I Am Behind You

by John Ajvide Lindqvist

  ‘Zombies, Mummy!’

  Carina has no idea what these ragged creatures are, but she does know one thing: they must not get into the caravan.

  ‘Stay here, sweetheart,’ she says, and as she gets to her feet she sees the Lego fortress. The four walls, the three knights.

  With thick walls so it can withstand the attack. The door is the weakest point. Is there anything bigger that lives on blood?

  Somehow Emil has known all along. What else did he say? Something about whatever it is that lives on blood, but what was it? There isn’t time to ask him now. She has to go and find Stefan.

  When she reaches the doorway she sees her husband standing in the middle of the camp holding the shotgun high above his head as if he is wading across a river. Before she can say anything he shouts: ‘Listen everyone! We need to get inside the caravans! The rain contains some kind of corrosive acid. We need to take cover!’

  Carina steps back to let Stefan in. He has the gun in one hand, and with the other he closes and locks the door behind him.

  ‘How are you two?’ he asks. ‘Are you okay?’

  Stefan is essentially a very calm person, and it takes a lot to get him worked up. On one occasion a truck ran into a petrol pump outside the store, and thousands of litres of fuel gushed out across the car park. Just one spark and ICA Ålviken would have been nothing more than a memory. Stefan took charge of evacuating the premises, cordoned off the area and called the emergency services. Everything turned out okay in the end, but it’s the only time Carina has seen him really stressed.

  Until now; this is much worse. His voice has a metallic tone and his eyes are darting all around the caravan as he brandishes the shotgun. Carina temporarily pushes her own fears to one side so that she can put her arms around his trembling body. ‘You’re my hero. You’re the bravest person I know. I love you.’

  The trembling subsides a little, and Stefan takes a deep breath, then exhales in a long sigh. He puts down the gun on the worktop and hugs her back.

  ‘Thank you,’ he whispers into her hair.

  Emil squeezes in between them so that he can join in with the hug. With his head between their stomachs he says in a broken voice: ‘They’re here now.’

  There is a crash and the caravan shudders as the first runner crosses the line.

  *

  Peter has given up. As he was driving towards the camp, his plan of action was clear in his mind: hook up the caravan and head away from the clouds. Now it turns out that the clouds are coming from both directions, and his head is empty. All he can do is sit and wait. Let others say their prayers, if they so wish.

  Before he goes into the caravan he looks around. Stefan has just slammed the door shut behind him, while the two farmers are manhandling Donald into their caravan, followed by Majvor. The four versions of his father are still standing in the middle of the camp, staring in different directions.

  ‘I hate you,’ Peter says to them. ‘I know it isn’t you, but I hate you anyway. If I had the gun, I’d shoot you. And you. And you.’ He looks at the last figure, the kinder version from his childhood. ‘And you.’

  The clouds are now so close that they are visible above the roof of the caravan. Peter nods to the four fathers. ‘I hope you burn.’

  He steps inside, checking that Isabelle and Molly are already there. He closes the door behind him, and as he turns the lock he sees what he just saw, the horrific vision of Isabelle, sitting up in bed with his laptop open in front of her.

  ‘What the hell have you done?’

  Isabelle’s face is so swollen that she is barely recognisable, and there are patches of dried blood on her cheeks and chin. Both arms are encased in duct tape, and a string of pink saliva is dangling from the corner of her mouth, heading for the laptop’s keypad.

  ‘Hi, Daddy!’ Molly says. ‘We’re watching a film!’

  The approaching screams from the creatures outside mingle with similar noises from the laptop’s speaker. Peter sits down on the bed and turns the computer so that he can see the screen.

  A woman is hanging on a metal frame while a man flays her alive, his face expressionless. The woman screams and screams as the man uses a scalpel to remove yet another sliver of skin, exposing red, gleaming flesh. He throws the scrap of skin into a metal bowl, looks into the woman’s eyes, which are hysterical with fear, then begins to slice off another piece.

  ‘It’s brilliant!’ Molly says, clapping her hands. ‘Come and watch it with us, Daddy!’

  Peter has gone through a range of emotions over the past few hours, many sensations have surged through his body, but he has not experienced the entire spectrum until now: he feels ill. Bile rises in his throat as he looks at Isabelle’s distorted face, the martyred woman on the screen, and Molly’s beaming smile.

  Sick, this is…sick.

  The sky outside grows dark, and the light from the screen flickers in nauseating shades of blue and green over his wife, his daughter. With his hand covering his mouth Peter gets up from the bed just as one of the creatures reaches the caravan and starts banging its hands against the metal. Peter jumps and takes a step back as the claw-like fingers scrabble at the window.

  ‘Nooooo, please God! Nooooo!’

  For a moment he thinks that the creature’s inarticulate cries have turned into words in English. Then he understands, reaches across the bed and slams the laptop shut. He grabs it and places it on the highest kitchen shelf.

  ‘Daddy, no!’

  ‘Molly, you’re not to watch that kind of thing.’

  ‘But I love that kind of thing!’

  Peter looks out of the window. There is no longer any sign of the burnt creature, nor can he hear the sound of scrabbling as it tries to find a way in. Fifty metres away a ripple passes through the grass as the curtain of rain comes closer. Forty metres. Thirty.

  There is nothing he can do. The nausea subsides; the internal voices urging him to run, to do something, think of something, fall silent. Slowly he sinks down onto the bed. There is just one thing he would like to know before it all ends.

  ‘Molly,’ he says, and his daughter looks up at him, her expression sullen. ‘What exactly are you?’

  The sullenness disappears and Molly’s face changes as she straightens up; it is as if she has been waiting for this question for a long time. ‘Don’t you know, Daddy?’

  ‘No, Molly. I don’t know.’

  Molly looks at her mother’s ruined face to check if she is listening, but Isabelle is lost, her gaze turned inward. Molly shuffles closer to Peter and whispers: ‘I am a fountain of blood in the form of a girl.’

  And then the rain is upon them.

  *

  Benny doesn’t like whatever it is that has crawled under the caravan to join him and Cat. He doesn’t like it at all. It smells kind of like when there is a fire, it is neither He nor She, and Benny barks at it, hoping it will go away. Cat must be of the same opinion, because she hisses and makes herself enormous.

  Benny wishes he could make himself enormous too, just like one of those Dogs people are scared of, because the thing that smells of fire takes no notice of the noise they are making, but simply edges closer as if it wants to grab hold of Benny.

  A few seconds ago they could have run across to another caravan, but this is no longer possible; it is raining, and you only have to sniff the rain to realise that you will be a dead dog if it touches you. They are stuck here with the firecreature.

  Benny and Cat shuffle backwards, barking and hissing. The firecreature has a noise too, a horrible noise just like when He or She have hurt themselves really badly, and it makes this noise all the time, as if it is constantly hurting itself.

  Benny and Cat have reached the far side of the caravan; there is nowhere else to go. Benny peeps out and sees that the four big Grandchildren are still standing there; the rain is pouring down on them, but they are not dead. Benny is so preoccupied by this sight that he has no time to react when the firecreature seizes his collar.
/>   The barking changes to a howl as Benny is dragged across the grass towards the firecreature’s mouth. He can see its teeth. Big white teeth, gleaming in the darkness. Benny’s claws scrabble and slip on the grass without finding any purchase, and he whimpers in terror as the teeth part and the mouth opens, ready to bite his throat.

  Then he sees an orange stripe out of the corner of his eye. Cat’s fur tickles his nose and Cat sinks her sharp little teeth into the firecreature’s hand. Cat is now so big that she only just fits beneath the caravan, and her eyes are wild.

  The firecreature lashes out at Cat, striking her on the back, but she refuses to let go of its hand. At the same time her claws come out and she scratches the firecreature’s eyes.

  The noise it is making grows louder and it lets go of Benny, who takes the opportunity to bite its other hand. More noise. Then it withdraws to the other end of the caravan and lies there on its belly. It is still looking hungrily at Benny and Cat, but it daren’t come any nearer. Benny and Cat move back to their own side. There is blood in the fur on Cat’s back. Benny nudges her in the stomach and she lies down, then Benny begins to lick her wounds.

  *

  The rain is hammering down on the roof of Lennart and Olof’s caravan when they hear barking from under the floor. Barking, hissing, and screaming that seems to come from a person in agony. Majvor covers her ears with her hands; Donald is on the sofa, still struggling to free himself from Lennart’s grip. The paraffin lamp they have lit and placed on the table wobbles and almost falls over.

  ‘Will you stop it?’ Lennart roars. ‘Aren’t things bad enough already?’

  Olof looks at the floor and says: ‘Maud. Maud is down there.’

  ‘Yes,’ Lennart agrees. ‘I guess she is.’

  The barking turns to howling and then a terrified whimpering, Maud’s hissing intensifies and Olof pulls a face. ‘I can’t listen to this.’ He gets up and moves towards the door. ‘I’m going to…’

  ‘Olof, didn’t you hear what Stefan said?’

  Olof fiddles with the strap of his dungarees and looks out of the window at the thick drops of rain sliding down the glass against a backdrop of darkness. ‘Yes, but it doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘And what exactly has made sense in this place so far? At least test it out first.’

  The sound of fighting under the caravan stops, and Olof picks up a puzzle magazine with a caricature of the pop singer Måns Zelmerlöw on the cover. He opens the window a fraction, pushes the magazine outside for a few seconds, then pulls it back in.

  The cover is smoking as Zelmerlöw’s face disintegrates, revealing completed crosswords which also dissolve, until the magazine is perforated by a number of holes. Donald hurls himself from side to side, yelling something from behind the tape. Lennart shoves him away.

  ‘Okay,’ he says. ‘Enough. You think all this is a dream you’re having, right?’

  Donald looks at Lennart through narrowed eyes, then he nods.

  ‘Right. And neither I nor anyone else can do or say anything to convince you that this is not the case, because then you just assume it’s part of the dream?’

  Donald says something, but when he realises that no one can understand him, he nods again.

  ‘Okay. Listen to me. There was some philosopher who said: I think, therefore I am.’

  ‘Descartes,’ Olof says. ‘Came up yesterday. In a crossword.’

  ‘That’s it, Descartes. And you think—don’t you, Donald? Sitting there glaring at me right now, you can think, can’t you?’ Lennart goes on without waiting for a response from Donald. ‘Now I’m no philosopher, and I might not be very good at putting things into words, but neither are you, so…’

  Majvor has uncovered her ears and is leaning forward with her eyes fixed on Lennart’s lips as if she doesn’t want to miss a word.

  ‘We’re all here,’ Lennart says. ‘In this place, this…bizarre place. And you’re walking around here, Donald. And you’re thinking. So this is where your head is. Regardless of your opinion, it means that you’re here too. Just like we are. Thinking. Do you understand what I’m saying?’

  Donald’s eyes flicker from side to side and it seems as if he is making use of the faculty Lennart has just ascribed to him: he is thinking. Then he nods once more.

  ‘Good. In that case I’m going to remove this tape, Donald, because to be honest this is just ridiculous.’

  Gently Lennart pulls off the tape; Donald moans as it tugs at his stubble. He smacks his sticky lips and says: ‘The hands too.’

  ‘First of all I need to hear that you understand,’ Lennart says.

  ‘I understand. I understand that you’re talking a load of crap.’

  Lennart closes his eyes and his shoulders slump. He gets to his feet, and Donald, unable to use his hands, clumsily follows suit. Lennart opens a drawer, takes out a serrated knife and cuts through the tape binding Donald’s wrists. Then he sits back down and waves towards the door.

  ‘Be my guest, Donald. You saw what happened to the magazine, but if all this is a dream then you’re in no danger, because it’s impossible to die in dreams, from what I’ve heard. Go for it.’

  There are several rusty patches on the old caravan, places where corrosion has begun to eat away at the metal. So far there are no holes, but one of the worst spots is just above the door. As Donald puts his hand on the latch, the rain comes through and a few drops land on his bald patch. He runs his hand over his head, then his face crumples and he lets out a yell as he scrubs at the affected area with both hands.

  ‘Ow ow ow, fuck, it’s burning…ow!’

  He runs to the sink and turns on the tap to sluice his head with cold water; meanwhile, Lennart, Olof and Majvor lean closer together.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ Majvor asks, glancing up at a patch of rust above the table, where a single drop of rain is just about to fall. It slowly lengthens, frees itself and lands on the laminate tabletop, where it leaves a small, hissing crater. Majvor cannot take her eyes off it.

  Fire and brimstone from the sky.

  They are not going to get out of this alive; there is no point in pretending any more. As Lennart and Olof get to their feet, Majvor puts her hands together, closes her eyes and begins to pray.

  She knows a lot of prayers, both those sanctioned by the church and those she has made up herself. Most are addressed to God the Father, the creator of heaven and earth. But in really difficult times, such as the time when she was pregnant with Albert and thought she might be losing the baby, it is not God who is closest to her.

  No, when darkness falls and she feels that there is no hope left, then God is—forgive the blasphemous thought—merely an omnipotent judge, a man among other men, and the only one who can understand her is another woman, another mother: the Virgin Mary.

  There is a cracking sound as something in the kitchen is torn free. Majvor concentrates on the boundless inner space where Mary will open her arms to receive her.

  ‘Holy Mary, Mother of God,’ Majvor murmurs. ‘Help us in our hour of need and forgive us our sins which are as innumerable as the grains of sand on the seashore. Show us the way out of this…hell.’

  Majvor listens, but all she hears are the external sounds of wrenching and breaking wood.

  ‘Where are you?’ she whispers. ‘Mother Mary, where are you?’

  Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

  Until now everything has somehow been bearable. Majvor has known all along that if her need becomes too great, if she prays from the bottom of her heart, then the answer will come. It always does. But not this time. She has nowhere to turn, and the depth of her isolation does something to her. Something critical.

  *

  ‘I need the outdoor cushions too! And the rugs!’

  Stefan is standing on the loft ladder, throwing soft furnishings into the alcove between the roof and the ceiling as Carina passes them up from below. Their only hope is that the corrosive rain is a temporary phenomenon, and the alcove gives th
em the chance to create a layer of insulation above the kitchen table, which should at least buy them a few extra minutes.

  Even though Stefan has not really recovered from the incident with Donald, he has already been thrown into a new cycle where lives, their lives, are at risk. He feels like a character from Emil’s Nintendo, a Raving Rabbid. His hands seem as if they are not attached to his body, but are living a life of their own where they carry out the necessary actions when someone else operates the controls. Up the ladder, down the ladder, jump forward, duck to avoid being shot, try to survive until the next level.

  ‘The sleeping bags!’

  Now the idea has taken hold, he can’t get it out of his head. It seems odd that he is talking, issuing orders and appearing to be quite sensible, when all he really has to say is what Raving Rabbid says. Those crazy, wide-open eyes, that gaping mouth, and ‘BWAAHHH!’

  ‘Daddy!’

  For a moment Stefan isn’t sure. Did he really just yell like those lunatic rabbits? If so it’s hardly surprising that Emil sounds so frightened.

  ‘Daddy!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘My cuddly toys! You have to save them!’

  ‘Okay, pass me the torch.’

  Emil grabs the flashlight and passes it up to his father.

  Bwaahhh!

  The rain has come through the roof in at least a dozen places and has begun to destroy Emil’s bedclothes, mattress, and everything they have thrown in the alcove. An acrid mist hovers in the air in the cramped space, thickening as the drops continue to fall.

  ‘Sweetheart, I just can’t do it, it’s…’

  If Emil had said Please Daddy, or Daddy you have to, Stefan wouldn’t have done it, even though he knows how much Bunte, Hipphopp, Bengtson and the others mean to his son. Wherever the family goes, the five soft toys have to come too, and in a way they are his closest friends. But acid is dripping from everywhere now, and there is no possibility of Stefan reaching the toys around Emil’s pillow without it landing on him.