I Am Behind You

by John Ajvide Lindqvist

  He finds a spot, no bigger than a five-kronor piece, where the window is the same as it was before the rain. He can’t close just one eye, so he covers his left eye with his hand and peers out, as if he is looking through a peep hole.

  The zombies are heading towards the stormtroopers, and Emil feels as if he is watching a film, a bit like when he and Sebbe peeped through the gap in the doorway. Zombies versus Stormtroopers!

  But it doesn’t look as if there is going to be a fight. The stormtroopers simply lean forward, as if they are bowing to the zombies. Emil laughs out loud, because everything is just too weird and silly even to be a film, and if it weren’t for the fact that Mummy and Daddy can see more or less the same things as him, he could easily believe that he’s made it all up.

  What are they doing?

  Emil presses his eye so close to the glass that the picture becomes blurred. He blinks a couple of times, then looks again. Four zombies have climbed onto the backs of the four stormtroopers, and suddenly it’s not fun any more because the zombies aren’t zombies, they’re vampires. All four have sunk their teeth into the necks of the stormtroopers carrying them, and it is obvious from the movement of their bodies, from the jerking and shuddering, that they are drinking.

  Emil looks past the horrible sight and sees Molly, staring out of the window of her caravan. She knew it was going to turn out like this. That creatures wanting blood would come. So why does she look so scared?

  3. Beyond

  Gradually everyone emerges to watch the drama in the middle of the camp. They stand outside their caravans, arms hanging by their sides, observing what is going on at the crossroads. Some see the same thing, others see something completely different. There is a feeling that something should be done, but no one does anything.

  One by one the burnt creatures climb up onto the backs of the white figures and drink their blood. The white figures allow this to happen. They allow it to happen as they stare at the people, and the people feel that something should be done, but no one does anything.

  It is not unlike a ritual, but there is no need to go that far. It is an agreement. Something that has to happen, and is therefore in order. Perhaps that is why no one does anything. They are standing outside an event in which they have no part. Not any longer. Not yet.

  The lustre of the white figures’ skin grows dull and disappears, the stormtroopers’ armour begins to look worn, their bodies stooping. Jimmy Stewart ages rapidly, the travelling salesmen appear to have spent decades on the road, and when the last of the burnt creatures clambers down, the tigers seem to be dying. The screaming has abated as the creatures leave the white figures and head back across the field, following the same tracks that brought them into the camp.

  The white figures in their various manifestations remain where they are for a minute or so, until they have the strength to straighten their bent bodies. They gaze at the people for one last time with their dull, black eyes, then they begin to stagger along the tracks leading out into the field.

  The people stand there with their arms hanging by their sides, watching them go. It is over. For this time.

  *

  ‘What was that?’

  Olof watches the burnt creatures as they head off into the distance, while Lennart focuses on the four travelling salesmen, who look as if they will soon be at the end of their travels, dragging themselves along their eternal road.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Lennart says. ‘It almost felt as if it was…meant to be. Like when a mink kills a chicken with a single bite.’

  ‘Well, yes, but then chickens don’t just stand there waiting to be bitten.’

  ‘That’s often exactly what they do.’

  They don’t look at one another during this exchange. That kiss is still burning on their lips. If it hadn’t been for the rain, death falling from the sky, it would never have happened. Never in a million years. Now the rain has passed, and things are very awkward.

  Just over three years after Ingela and Agnetha had shot through, Lennart and Olof got drunk one night. Neither of them was much of a drinker, but the children were with their mothers, it was Saturday, there was plenty of schnapps, and they were having such a good time playing old albums on Olof’s record player. They both had a glass or two more than usual.

  When it was time for Lennart to go home, Olof said he was welcome to stay so that he didn’t end up in a ditch. By this time Lennart was so far gone that he simply fell into the bed Olof used to share with Ingela; he didn’t even bother getting undressed.

  Olof stood there for a little while contemplating his sleeping friend and hanging on to the bed head for support, because the floor was moving up and down like the deck of a ship caught in a violent storm. He would go and lie down on Ante’s bed as soon as he had sorted out his balance. But Ante’s room was ten metres away, and there was space in the bed right there in front of him. Without further thought he took three steps and crashed down on the bed next to Lennart and immediately fell asleep. When he woke up it was gone nine o’clock.

  Both Lennart and Olof’s bodies were used to waking up at five to see to the cows. Olof in particular had found it difficult to sleep since Ingela disappeared; he would often wake two or three times during the night, and sometimes he couldn’t get back to sleep.

  Therefore, his first thought when he woke up and saw the clock was: Oh my God! The cows! His second thought was: I’ve slept really well. Then a sour, fluffy wave came surging through his skull, bringing with it his third thought: I’m never going to touch another drop.

  He would get up in a minute, get on with the day, but first of all he gave himself a little time to think about how he was feeling. In spite of the hangover there was a kind of peace in his body, the peace that comes from being fully rested. He turned over and looked at Lennart’s broad back. The movement woke Lennart, who peered at him in confusion.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘It just turned out that way,’ Olof said.

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Nine o’clock.’

  ‘You’re kidding me!’

  ‘Nope.’

  Lennart made a move to get up, then fell back on the pillows, staring up at the ceiling.

  ‘I might have had a bit too much to drink last night,’ he said.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘We need to see to the cows.’

  ‘I know. Did you sleep well?’

  Lennart rubbed his eyes, blinked a couple of times, then shook his head in an attempt to clear his mind. ‘Like a baby,’ he said. ‘I never sleep that well these days.’

  ‘Same here. Strange.’

  ‘Very strange.’

  They looked at one another. Smiled shyly. Shook their heads. Then they got up and tackled the day. That evening they had just a couple of drinks and discussed the matter. In spite of their respective hangovers, both of them had experienced an unusually high level of energy during the day. With cautious hints, half-questions and a great deal of circumlocution, they finally agreed that they might possibly sleep better if they shared a bed.

  It would be a couple of days before Ante and Gunilla returned, so Lennart and Olof decided to try it once more, with less alcohol involved this time. The same thing happened again, in spite of the fact that they both slept fully dressed. A whole night’s wonderful sleep.

  After another day filled with energy, they met up in the evening for a serious talk.

  ‘I mean, this isn’t a long-term solution,’ Lennart began.

  ‘No, I expect you’re right.’

  ‘What will the kids think?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know what I mean. Two men sleeping together. It’s just not possible.’

  ‘No,’ Olof said, thinking how reassuring it felt to hear another person’s breathing when you were just about to fall asleep, to know that there was no risk of being overwhelmed by the sense of being all alone in the world. ‘Then again, why not?’

  ‘You know that just
as well as I do.’

  ‘No, I don’t. But then perhaps I don’t know much at all.’

  Lennart’s eyes narrowed as he looked at Olof, who was sitting opposite him at the kitchen table, hands neatly resting one on top of the other.

  ‘Can I ask you something?’ Lennart said.

  ‘Ask away.’

  Lennart shuffled, rubbed his chin. ‘The thing is, I’m not…I mean I’m not the kind of person who judges others, each to their own, but….have you got any…tendencies in that direction?’

  Olof began to say, ‘I don’t know what you…’ but Lennart slammed his hand down on the table and interrupted him.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Olof! Don’t make this any more difficult than it already is! You know exactly what I’m talking about.’

  Olof sighed. ‘Right, yes. No, I don’t have any tendencies. As far as I’m aware, never have had.’

  ‘Okay. Okay. Good. Just so we know where we stand. Because I haven’t either. None at all. As I said, it’s not that I have anything against those who are that way inclined, but…’

  ‘But?’

  Lennart glared at Olof. ‘To be honest, I think you’re being really difficult. To deal with. As far as this is concerned.’

  ‘Sleep on your own then,’ Olof snapped. ‘Lie there tossing and turning, or sit up and wait for the dawn. Like I do.’

  There was a long silence, broken only by the ticking of the grandfather clock in the living room, the rasp of fingernails on stubble, and a faint rustling as they both shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Eventually Lennart spoke: ‘But what about the kids?’

  ‘They’ll understand. They will.’

  When Ante and Gunilla got back and were told about the new arrangement, they had quite a lot of questions. However, these questions mainly concerned what was going to happen to their rooms and where they were all going to live. Lennart’s house was bigger, and there was a guest room that was hardly ever used, so that was to be Ante’s new room. He had no complaints, because it was much nicer than his old one.

  If the children had any questions about the nature of Lennart and Olof’s relationship, they kept them to themselves. Everyone thought that living together was much more fun, and more practical. Ante and Gunilla already got on very well, and after the move they became best friends.

  Lennart and Olof continued to sleep well at night. As time went by they even ventured to get undressed down to their vests and long johns at bedtime. A year or so after they had moved in together, their hands happened to brush against one another, and somehow they got into the habit of lying there holding hands for a while before they went to sleep.

  That was as far as the physical aspect of their relationship had gone, until acid raining down from the sky made them take an enormous step into the unknown.

  *

  Side by side, but not too close, they amble over to their little plantation and discover that, as they suspected, everything that had been flourishing so unnaturally has been annihilated by the rain. There is not a leaf to be seen, not a stem or a stalk; all that is left is a patch of black earth.

  ‘This grass…’ Olof says, rubbing the sole of his shoe over the bright green surface.

  ‘Yes,’ Lennart says. ‘Let’s not talk about it.’

  ‘You think we shouldn’t talk about things we don’t understand?’

  Lennart sighs and gives Olof an apologetic look. ‘Was there something you wanted to say about the grass?’

  ‘Not really; I was just thinking that it must be specially adapted to grow here. To survive these conditions.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I don’t mean anything. Just that whatever exists here must be specially adapted to survive. Everything else disappears.’

  They walk over to the space where Donald and Majvor’s awning used to be. The sun lounger has been reduced to a corroded skeleton, the little refrigerator has lost its white coating, and all that remains of the treated decking is a greenish, rotten sludge. Lennart pokes it with his foot.

  ‘This isn’t going to be much use when it comes to building a tower,’ he says.

  ‘No. But then I never did think that particular plan was going to work—did you?’

  ‘Not really. But it would have been good to be able to phone home at some point.’

  ‘It would,’ Olof agrees.

  The tone of their conversation is getting back to normal; both of them can hear and feel it. They glance at one another, tentatively venturing a smile.

  ‘Lennart…’

  ‘No. Not now. We’ll talk about it later. I need to…’

  ‘Digest it?’

  ‘Yes. Exactly. Something like that.’

  They look around the camp. Since the white figures’ enchanted circle broke up, everyone has gone back to their usual tasks, insofar as any task is normal in this place. Carina is checking her water tank, Peter is throwing out possessions that have been destroyed, while Donald and Majvor are getting ready to set off.

  Judging by surface appearances, everyone is acting as if a temporary crisis has passed, and it is now time to tackle the situation afresh. But that is only superficial. Their faces, the way they move their bodies, the sound of their voices—everything has changed following their collective near-death experience. An undercurrent has seeped in, as dark as the sludge at Lennart and Olof’s feet.

  They have stopped believing that they can survive. For the time being they are getting on with what needs to be done because there is nothing else to do, but they all know that it will take only one or perhaps two showers of rain to reduce them to any items made of precious metals that they might be wearing, just like Erik and the others. It might not be for a day or two, perhaps even a week, but sooner or later it will happen.

  *

  Isabelle’s itchy arms are so irritating that it is almost a relief when a familiar sensation begins to make itself felt, fighting for the space available to deliver discomfort: hunger. She steps out of the barbecue area and walks towards the kiosk, ash whirling around her feet. A few mosquitoes pick up the scent of her sweaty forehead and start whining around her ears.

  Fuck. Fuck.

  She was supposed to melt, be burnt out of the picture, go clean and pure to her death. Instead, this. The stench of urine and faeces from the toilet block makes a lump of vomit rise into her throat as she reaches the kiosk. The boy inside is perhaps eighteen years old, and suffering from a bad case of acne. His flat face is red and pitted with scars; he looks shy and unsure of himself. Isabelle straightens her back, sticks out her chest and asks: ‘Have you got any chocolate?’

  The boy glances up at her, then he looks away, shakes his head. Isabelle checks that her nipples are sufficiently erect to show through her thin top. His eyes should be out on stalks, but instead he is refusing to look at her. He actually turns around and starts fiddling with something on the shelves.

  There is a box of chocolate bars on the counter. Isabelle grabs a couple and backs away as she rips the wrapping off one of them, bites off a huge chunk and begins to chew. She can hear chomping and crunching, but the only thing she can taste is ash. She takes another bite, munches harder, runs her tongue around the inside of her mouth, but the taste of ash merely grows stronger. She begins to sweat, and her hands are shaking.

  She looks around. Three indolent middle-aged men are sitting at a camping table messing around with fishing lines, weights and floats. There are three bamboo rods propped against a tree beside them. Isabelle’s arms burn and sting as she goes over to them and says: ‘Hi, guys.’

  The men nod and murmur in response, but they don’t even look up. They carry on attaching hooks, clipping on weights, threading floats.

  You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met.

  How many men have said that to her? Five? Seven? Ten? And now these three are sitting here; they ought to fall at her feet and worship her, but instead they only have eyes for their fishing equipment. Isabelle pulls off her top and steps out of her p
ants, drops the items of clothing on the table. She stands naked before the men, spreads her arms wide and yells: ‘See anything you like? Well, do you? Look at me, for fuck’s sake!’

  One of the men moves her top, which has landed on his jar of worms, then returns to his task. Isabelle’s body is seething with hunger, a rushing sound fills her head, and the itching in her arms is unbearable.

  The two tracks lead away from the table at an angle. She chooses the one on the right, which leads into the trees. She uses what remains of her nails to scrape at her wounds until they start to bleed, then she breaks into a run.

  Blood is dripping from her arms as she enters the forest. The track is narrow; twigs and branches scratch her bare skin, and at last something begins to feel real, at last she can actually feel something, and she extends her bleeding arms so that everything that is sharp can stab and tear at her, and eventually the pain is so great that it washes away everything else.

  There are five of them moving across the grass, whimpering and groaning. Isabelle slows down to match their pace. Her flesh is screaming, and the muscles that have not been burnt away are throbbing with a pain as deep as the earth itself; her entire body is a ganglion of pain, but it is a pure pain from which there is no hope of redemption, a pain that simply exists.

  The thing that used to be Isabelle opens its ruined mouth, widens its throat and allows its voice to blend with the others in the lament that never stops, the lament about life, about pain, about hunger and movement. She follows the track that leads out across the field, together with her tribe.

  *

  Donald has demonstrated many different moods over the past few hours, above all a range of variations on anger and fury, but Majvor has not yet seen the emotion that is etched on his face when he looks at his car. Donald looks distressed.

  He takes great pride in looking after his car. Washing, polishing, waxing. Donald is rarely as amenable as on a Sunday afternoon, when he comes indoors after spending a couple of hours on the drive with Turtle Wax and a chamois leather, leaving the car shining like the still surface of a lagoon in the setting sun. He might forget to shave, he might wander around for several days with unattractive hairs protruding from his chin, but he polishes that car until you could eat your dinner off the bonnet.