Handling The Undead

by John Ajdive Lindqvist

  They hugged at the school gates and David stayed crouched there for a while-saw Magnus walk in through the tall doors with his large bag thumping against his back.

  He picked up snippets of a conversation between two parents

  standing next to him, ‘…like a horror film zombies… you can

  only hope they manage to round them all up think of what the

  children… ‘

  He recognised them as parents of children in Magnus’ class. He was gripped by a sudden rage. He wanted to throw himself at them, shake them and scream that this wasn’t some movie, that Eva wasn’t a zombie, that she had just died and then come back to life and soon everything was going to be fine.

  As if she had felt his anger streaming toward her, the woman turned around and noticed David. Her hand flew up to her lips and immediate pity altered the expression in her eyes. She walked up to David with nervously fluttering fingers and said, ‘I’m so sorry…I heard… how awful.’.

  David glared at her. ‘What are you talking about?’

  This was apparently not the reaction she had been expecting, and her hands swung up in front of her as if to ward off his animosity.

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I understand… it was on the news this morning, you see…’

  It took several seconds until David made the connection. He had completely forgotten the exchange with the reporters, had experienced it as something so meaningless that it couldn’t possibly carry any meaning in the outer world. Even the man now came forward.

  ‘Can we do anything?’ he asked.

  David shook his head and walked away. Outside the newsagents he

  stopped in front of the headlines.

  Magnus…

  Had any of the parents who had watched the morning news said anything to their children, so that Magnus would find out that way? Were people really so stupid? Should he go get Magnus?

  He couldn’t summon the energy to think. Instead he walked in and bought both papers, then sat down on a bench to read them. When he was done he was going to go out to the Medical Examiner’s department and figure out what the hell they were up to.

  He had trouble concentrating on the text. The words he had overheard from the other parents kept running through his head.

  Horror film… zombies…

  He never watched horror movies, but this much he knew: zombies were dangerous. Something that people had to protect themselves against. He rubbed his eyes firmly and focused on the photographs, the text.

  The elevator starts with a jerk. I can hear screams through the thick concrete. The morgue level comes into view through the door glass…

  The article’s rigorous tone of reportage gave way to a plea at the end that made David sit up a little. The writer-Gustav Mahler, David read-had completely inappropriately inserted his own voice in closing.

  … we must nonetheless ask ourselves: Is it not for the family members to say what should be done? Can the state authorities alone decide a matter that in the final analysis is about love? I do not think so, and I think others feel the same.

  David lowered the paper.

  Yes, he thought. Ultimately this is about love.

  He folded the newspaper into his pocket like a silent support and hailed a taxi to take him to Solna, where they were keeping Eva prisoner.

  Vallingby 08.00

  Mahler thought he had just closed his eyes for a few seconds when the alarm went off, but he had slept for three hours, sitting up in the armchair. His body felt like part of the chair, hard to dislodge. Elias was lying on the couch with his head right next to him. He stretched out his arm and placed his finger in Elias’ palm; it responded.

  He had a memory of writing something for the paper, and it made him anxious. Had he mentioned Elias? In some way he had, but he couldn’t recall what. Composing it had been a forty-fiveminute rush of letters and cigarettes. Then he had retreated to the armchair, and switched off.

  Enough. There were too many other things to consider. He heaved himself up out of the chair and went out on the balcony, lit a cigarette and leaned over the railing. It was a beautiful morning. A clear blue sky and not yet warm. A soft breeze set the cigarette glowing, caressed his chest. His whole body was sticky with dried sweat, and his shirt was stiff, oily. The smoke he was sucking into his lungs tasted of thick heat.

  He looked across the courtyard at Anna’s window.

  I have to tell her.

  At around ten o’clock she would visit the grave and see what had

  happened. He had to spare her that shock, but he was afraid; did not know how she would react. Since Elias’ death, only a thin membrane had kept her from tumbling into the final darkness. Maybe it would break now. There was one thing that spoke against this: she had not chosen cremation. She had wanted to have Elias’ skin, face, bones to think of, down in the earth. Had wanted to keep him present. Perhaps it even meant that she would get through this. Perhaps.

  He put out the cigarette, drew a couple of deep breaths, as deep as he could with his wheezing pipes, and went back in.

  Now, with the outside air as a point of comparison, he could tell how bad the room smelled. Stale cigarette smoke mixed with dust and behind this, penetratingly, a strong smell of—

  what is it called

  – Havarti. Aged cheese. That smell that stayed on your fingers, in!

  scent-memory, hours after you opened the plastic packaging. While 1

  he stood still and drew in air through his nose it grew stronger. Elias’

  belly was swollen like a balloon, yet another button had come off

  during the night and now his pyjama top was fastened only by a

  button at the neck.

  She can’t see him like this.

  He half-filled the bathtub, then carried Elias to the bathroom and undressed him. Soon he would be used to it. Soon there would be no more surpnses.

  Elias’ skin was dark green, olive-coloured, and appeared thinMahler could clearly make out the blood vessels underneath. There were small fluid-filled blisters scattered across his chest as if he had chickenpox. If he could only eliminate the gas that was inflating his belly. It would make Elias appear less deformed, it would be possible to view him as… as if he had severe burns or something like that.

  Elias’ face was unmoving as his clothes were removed. Mahler did not know if he could see anything. The eyes were only visible as two drops of dried sap under the sunken eyelids.

  Mahler gently lowered him into the bathtub. Elias did not protest. As the water closed around his body he let out a sigh of fetid air. Mahler filled his toothbrushing glass with water and held it up to the blackened lips. Since Elias made no move to drink it, Mahler tilted the glass so that a little liquid ran into his mouth. It ran out again.

  Then he remembered something. Something he had read about Haiti, about the risen dead.

  He resisted the impulse to go to the bookshelf and check, he daren’t leave Elias alone in the bathtub. He painstakingly sponged off every bit of his body. The worst was the fingers, toes, the penis that were all blue-black with some kind of gangrene and completely bereft of life.

  He finished by shampooing Elias’ hair. As he slowly rubbed his scalp, Mahler closed his eyes and was able to pretend for a moment. It was basically no different than when he had washed Elias’ hair before. But when he opened his eyes and was going to rinse he saw that tufts of hair were hanging from his fingers.

  No, no…

  He scooped water over the hair, not daring to dry it for fear that more would fall out. The water in the bathtub was brown and Mahler pulled out the plug, then rinsed Elias off with warm water from the hand-held shower.

  The belly… that belly…

  He laid his hand on Elias’ stomach and pressed lightly. When nothing happened, he pressed a little harder. It gave way with a farting sound. He pressed more. The farting continued, as when you let air out of a balloon; a light-brown fluid trickled out of the anus, ran down toward the drain and
a smell rose up out of the tub that forced Mahler to turn away, open the lid to the toilet and vomit.

  This will be fine… this will be fine…

  Yes. Elias looked a little better now, he decided when he turned back. The body had lost its look of starvation, but his skin…

  Mahler rinsed Elias off once more, then lifted him out of the tub, swept him up in a white bath towel and carried him to his bed. He fetched a tube of body lotion and rubbed it into every centimetre of his leathery skin. To his elation he saw that after one minute the skin looked as dry as before.

  That must mean it was absorbing it. He went over the body with lotion again and again until the tube was empty.

  When he pinched the skin on Elias’ armpit with his thumb and forefinger it was less hard than before. Less like leather, more like rubber. But just as dry. He would have to buy more lotion.

  The work granted him a measure of relief. Softening his skin was the first thing he had been able to do for Elias, the only improvement he had been able to achieve.

  Haiti…

  He did not need to read; he remembered.

  In the kitchen he half-filled a glass with water, then poured in a teaspoon of salt and mixed it until it was fully dissolved. He tasted it. Super salty. He filled the glass to the top, mixed it and tasted again. Poured out half and filled it up again. Yes. Now it tasted more or less like sea water.

  He hesitated when he came back into the bedroom. The very sick were often given glucose, a sugar solution. He only had superstition to lean on in order to justify this.

  But surely it can’t actually be… dangerous. Can it?

  Elias’ life flame was so terribly weak. It felt as if it wouldn’t take much to extinguish it completely. But surely a mouthful of salt water wouldn’t…?

  He sat on the edge of the bed with the glass in his hand.

  Haiti was the only place in the world with a widespread belief in zombies. And what the dead need when they return to the world of the living is sea water. In all mythology there is some kernel of truth, otherwise it would not survive. So therefore…

  He cupped his hand behind Elias’ neck. Drops from the wet hair ran down over the back of his hand as he lifted Elias into a sitting position and

  brought the glass to his lips, tilted it and let a small quantity pour in. Elias’ throat moved up in a short spasm. And down. He swallowed.

  Mahler had to put the glass down on the bedside table and scoop Elias into his arms. He was careful not to use too much force, and risk injuring something in the frail body.

  ‘You can do it, bud, you can do it!’

  Elias did not move, his body was as stiff as before, but he had done something. He had drunk something.

  Maybe Mahler’s happiness was not so much to do with the sign of life in Elias, as with the fact that he was able to do something for him. He did not have to stand there at a loss and simply look at him. He could apply lotion to his body, he could give him something to drink. Maybe there were more things he could do, time would tell. Now…

  Heady with his success, he took the glass again and brought it to Elias’ lips. But he poured it too fast and it ran out again. Elias’ throat did not move.

  ‘Wait… wait…’

  Mahler ran out into the kitchen and found a small plastic syringe that had come with a bottle of medicine he had bought the last time Elias had a fever. He filled the syringe with salt water from the glass and slowly squeezed ten mils of liquid between Elias’ lips. He swallowed. Mahler continued until the syringe was empty. Then he refilled it. After ten minutes Elias had drunk the whole glass and Mahler lowered his wet head against the pillows.

  There was no visible difference, but whatever Elias was now, it had a will, or at least an impulse to take something in from the external world…

  Mahler tucked Elias into bed, and lay down beside him.

  Elias still stank, but the bath had removed the worst of it. The remaining smell was now mixed up with the scent of soap and shampoo. Mahler

  leaned his head against the pillow and narrowed his eyes, trying to see his grandchild, but it didn’t work. The soft profile was competely altered by the jutting cheekbones, the sunken nose, the lips.

  He isn’t dead. He exists. It will be fine…

  Mahler fell asleep.

  The clock on the bedside table said half past ten when he was awakened by the telephone. His first thought was: Anna!

  He hadn’t spoken with her; maybe she had already had time to go to the graveside. He glanced quickly at Elias who was lying exactly as he had left him, then grabbed the phone on his side of the bed.

  ‘Yes, this is Mahler.’

  ‘It’s me. Anna.’

  Fucking hell. Idiot. How could he have slept? Anna’s voice sounded shredded, trembling. She had been out to Racksta, Mahler lowered his legs over the side of the bed, sat up.

  ‘Yes… hi there. How are you?’

  ‘Daddy. Elias is gone.’ Mahler drew in air in order to tell her, but did not get a chance before Anna continued, ‘Two men were just here and asked me if I… if I had… Daddy, there has…last night… there are dead people who have come back to life.’

  ‘What kind of men?’

  ‘Daddy, do you hear what I’m saying? Do you hear what I’m saying!’ Her voice was hysterical, about to escalate into a scream. ‘Dead people have come back to life and Elias… they said that his grave… ‘

  ‘Anna, Anna. Calm down. He is here.’ Mahler looked at Elias’ head resting on the pillow, touched his forehead with his hand. ‘He is here. With me.’

  There was silence on the other end. ‘Anna?’

  ‘He… is alive? Elias? Are you saying that… ‘

  ‘Yes. Or rather… ‘ there was a rattling sound on the line. ‘Anna?

  Anna?’ Through the receiver, in the distance, he heard a door open and close.

  Damn it…

  He got up, groggy. Anna was on her way over. He had to…

  What did he have to do?

  Lessen, soften…

  The blinds in the bedroom were lowered, but that was not enough to conceal Elias’ appearance. Quickly, Mahler took a blanket out of the closet and hung it over the curtain rod. Some light came in through the crack on the side, but it was significantly darker.

  Should I light a candle? No, then it will be like a wake.

  ‘Elias? Elias?’

  No reply. With trembling hands, Mahler drew up the very last water from the glass into the syringe, brought it to Elias’ lips. Perhaps his eyes were playing tricks on him now that it was so dark, but Elias did not only swallow, Mahler even thought he moved his lips a little in order to take in the syringe.

  He had no time to reflect on this because the front door opened at the bottom of the stairs and he walked out into the hall in order to meet Anna. Ten seconds during which his thoughts whirled, then the doorbell rang. He breathed in and opened.

  Anna was only dressed in a T-shirt and panties. No shoes.

  ‘Where is he? Where is he?’

  She forced her way into the apartment but he got hold of her, restrained her. ‘Anna…listen to me for a moment… Anna…’

  She squirmed in his grip, cried, ‘Elias!’ and tried to free herself. With all the strength he could muster he shouted:

  ‘ANNA! HE IS DEAD!’

  Anna stopped struggling, stared at him in confusion. Her eyelids

  twitched and her lips quivered.

  ‘Dead? But… but… you said… they said… ‘

  ‘Can you just listen to me for one second?’

  Anna suddenly went limp, would have fallen down in a heap on the floor if Mahler had not caught her and set her down in the chair next to the phone. Her head turned from side to side as if by an invisible power. Mahler placed himself in front of her, blocking the way between her and the bedroom, leaned down and took her hand in his.

  ‘Anna. Listen to me. He lives… but he is dead.’

  Anna shook her head, pressed her hands to he
r temples.

  ‘I don’t understand I don’t understand what you are saying I don’t…’

  He took her head between his hands, twisting it with some force to meet his eyes.

  ‘He has been in the ground for a month. He doesn’t look like he did before. Not at all. He looks… pretty awful.’

  ‘But how can he… he must…’

  ‘Anna, I don’t know. No one knows anything. He doesn’t speak.

  He doesn’t move. It is Elias, and he is alive. But he is very changed. He is… as if dead. Maybe there is something that can be done, but… ‘

  ‘I want to see him.’

  Mahler nodded. ‘Yes, of course you do. But you have to prepare yourself for… try to prepare yourself for… ‘

  For what? How can one prepare oneself for something like this?

  Mahler took a step back. Anna remained seated.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘In the bedroom.’

  Anna pressed her lips together, leaning forward a little so she could see the bedroom door. She had collected herself. Now she seemed afraid instead. Fumbling with her hand in the direction of the door, she asked, ‘Is he… broken?’ Her eyes looked at Mahler, pleading. He shook his head.

  ‘No. But he has… dried up. He is… blackened.’

  Anna clasped her hands tightly in her lap.

  ‘Was it you who… ‘

  ‘Yes.’

  She nodded, said flatly, ‘They were wondering,’ and stood up, walking toward the bedroom. Mahler followed, half a step behind. In his thoughts he went through the contents of the medicine drawer, if he had anything tranquilising in case Anna… No. He had nothing like that. Only his words, his hands. Whatever help they might be.

  She did not collapse. She did not scream. She quietly approached the bed and looked at what was lying there. Sat down on the bed. After sitting there for a minute looking without saying anything, she asked, ‘Would you please go out for a while?’

  Mahler backed out and shut the door on them. Stood outside, listening. After a while he heard something that sounded like an injured animal. A drawn-out, monotone whimper. He bit his knuckles, but did not open the door.

  Anna came out after five minutes. Her eyes were red, but she was calm. She closed the door gently behind her. Now Mahler was the one getting nervous. He had not expected this. Anna walked out and sat down on the couch. Mahler followed, sitting down next to her and taking her hand.