Handling The Undead

by John Ajdive Lindqvist

  Magnus’ breathing deepened. His head was wedged in David’s armpit.

  Where can I go?

  The only thing he saw was the kitchen counter where the full bottle of wine was waiting. He would go there as soon as Magnus was fully asleep. Because it was Eva who was his big bed, his only haven, and he could not go there. He lay with his head deep in the pillow, looking at the blue light that occasionally flickered across the ceiling. The rumbling was more distant now, giants mumbling behind the mountains. The rain was fairies tiptoeing across the window ledge.

  … and the dead have awakened…

  A thought glided past and he took hold of it gratefully.

  If everything… if everything impossible starts happening now.

  Yes. If vampires came out. If things floated, disappeared. If the trolls came out of the mountains, if the animals began to talk or if Jesus returned. If everything… became different.

  David smiled. He smiled at the comforting thought. The continued normality of society-picnics in the park and automated phone systems-was a mockery, and its collapse into the supernatural would be a relief. The attempts of scientists to understand the phenomenon from a biological perspective had nothing to do with him. Come angels, come fairies, it is starting to get cold.

  Taby Municipality 20.20

  In two hours they managed to visit twelve houses, perhaps twenty people. Some shut their doors as soon as they heard what it was about, but more were willing to hear them out than they had expected. Elvy had herself received visits from the Jehovah’s Witnesses several times and treated them with courteous dismissal. Once she had been sitting at the kitchen window and followed their progress, how quickly they were back on the street after visiting each house. It went much better for Elvy and Hagar.

  Perhaps it was due to the extraordinary circumstances, or the passion of Elvy’s conviction. Even though Elvy had had her vision, had been given her task, she was not naive enough to think she could immediately convince everyone else. Things like that did not even happen in the Bible.

  The pressure front of the storm was wrapped around them the whole time like invisible muslin, but it was as if the storm had folded his arms and was waiting for them to finish their task before letting loose.

  Most of the people they had managed to interest or convince were women their own age. But there were a couple of men too. The one who embraced their mission with the greatest enthusiasm was

  a man in his thirties. He was a computer consultant, he explained, and he offered them his services in case they needed help in setting up a web site to spread their message via the internet. They told him they would think about it.

  By eight o’clock the storm was no longer able to contain itself. It was already as dark as a winter evening when the wind started to ruffle the treetops, and shortly afterwards the rain came. In a few minutes it had grown to a downpour.

  Elvy and Hagar unfurled their umbrellas and the rain streamed down the fabric, creating a curtain of water around them, smattering against the metal roofs of parked cars with such intensity that they could hardly hear each other’s voices. Arm in arm, they continued homeward.

  ‘Poor old horses of the apocalypse!’ Hagar shouted and Elvy did not know if she was referring to them or their legs, but there was no sense in asking since there was no way Hagar would hear over the din of the rain. They trudged on in silence with the water rushing around their flat shoes.

  It was raining so hard that there was hardly any air left to breathe. They proceeded slowly under their buckling umbrellas so as not to exhaust themselves. The first bolt of lightning struck at the exact moment they reached Elvy’s house, and the thunder rolled down the street a couple of seconds later like a drumroll of doom.

  Hagar closed her umbrella and shook it out. ‘Phew!’ she laughed. ‘Is this the End, do you think?’

  Elvy smiled crookedly. ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

  ‘Oh my, oh my… ‘ Hagar shook her head. ‘The heavens have opened, as they say.’

  Elvy’s reply was inaudible; the storm had drawn closer and a blast sent a shudder through the house, rattling the wineglasses in the cupboard. Hagar jumped and asked, ‘Are you afraid of lightning?’

  ‘No. Are you?’

  ‘Not really. I just have to…’ Hagar tilted her head and turned something on her hearing aid. Then she said, a little louder, ‘Now I can’t hear so well, but the thunder… it gets too much.’

  The thunder came at closer intervals and Hagar shot a frightened look at the ceiling. The part about her not being afraid of thunder was probably not entirely true. Elvy took her hand and Hagar squeezed it gratefully, allowing herself to be led into the living room. Elvy herself felt nothing other than… reliance. Everything was as it should be, and they had done what they could.

  When they reached the living room Elvy noted that the ceiling lamp was swaying slightly. Then it went out. All the lamps in the house went out and it became pitch dark. Hagar squeezed Elvy’s hand harder and asked, ‘Should we pray?’

  They made their way onto the floor, easing their stiff legs into place. Hagar grimaced with pain as she got down on her knees, said, ‘I can’t… my knee…’

  Elvy helped her up again and they sat next to each other on the couch instead, hip to hip. They interlaced their fingers and lowered their heads in prayer while the rain continued to run down the roof and thunder filled the world.

  When the power had been out for ten minutes and the lightningstrobe of the storm was still playing on the house, Elvy let down the blinds and lit two candles on the coffee table. Hagar, half-lying on the couch, resting her bad knee, was transformed from storm-lit movie monster to dignified saint.

  Elvy walked up and down in the room with a rising sense of irritation.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What?’ Hagar cupped her fingers behind her ear, but Elvy waved the gesture away. She had nothing important to say.

  Why is nothing happening?

  It wasn’t that she had expected an immediate conversion of the masses, but something… something that made this undertaking greater than just two old ladies tottering around together hawking their faith. After all, she had been chosen, personally singled out and marked. Was it like this for all visionaries?

  Probably. The thing was to hold onto her vision, not let go.

  But for how long, Lord? How long?

  She was back in the hall on one of her circuits when there was a gentle knock on the door. She opened up.

  Outside stood a sodden likeness of her next -door neighbour. Her

  hair straggled, her dress spotted with dark patches of moisture. A I ‘

  series of lightning bolts illuminated her and she made an altogether

  miserable picture.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ Elvy said and guided her into the hall.

  ‘Excuse me,’ the woman said, ‘but you said that… well, that your house was open. And my husband has been very odd since you left. He drank a great deal and then he went out and… if this really is going to be the last night… ‘

  ‘I understand,’ Elvy said, and did. ‘Come in.’

  While her neighbour was towelling her hair in the bathroom, there was another knock on the door.

  Why all this knocking…

  But then Elvy remembered that the power cut must also have knocked out the doorbell. Fearing that it was her neighbour come to fetch his runaway wife she opened up, with a speech about freedom of association ready on her lips.

  But it was not the neighbour. It was Greta, one of the older women who had appeared to be swayed when they visited earlier. She came better prepared than the neighbour. A vivid green rain poncho was draped over her head and shoulders, and she pulled a basket out from underneath.

  ‘I brought a little coffee and some home-made pastries with me. So We can keep vigil together.’

  It was not long until yet another of the women came. She had brought a box of candles with he
r, in case they did not have any. Finally Mattias arrived, the young man with the computer background. He said that he had thought about bringing his laptop but that there was no point while the storm was still going.

  When they were all assembled in the living room with extra candles lit, coffee poured out and pastries served, there was a general outbreak of explanations. The thunder had died down so Hagar was able to turn up her hearing aid and take part.

  It was the storm, they all agreed. It had driven it home. If tonight was going to bring the end of the world, or at least a complete change in life as they knew it, they did not want to sit alone when there was the option of gathering with like-minded people.

  When they had spoken about this for a while, everyone’s gaze turned to Elvy. She realised they expected her to say something.

  ‘Well,’ Elvy said, ‘of course, on Our own we can do nothing. Faith only lives when it’s shared. It was a blessing that you came here. Together we are greater than the sum of Our pans. Let us now sit vigil through this night and if it is the last, We will at least meet it together. Hand in hand.’

  Elvy finished her speech abashed. It was not inspired. She had simply tried to say what they had been expecting her to say. The others considered her platitudes quietly, until Hagar cried, ‘Do you have

  mattresses?’

  Elvy smiled, ‘Where there is heart, there is room, and so forth.’

  ‘Should We sing something?’ the young man asked.

  Yes, of Course they had to sing. Everyone scoured their minds for something appropriate. Hagar looked around.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked.

  ‘We want to sing something,’ Elvy said loudly. ‘We’re trying to think of something.’

  Hagar thought for a second, then piped up: Nearer My God to Thee…

  Everyone joined in as best they could. They sang at the top of their lungs and the candles flickered in their outgoing breath, as they drowned out the storm.

  Bondegatan 21.50

  Someone’s fiftieth birthday party was in full swing in the party room upstairs. The storm had died down and from her room Flora could hear the partygoers’ laughter echoing in the stairwell. In the background, they were singing along to ‘Girls Just Want to Have Fun’ and Flora could not for the life of her understand how they could play it without feeling ashamed.

  She lay still, savouring her contempt for the middle-class world she had been born into. You were allowed to be a little bit of an individual as long as you did it tastefully. Anything beyond that was a job for a psychologist. She was never at home: the tolerance wrapped her up like a straitjacket and she just wanted to wave her arms and scream.

  Viktor had been sent to bed at half past nine, and Flora had declined a party invitation issued in a tone of brittle gaiety.

  She rolled out of bed and walked into the living room, turned on the television to check the news. She had heard nothing from Peter and she did not dare call and break his silence.

  The news was focused almost exclusively on the reliving. A professor of molecular biology explained that what they had at first believed to be an aggressive decomposition bacterium had revealed itself to be a co-enzyme called ATP, the cell’s primary energy supplier. The perplexing thing was that it could survive at such a low temperature.

  ‘It’s as if you put a batch of dough out in the snow and it still rose,’ explained the professor, who also made appearances on popular science shows.

  ATP’s baffling liveliness also explained how the newly deceased could overcome their rigor mortis, since it is precisely the breaking down of ATP that locks the muscles.

  ‘Let us for the moment assume that we’re talking about a mutated form of ATP. However…’ The professor pinched his index finger and thumb together to emphasise the point, ‘we do not know if it is this enzyme that has caused them to awaken, or if the behaviour of the enzyme is a consequence of their awakening.’

  The professor held his arms out and smiled: cause or effect? What do you think? Flora did not like his smug way of talking, as if the whole thing was a debate about over-fishing cod stocks.

  But the next item made her draw several inches closer to the television screen.

  That afternoon a television crew had been allowed into Danderyd. There was vision of a large hospital ward where around twenty reliving were sitting on the floor, on beds, in chairs. At first you could see their faces. The remarkable thing was that everyone had the same expression: mute amazement. Eyes wide open, mouths slack. In their blue hospital gowns they evoked a group of uniformed school children watching a magician.

  Then the camera tracked out and you saw what they were looking at: a metronome. Perched on a rolling cart, it was ticking back and forth, back and forth before the enraptured audience. A nurse was sitting on a chair next to the metronome, upright, aware of the camera.

  Must be the one who starts it again when it stops.

  The voiceover outlined how the situation at the hospital had improved now that they’d discovered the thing with the metronome, and that the search was now on for other methods.

  The weather would continue to be changeable.

  Flora turned off the television and sat looking at her reflection in the screen. Noises from upstairs cut through the silence. They had started to sing a sea shanty, in rounds. When the song was over she heard raised voices, laughter.

  Flora leaned back, stretching out onto the floor.

  I know, she thought. I know what’s missing there. It’s death. Death

  doesn’t exist for them, it’s not permitted. And for me it’s everywhere.

  She smiled to herself.

  Come on, Flora. Mustn’t exaggerate.

  Viktor emerged from his room. He looked so thin and frail in his underpants that Flora was overcome by a sudden tenderness.

  ‘Flora?’ he said. ‘Do you think they’re dangerous? Like in that movie?’

  Flora patted the floor next to her. He sat down and pulled his knees to his chin as if he was cold.

  ‘The movie… it’s all made up,’ she said. ‘Do you think there really is a basilisk? Like in Harry Potter?’

  Viktor shook his head.

  ‘OK. Do you think that there’s… do you think there really are elves and hobbits? Like in Lord of the Rings?’

  Viktor hesitated for an instant, then shook his head and said, ‘No, but there are dwarves.’

  ‘Yes,’ Flora said. ‘But they’re not walking around with axes, are they? No. The zombies in that movie are just like the basilisk, just like Gollum. They’re just made up. It isn’t like that at all in real life.’

  ‘What’s it like in real life?’

  ‘In real life…’ Flora stared at the black monitor. ‘In real life they’re nice. At least, they don’t want to hurt anyone.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m sure. Now go to bed.’

  Svarvargatan 22.15

  The clock on the bedside table said quarter past ten when the phone rang. Magnus had been breathing evenly for a long time and David eased out his tingling arm, walked out into the kitchen and picked up.

  ‘This is David.’

  ‘Hi. My name is Gustav Mahler. I hope I’m not calling too late. You wanted to speak to me.’

  ‘No, it’s… nothing,’ David caught sight of the bottle and the glass, poured himself some. ‘Honestly… ‘ he took a big gulp, ‘I don’t know why I tried to contact you.’

  ‘I see,’ Mahler said. ‘That happens sometimes. Cheers.’

  There was a click on the other end and David raised his glass, said, ‘Cheers,’ and took another gulp.

  There was silence for several seconds.

  ‘How’s it going?’ Mahler asked.

  And David told him. Whether it was the wine, the bottled-up anguish or something in Mahler’s voice-the barriers came down. Not caring whether the stranger on the other end was interested, he told him about the accident, the awakening, Magnus, the visit to the State Pathologist, the feeling of h
aving fallen off the edge of life, about his love for Eva. He talked for at least ten minutes, only pausing because his mouth was dry and he needed more wine. While he poured, Mahler said, ‘Death has the capacity to isolate us from each other.’

  ‘Yes,’ David said. ‘You’ll have to excuse me but I don’t know why 1…I haven’t talked to anyone about…’ David stopped with the glass halfway to his mouth. A chill shot through his stomach and he put the glass down so violently that wine splashed out. ‘You aren’t going to write about this, are you?’

  ‘You can…’

  ‘You can’t! You can’t write about this, there are a lot of people who… ‘

  They lined up in front of his eyes: his mother, Eva’s father, his colleagues, Magnus’ classmates, their parents… all the people who would find out more than he wanted them to know.

  ‘David,’ Mahler said. ‘I can promise you that I won’t write a single word without your approval.’

  ‘Do you mean it?’

  ‘Yes, I mean it. We’re just talking right now. Or more precisely: you’re talking and I’m listening.’

  David laughed, a short laugh that came out in the form of a snort and pushed mucus into his nose, stale tears. He drew a finger through the spilled wine, forming a question mark. ‘What about you?’ he asked. ‘What’s your interest in this? Is it purely… professional?’

  The other end grew quiet. David had time to think that the connection had been broken before Mahler answered.

  ‘No. It’s more… personal.’

  David waited, drank more wine. He was starting to get drunk. He noted with relief that his state of being was starting to lose definition, his thoughts were slowing down. In contrast to earlier in the day this was a state in which he could rest. There was a person on the other end of the telephone line. He was drifting, but he was not alone. He was afraid the conversation would end.

  ‘Personal?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. You trusted me. I’ll have to trust you. Or… if you want to put it another way we’ll both have something on each other. My grandchild is with me, and he’s… ‘ David heard Mahler take a gulp of whatever he was drinking, ‘he is… he was dead until last night. Buried.’