bed and looked through the peep hole. A man of Arab appearance—unusually well-dressed by the area’s standards—was coaxing a bike out. Flora wasn’t certain, but she thought she recognised him: he had a regular gig holding up one end of a protest banner on Drottninggatan.

  The man took his bike and left, locking the door behind him. Peter had only given out keys to those who rented space there. It cost twenty kronor a month to keep a bike in the locked and guarded space. Naturally, the deal came with no guarantee that the police wouldn’t confiscate everything if they made a raid.

  Flora lay down again but could not fall back to sleep. She alternated between staring at the ceiling, the golden-yellow rectangle and Peter’s pimply face on the pillow. After an hour she got up and started to heat water for tea on the kerosene stove.

  The hissing from the kitchen area woke Peter. He sat up, looking at the window to judge the time of day, rather than the clock, said, ‘Early’ and slumped back down on the bed.

  When Flora had let the two tea bags sit long enough in the simmering water, she poured out two cups, heaped two teaspoons of sugar in each and took them with her into bed. When they had downed a few sips, Peter said, ‘Those things you told me when you got here…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Is it true?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He nodded, giving the tea cup a shake, then said, ‘Good.’ He got up and poured one more teaspoon of sugar in and came back to bed. There were periods when he lived exclusively on tea and sugar.

  ‘You think it’s good?’ Flora asked.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. Is there more tea?’

  ‘No. The water’s finished.’

  ‘We’ll get more later.’

  Peter got up to pee. His ribs jutted out sharply, as if he had much thinner skin than other people. He removed the wet rag from the pee bucket, got on his knees and tilted it in order to get the right angle. A faint rumble could be heard as the stream hit the metal side. Flora couldn’t handle all that. When she was here she dealt with her needs in one of the portaloos outside the area. Even though the county did not want to acknowledge the existence of the Heath, they had brought in the portaloos several years ago and had them emptied regularly after the patch of forest around the corner had become a shit-smelling litter of toilet paper and urine-burned plants.

  ‘It’s good if the police have something else to do,’ Peter said. ‘And it’s good if this kind of thing happens. It has to happen.’

  ‘But don’t you think it’s strange?’ Flora said.

  ‘I think it’s strange it hasn’t happened before. Should we go get more water?’

  They put their clothes on and Peter took out the moped. It had taken him half a year to restore and repair the pile of scrap that he had found abandoned and stripped in the woods. Basically, he had only been able to salvage the frame and the wheels. But with found and bartered parts he had managed to make it roadworthy, mounted a cargo tray, sprayed it metallic silver and written ‘The Silver Arrow’ on the tank in black letters. It was the only possession he cared about. If Flora pictured Peter as Snuffkin from the Moomin books, then the moped was his harmonica.

  Flora brought the water container along, sat down on the flatbed. They made a round of the area, helping themselves to three containers that were outside the gates. This was Peter’s entire business; he guarded bicycles and fetched and carried—water, among other things. He kept himself alive on food bought from the surplus store with the thousand or so kronor this brought in. Sometimes the market traders in Rinkeby let him have a box of left-over vegetables at the end of the day.

  They drove, bumping across the field, onto Akallavägen, and Peter filled up the water containers at the Shell station. It was shortly before nine o’clock and the headline screamers were out.

  The dead awaken.

  2000 Swedes came back from the grave last night.

  The dead awaken.

  Exclusive pics of the Fright-Night.

  The paper that promised the pictorial spread had a snapshot of what looked like a fistfight on the billboard screamer. People in white were fighting with naked old people between metal counters. The other one looked more like a classic horror film poster; a number of old people in shrouds among gravestones.

  ‘Check that out,’ Flora said.

  ‘Yes,’ Peter said. ‘Can you help me with the containers?’

  Together they loaded up the four ten-litre containers. Flora looked around and couldn’t help being disappointed. Everything looked normal. The sun shining sleepily on people filling up their cars, walking along the footpath. She went into the station and bought both newspapers. The clerk took the money in silence. When she came back outside there was a guy crouched beside his car filling the tyres.

  As if nothing…

  Peter started the moped, and she squeezed on holding onto the containers as they drove back across the rutted field. There were no signs anywhere that the world had gone over the edge last night.

  She had seen Romero’s zombie trilogy and even if that wasn’t what she had expected, then…something. Anything, other than the newspapers getting a new story to feast on. Peter didn’t ask anything, was not getting worked up. That was why she had sought him out; to get away from it. But now as she sat on the shaking flatbed, hugging the containers, she almost longed to get back to the city, to her school, to the hysteria she assumed must be in full bloom there.

  What if that’s the end of it? Something to talk about for a week and then…gone.

  She punched her fist into one of the containers and blinked as the rising tears stung her eyes. She boxed the container again. Peter did not ask why.

  Industrigatan 07.41

  ‘How are you, dear? Are you sick?’

  ‘No, I’m just…I just slept badly.’

  ‘How did things go at Norra Brunn?’

  ‘That ended up being cancelled. That thing with the power. I think I have to get going now.’

  David reached past his mother for Magnus, who smiled broadly and said, ‘I watched TV until ten-thirty! Didn’t I, Grandma?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said with
a sheepish smile. ‘It wouldn’t turn off, and my head was hurting so much…’

  ‘Mine was too, actually,’ Magnus interrupted. ‘But I watched anyway. It was Tarzan.’

  David nodded mechanically. A lava flow was welling up inside his head, behind his eyes. If he stood here one more second he was going to erupt in some way. He had not slept at all. It wasn’t until six o’clock in the morning that someone had told him Eva had been moved to the Medical Examiner’s department. He had tried in vain to get more information, then gone home and splashed cold water in his face, listened to messages on the answering machine.

  Nothing from the hospital. Only reporters, and Eva’s father who was wondering what had happened to her. David couldn’t bring himself to talk to either him or his mother. Luckily she had not heard anything.

  When Magnus took his hand, he pulled him along somewhat too forcefully. His mother wrinkled her brow and asked, ‘And how are things with Eva?’

  ‘Fine. We have to go now.’

  They said goodbye and David hurried Magnus down the stairs. On the way to school, Magnus told him about the episode of Tarzan he had seen and David nodded, grunting without listening. Half-way there, he guided Magnus to a park bench.

  ‘What is it?’ Magnus asked.

  David let his hands rest on his knees, stared down into the pavement. He tried to will the glowing heat inside his head to cool off, to calm down. Magnus fussed with his backpack.

  ‘Dad! I don’t have any fruit!’

  He displayed his empty backpack as evidence and David said, ‘We’ll buy an apple at the newsstand.’

  The everyday words, the normal actions brought a stillness. A sliver of light opened and through it he saw his eight-year-old examine the bottom of his backpack; maybe there was an old apple hidden in there somewhere after all? The morning sun shone on the thin hair at the back of his head.

  I’ll never let you down, little man. Whatever happens.

  The panic ebbed away, replaced by an enormous grief. If only it were this simple: it was a beautiful morning, the sun was pleasantly warm, throwing misty shadows on tree trunks and concrete. Here he was, sitting on a park bench with his son who was on his way to school and needed an apple for his snack. And he was the dad, who could walk into a store, fish out a couple of kronor and buy a large, red apple, and give it to his son, who would say ‘nice one’ and tuck it into his bag. If that was only the way it was.