Date: 2020-10-05 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Horror; Zombies; Fiction
Description: Mille is aboard the ferry headed for Sweden, and so is the living dead. She tries desperately to stop the infection from spreading before the ferry reaches its destination. By Day 5, the infection has reached several countries across Europe, leaving death and chaos in its wake. The fate of the world seems still closer to the brink.

Dead Meat: Day 5

Nick Clausen

Editor: Diana Cox

First Edition 2020

Copyright © 2020 Nick Clausen

Kindle Edition

The author asserts his moral rights to this work.

Please respect the hard work of the author.

No zombies were harmed in the making of this book.

CONTENT

Free Book

Map of Events

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-one

Twenty-two

Twenty-three

Twenty-four

Twenty-five

Twenty-six

Twenty-seven

Twenty-eight

Twenty-nine

Thirty

Thirty-one

Thirty-two

Thirty-three

Thirty-four

Thirty-five

Thirty-six

Thirty-seven

Thirty-eight

Thirty-nine

Forty

Forty-one

Forty-two

Forty-three

Forty-four

Forty-five

Forty-six

Forty-seven

Forty-eight

FREE BOOK

What happened to set it all off?

Who was responsible for the disaster?

And could it have been avoided?

Find all the answers in Day 0.

Go get it now for FREE at
www.nickclausenbooks.com

THE FOLLOWING EVENTS TAKE PLACE ON

WEDNESDAY, JULY 30

ONE

“Sweetheart?”

Mommy’s voice, somewhere nearby.

“Sweetheart, are you awake?”

Christine can’t open her eyes; she is too tired. And the soft, low rumbling of an engine nearby doesn’t make it any easier. The sound also reminds her where they are; not at home, but in the car. The whole family. In the middle of the night. How strange.

Christine remembers dimly she was sleeping at home in her bed earlier this evening, when things were still normal—kind of normal, anyway. Mommy had tucked her in like she always does, reading a chapter from one of the H. C. Andersen fairy tales Christine loves so much. She doesn’t recall actually falling asleep, though, but she must have, because suddenly, Daddy came bursting into the room, turning on the lights and pulling clothes from Christine’s closet.

“Wake up, honey,” he told her with a rushed, not-quite-genuine smile. “We need to go on a little trip.”

“Right now?” Christine had asked, sitting up and squinting against the light. “But it’s nighttime, Daddy.”

“I know, it’s a little strange, but we have to go,” Daddy told her, moshing the pile of clothes into a sports bag and zipping it. “Come on, let’s go.”

He held out his hand, and Christine was just about to take it when she heard a sound from the window. It was almost like someone dragging their fingers across the glass. There was a moaning sound, too, like someone in distress.

“Who’s tha—” she was about to ask, when Daddy grabbed her hand and cut her off.

“It’s okay, honey, don’t worry about it. Someone’s just playing around out there.”

There was something in Daddy’s voice Christine couldn’t quite place, but it sprouted a tiny, gnawing sensation in the pit of her stomach. A feeling of worry. Was Daddy scared? Daddy couldn’t be scared; he wasn’t afraid of anything.

Then, things got even stranger.

As Daddy dragged her out into the hall, where the lights were also on, she was met by the sight of Anton already standing there, still in his pajamas, hair messy, eyes wide and confused.

Mommy came out from the bathroom at that moment, stuffing something into a bag. “Okay, I think I got everything.” She was looking at Daddy and talking very fast. “Toothbrushes, phone charger, sleeping bags, Anton’s inhaler. Am I missing something?”

“How about food?” Daddy asked.

“I took the tuna and the crackers. I filled two large bottles with water. I don’t know if it’ll be enough.”

“It’s fine. We can stop at a gas station and get more. Get your coats, kids. We’re going on a trip.”

“Where are we—” Anton began, but Daddy cut him off like he did Christine.

“No questions, Anton. Just please, do as I ask.”

Normally, Anton could very well have decided to argue—after all, he was seven now, and had just entered what Mommy called the “stroppy sevens”—but apparently, Anton seemed to also pick up on the trace of fear in Daddy’s voice, and he simply grabbed his coat. Christine did the same, while Daddy unlocked the door and opened it.

“Stay in here just for a second, okay?” he said, glancing back quickly. “I’ll get the car.”

Christine felt Mommy’s hand on her shoulder, and Christine looked up at her. “What’s going on, Mommy? Why do we have to go on a trip?”

Mommy looked down at her, blinking, then smiling. “It’s just for fun. It’ll be like a vacation. You remember when we went camping? Well, this is the same, just that we didn’t really plan for it, we just … decided to go.”

“In the middle of the night?” Anton asked, and now Christine could hear that old, familiar tone of defiance in her brother’s voice. “Couldn’t it wait till the morning?”

“No,” Mommy simply said, and when Anton asked her why, she didn’t reply.

Then Daddy was back, waving at them, telling them in a hushed voice to hurry up, to get into the car, and as they left the house, Christine was surprised to find that Daddy had driven the car all the way up to the front door and parked it right below the stairs so they didn’t need to walk more than a few steps. She only got a whiff of the cool, clean night air, before they were all inside the car, Mommy in the front and Christine and Anton in the back. Daddy got in behind the wheel and sped out of the driveway, turning down the street, driving a lot faster than he normally would, and Christine noticed him constantly checking the rearview mirror, like he was afraid he had forgotten something back there.

Anton asked a few more times where they were going, but neither Mommy nor Daddy answered, and finally, Anton just found his phone and began playing some game.

Christine didn’t have a phone—she had asked Mommy when she could have one, and Mommy had told her when she turned six next month. That was a long time away for Christine. So, she simply resolved herself to looking out the window at the streetlights gliding past and the dark lawns and just as dark houses behind them. Only a few other cars were also out driving for unknown reasons; other than that, the town seemed to be asleep.

Christine began nodding off, when she saw something strange.

It happened just as they stopped at a red light. A movement caught her eye, and she saw an old man come walking across the street. He wasn’t using the sidewalk, but was straddling along in the middle of the road. There was something odd about the way he walked, too; he seemed to be dragging one leg, as though he had hurt it, and his arms were stretched out, like he was reaching for something. Then, as he entered the light from one of the posts, Christine got a better look at him, and she could have sworn there was something dark smeared all over the man’s white T-shirt, like Nutella or something.

Then Mommy noticed the man too and let out a gasp.

“What?” Daddy asked in alarm, and, following Mommy’s gaze, he whispered: “Fuck!” Then he drove right across the intersection, accelerating so fast Christine was pushed back in her seat.

“Dad!” Anton exclaimed. “The lights were still red!”

“I know,” Daddy murmured, checking the mirrors again.

“It’s illegal to run a red light!”

Daddy didn’t answer.

“Dad? Didn’t you hear me?” Anton persisted. “I said it’s illegal to—”

“I know!” Daddy shouted, causing everyone—including Mommy—to jump in their seats. “I know,” he repeated more softly, sending Anton a quick glance in the mirror. “I’m sorry, son, I didn’t notice the lights were red. Luckily, nothing happened. Okay?”

Anton seemed too surprised to answer.

Mommy turned in her seat. “It’s okay, Daddy is just a little tired. We all are. Try and see if you can get some sleep, all right?”

Anton just nodded and turned away.

Mommy looked at Christine at smiled. The smile was only on her lips; it didn’t reach her eyes. “You okay, sweetheart?”

Christine nodded.

Then Mommy turned back around and put on the radio. She found a station playing very soft music and turned the volume all the way down low.

Christine looked at Daddy, his hands restless on the wheel. And suddenly, she remembered seeing Daddy like this before. It was the time Anton fell very ill with fever and almost couldn’t breathe because of his asthma, and Daddy had to rush him to the hospital. Daddy had been afraid back then. Afraid that Anton might die. He didn’t say so, but Christine figured it out later.

And this situation seemed eerily similar, except Christine couldn’t tell what Daddy was afraid of this time. Anton wasn’t sick, and neither were Mommy or Christine.

But she was pretty sure it had something to do with whoever was outside her window back at the house. And the old guy at the intersection. Daddy saw him. And that was when he decided to run the red light. Daddy would never do such a thing.

Christine kept mulling it over until her eyelids grew heavy and her thoughts began to drift away. The last thing she saw was the city lights fading, as they exited on the highway, now only accompanied by the stars overhead in the black night sky.

And now—

“Sweetheart?”

Mommy’s voice, insistent.

Christine finally manages to raise her eyelids. The car has stopped, the doors are open, and Anton is gone. Instead, Mommy is leaning in, looking at Christine with a faint smile.

“Good, you’re awake. I need you to get out of the car, sweetheart.”

“Are we … are we there?” Christine asks, yawning.

“Yes, well, no. We need to get on the boat now.”

Christine frowns. “What?”

“We’re going sailing,” Mommy explains. “Come on, please. We need to hurry.”

Christine fumbles with the buckle, gets it open and slides out of the car. She rubs her eyes and looks around. She doesn’t recognize the surroundings at first, because she has only been here a few times in her life, and never at nighttime. But the smell of the water and the fact that Mommy mentioned a boat helps her along.

The boats are lined up neatly along the piers, all of them tied to separate poles. Some are larger than others. The water is black and almost completely still, only tiny waves making the boat move gently up and down. Somewhere out over the water, a seagull cries shrilly.

She looks to the side and sees Anton dragging a sports bag. Farther ahead is Daddy, talking to another man who’s the exact same height, but has a potbelly.

“Is that … Uncle Kent?” Christine asks as Mommy takes the last suitcase from the car, then shuts the door.

“Yes. Come on now, sweetheart.”

They walk over to Daddy and Uncle Kent, who are talking in low voices. Christine catches some of it.

“… haven’t seen any of them, but can’t be too careful,” Uncle Kent says.

“… just a matter of time,” Daddy says, his voice grim. “… saw at least three going through town … spreading like wildfire.”

“Who are you talking about?” Anton asks, dropping the bag on the ground. “It’s the sick people, isn’t it? The ones they’re talking about on TV.”

Christine is glad he asked, because she also wants to know.

“It’s nothing, son,” Daddy says, brushing him off. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Stop telling me that!” Anton insists, and to Christine’s surprise, she can tell Anton is close to crying. “I want to know what’s going on! Why are we out here in the middle of the night? Where are we going?”

Daddy looks at him, and for a moment, Christine is afraid he might shout at Anton again. Then his expression softens, and he looks at Christine, too. “I guess it’s better you both know.”

“I’ll start her up,” Uncle Kent says, climbing aboard and beginning to untie a rope holding the boat to the pier.

Christine is very confused by that, and she’s about to ask Mommy who “she” is—did Uncle Kent get a girlfriend? Is she aboard the boat right now? And why does she need starting up?

But before she can ask, Daddy looks at Mommy, throwing out his arms. “Would you tell them?”

“Sure. You take this.”

Daddy takes the suitcase from her and follows Uncle Kent onto the boat. He begins helping him untie the ropes.

Mommy crouches down in front of them, and both Christine and Anton look at her with anticipation.

“Okay, listen. You both saw the news, right? Where they told about the disease spreading in Viborg?”

“It’s in Aarhus, too, now,” Anton interjects promptly. “That’s what they said.”

Mommy nods. “The policemen and the soldiers tried to keep it in Viborg, but it got out, and now … now Daddy and I decided we’d better leave town for a while. Just until the policemen and the soldiers get things under control. Okay?”

“So, where are we going to stay?” Anton asks.

Mommy takes a deep breath. “We’re going to England.”

“England?” Anton exclaims.

“Sssh!” Mommy darts a look around. “Keep your voice down, please. No one can know we’re leaving.”

“Why not? Is it illegal?”

“No, it’s just … it’s just better that way. We don’t want to draw any attention. Other people might get the same idea.”

“But why are we going all the way to England?” Anton asks. “Like, couldn’t we just stay outside of Aarhus somewhere? At Granny’s place, maybe? She lives all the way over in Struer—there are no sick people there!”

“We could,” Mommy admits, glancing towards the boat. “And your Daddy and I spoke about that. But we decided it’s better to leave Denmark altogether.”

“Why?” Anton demands.

“Because maybe they won’t be able to keep it from spreading outside of Aarhus, just like they couldn’t do it in Viborg,” Mommy says.

Anton is about to ask something else, when Mom quickly adds: “It’s probably just for a few days. We’ll be back before you know it. Until then, we’ll be staying in a cozy little motel in England. It’ll be nice, you’ll see. They have delicious food, and we can go for walks in the forest. And people are talking English, just like you’re learning in school, Anton.” Mommy is smiling now. “Maybe you’ll be able to understand what some of them are saying. Wouldn’t that be cool? You’ll get to practice, and once we get back and school begins again, you’ll be better at English than anyone else in class.”

Anton smiles vaguely, as the prospect of bragging to his friends apparently appeals to him.

“But, Mommy,” Christine asks, “what will happen to all the people who stay in Denmark? Are they all going to be sick?”

The smile fades from Mommy’s face as she looks at Christine. “I don’t know, sweetheart. Some of them might.”

“What about Alma? And Ida? And Freja? Will they all be sick?”

“Yeah,” Anton adds, “and what about Granny?”

Mom shakes her head slowly. “I’m sorry, but I just don’t know. Nobody does. Some of your friends might become sick, but I’m sure the doctors will find some medicine that works soon, and then they might be able to cure everyone again. And don’t worry about Granny. They’ll take good care of her at the nursing home; she’s safe there.”

A low, coughing rumble behind them, as the boat’s engine gradually comes to life.

“Come on, it’s time to go,” Mom says, ushering them towards the boat.

Just as they’re about to cross the board going from the pier to the boat, Christine hears someone scream. It’s coming from behind her, and it’s not that far away. She turns to look, but she can’t see anything on the dark pier.

“What the hell was that?” Anton says.

Mommy apparently doesn’t even notice him swearing, because she doesn’t scold him; she just grabs him by the arm and pulls him aboard the boat.

Then, she turns to Christine and reaches out her arms. “Now you, sweetheart. Come on!”

Christine walks onto the board as there’s another sound from behind. This time, it’s not a scream but more of a growl. She can’t help but turn her head again, and it causes her to lose her balance.

Mommy leans forward and grabs her, lifting her onto the boat. Christine looks back and just has time to see a skinny lady wearing nothing but a robe. She comes staggering out of the dark, headed right for the boat. Her skin is awfully grey, and her eyes are turned towards the black night sky, showing nothing but white. Her mouth is open and she’s groaning like she’s got something stuck deep down in her throat, something sticky.

“Holy shit!”

Daddy’s voice. He’s suddenly in front of Christine, kicking at the board just as the old lady steps onto it. It doesn’t move at first, but then Daddy kicks hard, and it slips sideways. The lady disappears, and Christine hears the splash as she hits the water.

“Get ’er moving, Kent!” Daddy shouts in a way Christine has never heard him shout before.

Somewhere, Anton is crying, asking questions about the lady. Mommy is breathing fast in Christine’s ear, whispering something Christine can’t make out. Daddy is shouting to Uncle Kent who’s shouting back up from inside the boat’s cabin.

Then, the engine roars loudly and the boat lurches forward with a jerk, causing Mommy to stumble and scream out, and both her and Christine would’ve no doubt fallen over if Daddy hadn’t caught them.

Anton, on the other hand, isn’t that lucky. Christine sees him tumble backwards and disappear over the railing. There’s another splash.

“Nooo!” Mommy screams, causing Christine’s head to ring. “He fell off! Get him, Steffen! Get Anton! He’s in the water! Stop the boat, Kent!”

“Shit!” Daddy shouts, running to the place Anton fell over. He leans over the railing, reaching down. The boat has stopped again.

Christine can hear Anton splash and gurgle. He knows how to swim, but he doesn’t like it.

“Grab my hand, Anton!” Daddy says. “Grab it!”

Then he groans and pulls back and Anton’s head appears, his hair clinging wet to his forehead, his eyes wide with shock, his lips quivering.

“Oh, thank heavens!” Mom cries out as Daddy hauls Anton back onto the boat. “You okay, sweetheart? You okay?”

Anton doesn’t look like he’s able to speak, so he just nods as he clings to Dad like a wet mouse.

“Shit, I’m sorry about that. You got him?”

Kent’s voice. His head is poking out of the door to the cabin.

“Yes!” Daddy shouts. “We’re okay! Get us out of here!”

Kent nods, disappears back inside, and a second later, the boat gets moving again—a little less sudden this time. They sail away from the pier, and as Christine looks back, she thinks she can make out someone running over there. There are voices, too, and someone screams again. She realizes she’s shaking all over. So is Mommy. And so is Anton, but that’s probably mostly because he’s drenched.

“Let’s get downstairs and get you dried off,” Daddy says, his voice a little less tense but still trembling slightly. “That was a close call …”

They head inside the cabin, where Kent is standing by the wheel—or whatever it’s called on a boat. There are screens, too, and he’s navigating them with silent concentration.

“Everything’s okay?” Daddy asks, stopping briefly.

Kent nods. “I think so. We’re pulling a little to the right, but that’s probably just the current.”

“We’ve got enough gas?”

“Plenty. I just filled ’er up.”

“How long will it take?”

“Till we’re there? Close to twenty-four hours. Don’t worry, I brought food.”

“You got any spare clothes, too?”

“Check the cabinet.”

They go down a couple steps leading to the inside of the boat. There’s surprisingly lots of room, Christine notices; four beds, a small kitchen and a dining table.

Daddy puts Anton down on one of the beds and helps him get the wet shirt and pants off.

Mommy lets go of Christine to go to the cabinet in the corner and open it. She pulls out a set of clothes which looks a little too big for Anton. But he puts it on anyway.

“There you go,” Mommy says, squeezing him. “Isn’t that better?”

“I … I saw her,” Anton mutters.

“Saw who, sweetheart?”

“The old lady. In the water.”

Mommy and Daddy look at each other. Then they look at Anton.

“She came for me,” Anton goes on, staring at his hands. “She was, like, moving through the water …”

Mommy’s hand goes to her mouth.

Daddy clears his throat. “Did she … did she touch you, buddy?”

A moment of dead silence inside the cabin. Then, Anton shakes his head.

Mommy gives off a trembling sigh of relief. Daddy closes his eyes for a second.

“Good,” he mutters. “Then we’re okay.” He breathes deeply and repeats it: “We’re okay.”

To Christine, it sounds like he’s trying to convince himself.

Personally, Christine has never felt less okay in her short life.

TWO

“I thought you were a good boy, Dennis.”

The words echo around him in the empty living room, but Dennis can’t see Old Niels anywhere; yet he recognizes his voice. He also recognizes where he is: back at Esther’s house.

But how can Old Niels be here? After all, Old Niels is dead. Mom killed him. Dennis saw it. He was right there.

Judging from the dim lighting, it must be nighttime. There’s an eerie silence hovering in the air. Dennis can hear his own, ragged breathing. He’s scared, but he doesn’t know exactly why. Something’s wrong. Very wrong. Not just here, but everywhere. The world is burning.

“Goodness gracious. What have you done to that little girl?”

Dennis spins around and looks at the door to the bedroom. It’s open. A faint, flickering light comes streaming out.

Dennis doesn’t want to see what’s going on in there, but he can’t help it; his feet move all on their own, bringing him closer to the bedroom, and then his hand reaches out and pushes the door gently open.

The bedroom looks like it’s been out of use for decades: piles of dust on the cracked floorboards, cobwebs dangling from the ceiling, the wallpaper curling at the edges, revealing the bare brick wall underneath.

The only piece of furniture is the old bed in the middle of the room. On the windowsill, a single, black candle is burning, casting its orange glow out over the room.

A figure is lying on the bed’s naked mattress, arms and legs spread out to the sides, neck craned back.

It’s the girl. Esther’s granddaughter. What was her name? Nadia.

“That’s not Nadia.”

Dennis looks towards the window. Outside in the darkness, he sees Mom looking in, her eyes resting on the girl on the bed, her expression grim. She shakes her head slowly, then repeats: “That’s not Nadia.”

Dennis looks back at the girl.

Her face is white, her mouth open and her eyes closed. From her pale lips runs a trickle of dried-up blood—although it’s so dark it looks more like tar to Dennis.

Yet he knows it’s blood. He recalls how Mom and Esther made the girl drink it.

He looks to the window again, but now Mom is gone. Then, suddenly, a voice hisses in his ear: “I know you stole my rabbits, you bloody thief!”

Dennis spins around—at least he tries to, but it’s more of a long, slow turn, as the air around him has suddenly grown thick like mud, making it hard to move.

When he finally manages to turn all the way around, he stares into a face which once belonged to Old Niels, but now is a mask of horror.

The skin is hanging in threads, spotted in blue, as the flesh underneath has begun to rot. In the tufts of white hair still visible at the skull sit tiny cakes of dirt. The eyes are white and have no irises, yet they stare fixedly at Dennis. Old Niels—who has obviously been dead for a long time—opens his mouth to reveal a row of broken, brown teeth and a purple, dried-up tongue.

“I thought you were a good boy, Dennis,” he whispers, tilting his head, causing more dirt to drizzle off his skull. “How could you let her do this?”

“I … I … didn’t mean to … I didn’t think she … I … I …”

Dennis fights to get the words out, but it’s no use, his throat is squeezing itself tightly shut, strangling his vocal cords, making it hard to breathe.

Old Niels doesn’t seem to pay any notice. He raises his hand and scratches his cheek like Dennis has seen him do many times back when he was alive. This time, however, the fingernails dig into the skin, tearing off large pieces, revealing the jawbone underneath.

It doesn’t seem to hurt Old Niels, though, as he just keeps scratching.

Dennis notices the hand is also full of dirt, and then it finally dawns on him why Old Niels is so dirty.

He dug himself out. He woke up and dug himself out of his grave.

Dennis wants to scream, wants to run away, wants to cry out for Mom, but he can do none of it. He can only stand there and watch Old Niels tear up his own face.

“I’m sorry,” Dennis croaks, warm tears spilling down his cheeks now, and suddenly he’s able to get the words out. “I’m so sorry, Niels. I’m sorry I buried you, and I’m sorry I stole your rabbits, and I’m sorry Mom killed you, I’m sure she didn’t mean to, it’s just that she didn’t have a choice, and I’m sorry about the girl, too, it wasn’t supposed to happen, none of it was, they wanted to help her, they tried to bring her back to life, but not like this, not like this at all! And I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry about everything!”

Dennis closes his eyes for a moment, waiting for Old Niels to say something, but when Dennis looks again, Old Niels is gone. Instead, there’s a noise from behind, and Dennis turns to see the girl sitting up in bed, reaching her tiny hands out to grab him, growling and spurting fresh blood from her mouth.

Dennis screams and stumbles backwards, hitting the wall just as a bang rings through the room and the girl climbs down from the bed and comes for him, and Dennis squeezes into the corner and tries to move even farther away, but he’s trapped, and then there’s another bang, even louder this time, the sound filling his ears, drowning out the girl’s hungry grunts as she lunges for him, and Dennis screams at the top of his lungs, he flails his arms and tries to get the girl off, but he can feel her hands groping him everywhere, and there’s another bang, and then Mom’s voice very close by: “Dennis, for heaven’s sake, wake up! You’re dreaming!”

Dennis sees the girl morph into Mom’s face as Esther’s bedroom disappears around him.

Dennis blinks frantically, trying to catch his breath. Mom is sitting on his bunk, clutching his wrists, staring at him intently in the dim light. “Are you awake?”

“I … I think so,” Dennis croaks.

Mom lets go of him, and Dennis wipes his cheeks, which are wet from tears. He looks around and at first has no idea where they are. Then he remembers. They’re at Holger’s place. In the secret underground bunker.

“Listen to me, Dennis,” Mom begins, when she’s interrupted by a bang from somewhere nearby, exactly like the ones from Dennis’s dream just now, and for a moment he’s not sure he really did wake up.

“What was that?” he asks wide-eyed.

“Someone’s shooting a gun outside.”

“Why? What are they shooting at? Who is it?”

“I don’t know. I just woke up too. Come with me.”

Mom gets up and leaves the room, still wearing her white nightgown. Dennis sleeps in his worn Timon and Pumbaa T-shirt, which Mom wanted him to throw out a long time ago, but he loves it so much he convinced her to let him keep it.

He gets up and follows her out into the main room of the bunker, where the lights are on.

Mom goes to the computer and looks at the split screen showing all the many different rooms of Holger’s house. Some of the cameras are placed outside, too, and Dennis immediately notices movement on the one in the corner, which shows the courtyard.

It’s still nighttime, but the courtyard is lit up by the headlights of what looks like a pickup truck parked right in the center. A figure is standing on the bed of the truck, while several others—the dead ones, who have been hovering around the house—are crowding the truck from all sides.

Suddenly, a tiny white flash.

Then, a quarter of a second later, another bang reaches Dennis’s ears from upstairs.

“Ooh,” he says, staring at the screen. He’s never seen or heard a weapon outside of movies, so it takes him a moment to put the pieces together. “I think he just fired a gun, Mom …”

“How do I make it bigger?” Mom says, moving the curser around the screen.

“I think it’s that one right there,” Dennis tells her, pointing at a tiny square symbol in the corner.

Mom clicks on it, and the window pops up to full size. Now, Dennis can see the guy on the truck bed brandishing a rifle, which he aims at one of the dead ones, and then—

Flash.

Bang.

The dead person collapses.

“He’s … he’s killing them,” Dennis muses, not sure whether to be terrified or excited. “He’s killing them for real, Mom!”

“I can see that,” Mom mutters, not taking her eyes off of the screen. “But why?”

Dennis hasn’t even considered the guy’s motives, and honestly, he doesn’t really care, either. He’s just amazed to see that the dead people can be killed properly.

Another flash, another bang, another figure tilts backwards and lands in the gravel, not moving. There are only three of them left now. The shooter seems to be reloading the rifle. His movements are impressively calm, like being surrounded by dead people wanting to eat him doesn’t cause him any stress at all.

“It’s got to be a policeman,” Dennis says, looking at Mom. “Don’t you think? Or maybe a soldier?”

“He looks like a civilian to me,” Mom says, still eyeing the screen closely. “And the car isn’t a military vehicle, either.”

“But … he’s come to help us, right?”

Mom doesn’t answer. Instead, she gets to her feet, just as the guy on the screen fires two times in quick succession, followed by the bangs. Only one dead person is left standing now.

“Where are you going, Mom?” Dennis asks as Mom heads for the exit which leads through the tunnel up into Holger’s bedroom.

She turns around and looks at him. “I’m going to talk with him. Find out what he wants. You just stay right here.”

“But—”

“Lock the door when I leave, and don’t open to anybody but me. Okay?”

Mom doesn’t wait for an answer, she just turns and leaves the bunker, slamming the door behind her.

Dennis goes and slides the bolt in place.

Then he goes back over to the screen. He needs to pee really bad, which usually happens whenever he’s feeling anxious. But he doesn’t want to miss what’s going on.

On the footage of the courtyard, there isn’t much movement now. All around the pickup truck, the dead people are lying sprawled in the gravel, some facedown, some faceup. The guy who shot them is still standing at the bed of the truck, the rifle flung casually over his shoulder, the other hand placed on his hip. He’s looking up at the house, and it looks like he might be saying something—Dennis can’t really tell.

Then, he notices another symbol at the bottom of the screen. It’s a loudspeaker with a cross over it. He’s pretty sure that means Mute. Without really thinking, Dennis moves the curser and clicks the symbol.

Immediately, a voice comes through the speakers, clear and crisp: “… you in there? Holger? … Hey, man, we just helped you get rid of all these assholes—least you can do is talk with us!”

“‘Us’? What does he mean, ‘us’?” Dennis whispers to himself, just as the truck’s driver side door opens and another guy steps out.

“Hey, Holger!” the driver shouts towards the house. “We’re not here to harm you in any way. We just want to talk, all right?”

A moment of silence, as the men apparently wait for an answer. When no answer comes, the guy with the rifle flings out his arm: “Listen, we don’t have all night for this! If you’re in there—which I know you are—come out here and let’s talk!”

“Easy, Silas,” Dennis hears the other guy say in a low voice, looking up at the guy on the truck bed. “We can’t be confrontational, remember? We’ll scare him off. He’s not normal.”

“But what’s taking the prick so long?” the other guy replies in a whisper. “Don’t tell me he slept through all those rounds I just fired.”

“He’s probably just—”

The guy cuts himself off, and both of the men turn their heads in unison to look at the house, as they apparently pick up on something Dennis can’t see or hear. It seems like they’re looking up at the second-floor window—the one Mom instructed Dennis to push Holger’s corpse out off last night.

“What do you want?”

Mom’s voice. Dennis feels a measure of relief. Mom’ll deal with the situation.

“We just want to talk,” the one without the rifle says, stepping closer to the house, taking care to not step on any of the dead people.

“We don’t have anything to talk about,” Mom says.

“Is Holger in there?”

“Holger’s dead.”

“Oh,” the guy says, shrugging. “I’m … I’m sorry to hear that.”

“We don’t have anything to talk about,” Mom repeats. “Please leave the premises.”

“Hold on, lady,” the guy with the rifle chimes in. “We’re not leaving till you talk with us. You owe us that much.” He gestures towards the dead people, then looks back up at Mom.

A moment of silence.

“What do you want to talk about?” Mom asks. “We’re not letting you in, if that’s what you think. And as to the favor you just did us, I’m sure the house will be surrounded again by daybreak.”

“That’s just the thing, though,” the guy without the rifle says, and to Dennis, it looks like he’s smiling invitingly—though it’s hard to tell in the light of the car. “You’ll need someone to keep the dead ones at bay. And we’ll need a safe place to stay. We can help each other out here.”

“I don’t think so,” Mom says. “We’ll manage just fine without you.”

“Listen, we knew Holger,” the guy with the rifle says, now jumping down from the truck. “We grew up just a few miles from here. I’m Silas, by the way, and this is my brother Jonas. Our mom still lives out here, couple of houses down road. We came back as soon as we heard what was going on. We wanted to help her, but we couldn’t leave the area again, so now we need to figure out something else. And then our mom told us about the rumor of Holger’s underground safe place. That’s why we’re here; we wanted to make a deal with Holger.”

“Well, like I said, Holger is dead,” Mom replies from off-screen, “and we’re not interested in a deal. Now, please leave.”

The men exchange a brief look, as though they both hope for the other to come up with something more to say.

“Wait,” the guy without the rifle—Jonas—says, holding up a hand. “What happened to Holger? Did he get bitten?”

A brief pause.

“No,” Mom says. “He died in an accident.”

“What accident?”

“He had a nasty fall.”

“That sounds strange,” the guy with the rifle—Silas—says.

His brother grabs his arm, as though to tell him to shut up.

“If you don’t believe me,” Mom says, “you can see for yourselves. He’s lying right there in front of you.”

The men look down. They both lock eyes on something just outside of the screen. Jonas steps forward and kneels.

“Holy shit, it really is him,” he says. “You … you shot Holger, dude.”

“The hell I did!” Silas exclaims.

“Then why does he have an open gunshot wound in the neck?”

Silas goes to his brother and kneels down beside him. “That’s not from a gun, you half-wit. A knife did that. Someone stabbed him.”

As though the same thought occurs to both of the brothers at once, they both get back up and look up.

“She’s gone,” Jonas says.

“Hey, lady!” Silas shouts. “Come back!”

“She doesn’t want to talk anymore,” Jonas says.

“The hell she doesn’t. But she killed Holger!”

“I know, what are you going to do about it?” He turns towards the car. “Come on, man.”

“Are we just leaving?” Silas exclaims, throwing out his arms. “That’s it? Some crazy bitch got here first and killed the poor prick, and we just leave?”

“What else can we do? You see those bars on the windows? That place is probably impossible to break in to.”

“Maybe not,” Silas says, lowering his voice as he steps closer to his brother. They begin talking together in voices too low for Dennis to hear.

A knocking from behind him makes him jump and turn.

“It’s me, Dennis!” Mom’s voice calls from the door. “Please open up.”

Dennis rushes to let her in.

She closes and locks the door behind them.

“Mom, I think they’re planning to break in,” Dennis blurts out, pointing to the terminal. “I couldn’t hear them properly, they were talking too low, but—”

“It’s okay, Dennis,” she tells him, putting a hand on his shoulder. “There’s no way they can get down here. Even if they break into the house, this place is still safe.”

“Are you sure?” Dennis asks, wanting to believe Mom.

“I’m sure. Holger designed it that way.”

Dennis bites his lip. “I found out there’s audio too, Mom. On the surveillance system. I heard you talking with them.”

Mom’s eyes grow a little wider, then she looks over at the terminal and goes to takes a closer look. Dennis follows her.

“That’s clever,” Mom says. “He put up microphones, too.”

“Look, they’re leaving,” Dennis says.

The men are getting back into the truck and turning it around. They speed out of the driveway.

“What did I tell you?” Mom says, smiling.

“But what if they come back?”

“There’s only one entrance, and the door is made of armored steel.”

“But … but what if they bring like, a bomb or something, to like, blow it open?”

“Even with a stick of dynamite, all they’d achieve is to collapse the tunnel.”

“But what if—”

“Enough, Dennis.”

Mom’s tone of voice changes ever so slightly, and Dennis knows the conversation is over.

“Go back to sleep, you need to rest. There’s still a couple of hours till sunup.”

“What … what about you?” Dennis dares to ask. “Are you going to sleep, too?”

“In a little while,” Mom says without looking at him and without explaining further.

Dennis knows better than to ask anymore.

He goes back inside the bunk room, turns down the lighting from the spots and crawls under the blanket. He stares at the wall, thinking that he probably won’t get back to sleep, despite how exhausted he is.

Maybe that’s for the best, though; going back to sleep will likely mean going back to the nightmares which have plagued him constantly ever since what happened at Esther’s house.

“That place is probably impossible to break in to.”

“Maybe not.”

The men’s voices replay in his head. The way they whispered to each other is still bothering him, and he’s afraid they’ll come back, despite what Mom said about Holger’s bunker being safe.

“Maybe not,” Dennis whispers to himself, blinking and feeling sleepy after all, now that the adrenaline is leaving his blood. “Maybe it’s not safe here,” he mutters and yawns. “I sure hope they won’t come back …”

Without knowing it, he drifts into sleep.

THREE

It’s only a twenty-minute trip, but today, those twenty minutes feels more like twenty hours.

Her mother is there with her, sitting in the passenger seat. Normally, she would be chatting away while knitting. Today, the tiny, grey-haired woman just looks out the window, silent.

The traffic is surprisingly sparse, at least on this side of the freeway; the other lane, the southbound one, is stuffed with cars going by.

Where’re they headed? Josefine thinks to herself. Germany? Some place even farther?

It won’t make a difference. This thing has already spread across borders, and it will keep doing so. Josefine knows that, and she suspects most of the people in the cars know it too. Despite the reassuring faces they keep showing on the news. Doctors, politicians, military personnel—all of them calm, assertive, promising everything is under control, assuring people it will be over soon, if everyone just stays calm and follows the instructions they keep pumping out every five minutes on the radio.

Keep indoors.

Stay away from other people.

If you have any scratch or bite marks, report to the local hospital for isolation immediately.

If things really are under control, she thinks, squeezing the wheel a little harder, then how come they let the infection reach a nursing home?

Shouldn’t the old, the sick and the fragile be the ones best protected?

There were rumors about several care facilities being overrun by the infection. She has even heard about a kindergarten being struck. The mere thought of young children dying from this awful thing is too much, and she has never been more thankful that she never had any kids of her own.

In her younger years, she would still play with the thought now and then, but since she reached forty-five last winter, and she still hasn’t gotten married, she decided to put it to rest and focus on herself instead.

There was also the hospital in Viborg being “shut down”—that was the official statement of what had happened, anyway, though the images she saw on Facebook suggested it had been more like a massacre. Infected people everywhere, soldiers trying to keep them inside the building, guns and helicopters, crashed cars and corpses littering the streets. It was like a scene right out of a disaster movie.

Josefine had never imagined she would experience anything like this, not in her lifetime. Denmark had always been gracefully spared of any natural catastrophes, and the wars and conflicts they had been involved in had all taken place far away, in the Middle East or the Balkans. Even the Second World War and the great flu pandemic had only caused the country minor hardship compared to many others.

Maybe that’s why this thing started here. You could say we had it coming. With so much shit in the world, it was bound to be our time to get sticky sooner or later.

She becomes aware of how gloomy her thoughts are, and she makes an effort to turn her attitude around.

She needs to stay positive. For herself, and for her mom. And for her dad, most of all.

They are almost there.

The longest ride of Josefine’s life is finally coming to an end. And what waits for her will probably be the toughest experience of her life.

She takes a deep breath as she turns into the parking lot in front of the red brick building. A white tent has been set up in front of the glass doors, and several medical vehicles are parked around the entrance. A person—Josefine can’t even tell if it’s a man or a woman—is walking around in a hazmat suit.

This will be the last time I see him.

She has tried to prepare herself mentally for the past year, ever since he was admitted. People his age don’t live long with dementia that far advanced. And yet it was so hard—impossible, really—to imagine a reality without her daddy in it. He had been there all her life, after all, and Josefine had secretly hoped he would continue being there forever.

Time to grow up, she tells herself as she parks the car. You’re a big girl now. He taught you to be brave, didn’t he? Well, this is your time to prove it.

She turns the key and kills the engine.

Silence falls over the car.

Her mom is still staring out the window, even though the view is blocked by a hedge.

“Well, we’re here,” Josefine says, forcing a smile. “You ready, Mom?”

Her mother blinks, looks at her, the grey eyes are distant for a moment, daydreamy. Then she smiles coolly and nods. “I’m ready, hon. How about you?”

“As ready as you can get, I guess.”

As soon as they leave the car, they’re met by a short, stern-looking woman with her hair bundled up in a tight knot and the lower part of her face covered by a mask. She’s also wearing rubber gloves and carrying a tablet.

“Who are you here to see?” she demands, without even greeting them.

“Gert Johansen,” Josefine says. “We got a call that if we wanted to see him—”

“You’re just in time,” the woman cuts her off, tapping the screen, then pointing towards the building. “They just told us they’ll be here in fifteen minutes, clearing the place out.”

“Clearing the place out?” Josefine repeats. “What does that mean?”

“You need to go around the back,” the woman says, gesturing in the direction, completely ignoring the question. “A man will instruct you on how to—”

“Excuse me,” Josefine says. “What do you mean, the place will be cleared out?”

The woman looks at her impatiently, like the question is too obvious to warrant an answer. “The authorities are closing the place down. That means they’ll come and collect the infected, and those still in the early stages will most likely be kept here in isolation until they reach the paralytic stage.”

“What … what happens to them then?”

The woman shrugs. “I couldn’t tell you. They don’t tell me more than I need to know.”

“Do you at least know where they take them?”

“You’ll have to ask them. I’m sorry, but I need to get going.” The woman turns around on her heel and marches back into the tent. Just before she disappears out of sight, she stops, turns and says: “Around the back. He’s waiting for you.”

FOUR

Mille feels the growing panic like a rat trapped inside her chest, thrashing and gnawing to get out.

She’s trapped, too, and even though she has room to move around, she feels claustrophobic.

She’s on a ferry. Out at sea. The ultimate trap. Nowhere to escape.

Her mom is gripping her by the elbow and dragging her up the stairs of the ship, making her feel like a helpless little girl again.

Torben is trudging along in front of them, wheezing from the exertion of climbing the steps, and behind them is a group of other passengers headed for their cabins. Mille notices the looks on their faces. They all have something in common, something just below the surface.

Mille recognizes it; it’s fear. No one aboard this ferry is here because they’re going on vacation, that much is clear. They’re all refugees who foresaw what was to come and made an effort to get out of Dodge while they could.

And now.

Now they might all become some of the first ones to go.

Because Torben is infected, and it’s probably a matter of minutes rather than hours before he’ll turn.

The trip to Sweden will take at least three hours.

That’s plenty of time for all hell to break loose.

“Mom,” Mille tries again, not really expecting to be heard. “Mom, please listen to me!”

Her mom yanks her arm harder as Torben makes a turn and leaves the stairway.

“It’s here,” he breathes, wiping sweat from his upper lip with a purple tongue. “Deck 13. We need to find cabin B55.”

“This is a terrible mistake,” Mille says, this time addressing Torben. “We need to warn people—we need to get you off the ferry!”

“Nonsense,” Torben mutters, giving her but half a look. “I told you, I’ll be fine. We just need to find our cabin …” He looks around as he speaks, then, apparently spotting a sign, he heads off down the hallway.

Mom pulls Mille along before she can come up with another objection. Mille looks out of the row of windows all facing the calm, black Kattegat Sea with the looming, dark blue sky above it.

And somewhere beyond the horizon, still too far away to see, lies Sweden. Twice as many inhabitants as Denmark. Boarders to both Norway and Finland, and, a little farther east: Russia.

The world’s largest country.

The thought is almost enough for Mille’s knees to buckle as she’s dragged along by her mother.

The situation is far, far graver than Mille thought at first. In Denmark, the infection could conceivably be contained, as the country is surrounded on three sides by ocean.

If the infection reaches Sweden, however, there will be absolutely no chance of stopping it. It’ll have a free pass to spread across the globe.

And right now, Mille is the only one aware of the risk.

Torben turns another corner and points down a smaller hallway with a lot of doors on each side. “Found it! Down there!”

“Great,” Mom sighs with relief. “Do you think they have something to clean your wound in the cabin?”

“If not, we’ll have to send for something.”

“Don’t you get it?” Mille shouts, suddenly filled with not just horror, but a raging fury. She tears herself loose from her mother’s grip and stares at Torben. “It’s too late! Disinfecting it won’t do anything! I’ve seen it happen! Once you’re bitten or scratched, there’s no way to—”

Mom interrupts her with a stinging slap of her right palm.

Mille blinks with shock and stares at her mother, who points a finger right between her eyes. “You shut up now! You hear me? I won’t hear another word out of you!”

Mille just glares at her, feeling her cheek begin to swell and burn. She sees the muscles under her mother’s left eye tic and her lips tremble. She sees fear and wrath and regret all mixed together. And she finally sees her mother completely as she remembers her: a grown-up by body only, but a body navigated by someone endlessly fragile and weak, a constant victim of circumstances, blindly staggering through life, trying to avoid pain but encountering it again and again, forcing her to hide deeper inside herself, cowering behind the cheap makeup and the booze and the pretend strength of some asshole whom she calls her boyfriend.

And within three seconds, something changes completely inside of Mille. It feels most of all like growing up in an instance. Her anxiety level plummets. The fearful thoughts dissipate, allowing her to see clearly. Resolve fills her as she breathes deeply.

“I’m sorry, Mom. Sorry about everything. I truly am.”

Mom’s expression softens at the words, and she begins to speak in a warmer tone: “Oh, honey, it’s okay. I just need you to stop—”

“I’m sorry your life is such a mess. And that you’re constantly hurting yourself and people around you. I understand you don’t mean to. But I can’t be a part of it anymore.”

Mille feels almost as surprised as her mother at the words coming out of her. She shakes her head gently.

“I’m going to go warn the crew now. They need to turn the ferry back. That’s the only right thing to do.”

“No,” Mom says, obviously trying to regain some of the forcefulness she had just mustered but now lost completely. “No, you can’t do that …”

“You’ll do no such thing,” Torben cuts in, stepping in between Mille and her mother. “You come with us, and you’ll keep your mouth shut like your mother told you to.”

He reaches out a fat hand to grab Mille, but she steps back briskly, easily getting out of Torben’s reach.

He glares at her in surprise and anger. “You come here, girl …”

“No,” Mille says, shaking her head once, then she turns her back on him and runs down the hallway.

FIVE

Seeing her father through the window is a lot easier than she feared. In fact, he looks surprisingly like himself. The thin, white hair combed back, the usual brown slippers on his feet. His head is turned away, and it looks like he’s sleeping.

The only thing different about him is the bandages on his left elbow. That, and the straps around his wrists and ankles, tying him to the bed.

“Oh, dear,” her mother whispers. “They’ve tied him down. Why did they tie him down like that?”

“It’s a safety thing,” Josefine tells her. “So he doesn’t … hurt anyone else.”

“Oh, dear,” her mother says again, shaking her head. “Can we at least go inside?”

“I don’t think—”

Before Josefine can stop her, she’s grabbed the handle to the terrace door and is trying to turn it. It’s locked.

The sound makes her father turn his head and look straight at her. “Josie? That you?”

“Yes, Dad,” she says, and she can’t help but smile. “It’s me. Mom’s here, too.”

Her father squints his eyes and lifts his head slightly from the pillow. “Oh, hello, dear. Didn’t see you there.”

“Hello, Per,” Josefine’s mother says, her voice already starting to shake. “How’re you holding up, love?”

“Well, I’ve been better, to tell you the truth,” Josefine’s father says, breaking into a grin, then into a cough.

“I can’t bear to see him like this,” her mother tells her in a low voice, squeezing her arm. “I’ll wait in the car until it’s over.”

Josefine grabs her hard. “At least tell him goodbye, Mom.”

Her mother’s lips start trembling. Then she breathes deeply and says calmly: “You tell him from me.” She frees herself and walks away.

Josefine looks after her, dumbstruck, wondering how you can know someone for forty-five years and still get surprised when they act how they’ve always acted.

“Where’d your mother go?”

Josefine looks back at her father. He’s done coughing, but there’s a string of spittle at the corner of his mouth.

“She … she had to use the lady’s room,” Josefine lies.

“Oh, that’s typical,” he snorts. “Got the bladder of a four-year-old, your mother does. Can’t sit in a car for half an hour without asking me to pullover so she can take a leak.”

It’s been at least ten years since old Per Rasmussen has been behind the wheel, but Josefine just smiles.

“Speaking of,” he goes on, “how’s the trip? I can’t believe you came all this way to see me.”

“I do that every weekend, Dad. It’s no big deal, I told you.”

“You should’ve stayed home. Spent your time productively instead of looking at me lying around.”

Josefine is still trying to discern how much her father is aware of the situation. He’s surprisingly clearheaded right now; at least he knows he’s in the nursing home, but does he also know what happened earlier this morning? Does he remember getting scratched by one of the other old people? Has he got a clue that most of them are already dead and that he has only hours to live?

“Why don’t you come inside?” her father asks. “Don’t stand around out there.”

“I … I can’t, Dad.”

“Why not? You haven’t picked up smoking, have you? That’d break your old dad’s heart, you know.”

“No, it’s just … the rules …”

“Ah, to hell with their rules. This room is mine, and I decide who enters. Come on in, honey.”

Josefine decides that he probably doesn’t realize the full scope of the situation. If he knew there was only a slight chance of him infecting her, he would’ve never asked her in.

“I’d love to come inside, Dad, but …” Her eyes fall on the terrace door as she speaks. The window right next to it is ajar; just enough for her to slip her hand inside and reach the lock.

“But what?” her father asks, coughing again.

Josefine makes a quick decision. One that very well may seal her fate. But she makes it anyway. She heard them say on the news last night that the infection most likely spreads through blood only, like AIDS. So as long as she doesn’t touch his wound, she should be fine.

She slips her hand through the open window and unlocks the terrace door.

As she steps into the room, she immediately notices the smell of fever. The air is warm and sour and salty. And as she approaches the bed, she notices the pearls of sweat beading her father’s forehead. His cheeks are red and his eyes are puffy.

“You hot, Daddy?” she asks. “You want me to get you something cool to drink?”

“That’d be lovely,” he says, smiling up at her.

She takes his cup from the table and goes to the tiny bathroom, fills the cup with icy water and goes back to him.

Seeing the cup, he instinctively tries to reach for it, but the strap stops his arm. He looks down at it, frowning.

“Here, let me help you,” Josefine says quickly, holding the cup to his lips.

Her father closes his eyes and drinks deeply, emptying the cup. Afterwards, he sighs. “Lord, that was just what I needed.”

How long has he been lying here without anyone checking on him?

Josefine isn’t too surprised, though. Even at the best of times, the nursing homes have a reputation of being understaffed, and now, under these crazy circumstances, with everything falling apart …

“So, how are things?” her father asks, sounding heartbreakingly cheerful, as though he takes this to be any other ordinary Wednesday.

“Things are … good,” Josefine says, forcing a smile. “You know … same old, same old.”

“Come on, now, when did you start lying to your old dad?” he says, tilting his head. “I can tell something’s bugging you, sweetheart.” He winks at her and lowers his voice. “Hey, you can tell me. Honestly, it’s okay. I’ll probably forget it by tomorrow.”

Josefine breaks into laughter which quickly turns into sobbing. And she realizes then and there that she was actually hoping the whole way up here that her father would’ve had one of his bad days, that he wouldn’t really be here, because this, seeing and hearing her real dad, the one she’s known for as long as she can remember, and then having to say goodbye to him, that’s too much to ask.

I can’t bear to see him like this, she thinks, then immediately realizing that the thought spoke in her mother’s voice, and that’s enough for her to stop crying. No. I won’t bail on him. And I won’t be a sobbing mess, either. He deserves better.

She looks her father in the eye. He’s calmly waiting for her to speak.

“It’s bad, Dad,” she begins. “And I think it’s only just starting. I think it might turn really, really bad. Maybe irredeemably.”

“Oh, come on now, nothing’s that bad. You make it sound like it’s the end of the world.”

“I’m afraid it might be,” Josefine whispers.

“Huh,” her dad mutters. “It’s really that bad?”

She nods. “It is. And I have no idea what to do, Dad. Soon it’ll just be me and Mom, and you know her, she won’t face facts no matter how much you scream at her.”

Josefine realizes too late she just told her dad he’s dying, but that doesn’t seem to shake him. Perhaps he knows more about the situation than he’s letting on, because he simply shrugs.

“You can’t save everyone, sweetheart. Especially not the stubborn ones like your sweet old mother. Don’t get me wrong, she’s the love of my life, but you can’t force people to get with the program, not even people you love. You just have to try your best and what will be will be, right?”

“Right,” Josefine agrees, discretely wiping away a tear with her thumb. Lucky she decided not to wear any makeup today, or her mascara would be running by now.

“You remember when this awful disease started to take a toll on me?” her father goes on. “Well, it damn near destroyed your mother. I mean, you’d think just from looking at her she was the one who’d just been diagnosed. I had to be the one to keep it together, for the both of us, you know? I had to tell her things would be all right. That we’d had a good run, that now wasn’t the time to be sad. I mean, it’s almost greedy, you know? This thing about wanting to live to be a hundred and never falling ill—who are you to demand that of life? Why not focus on all the good things you’ve been given instead? I tell you, that’s what I spend my days thinking about now—on the days I’m able too, at least.” He smiles briefly, then turns serious again. “What I’m trying to say is, you’ve got what it takes, sweetheart. And no one can take it away from you.”

Josefine nods and looks down, feeling like a little girl, as she always does when her father gives her advice.

“Thank you, Daddy,” she whispers. And before she can think to stop herself, she reaches out and takes his hand.

It’s hot and clammy, but he squeezes back with surprising strength.

They’re quiet for a minute or so. It’s almost like a lot of things pass between them, unspoken. All the words she wanted to say simply leave her and float away. And she senses her father feeling all of them.

When Josefine looks up at him again, his eyes are closed, his mouth open slightly. His breathing has grown deeper and rattlier. It looks like he’s sleeping. But then he suddenly opens his eyes, sees her and smiles.

“Hi, sweetheart.”

“Hi, Daddy.”

“I must’ve nodded off.” His voice is noticeably weaker.

“That’s okay. You can sleep if you’re tired.”

“I didn’t hear you come in. Where’s your mother? She’s not with you today?”

“No, she’s …”

“So, how are things?”

Josefine swallows, realizing that her dad has gone. “Fine, Dad. Just fine.”

“Good, I’m glad to hear it.”

He smiles, blinks, then blinks once more, and this time, he doesn’t open his eyes again.

SIX

Returning to the larger hallway, Mille finds the stream of passengers dragging along luggage and younger family members has grown thinner as most of them seem to have found their cabins.

She has no idea where to find crew members or even how to identify them, so she starts walking briskly towards what she takes to be the front-end of the ship.

She can feel the ferry moving under her feet now, and glancing out the windows, the water gliding by confirms to her that they are headed out to sea.

If I don’t make them turn back in time and get everyone off the ship, we’ll become like a zombie Titanic …

The thought makes her pick up the pace. She reaches a dining area with a buffet, but it’s currently closed and no one is there.

She goes on to find another staircase and decides to go down a deck, when someone comes around the corner and almost crashes into her.

“Whoops!” a tall, young, gangly guy exclaims. “Sorry about that. Didn’t see you.”

He’s talking Swedish and smiling at Mille for just a second, before moving out of her way, allowing her to pass.

He can’t be more than thirty, and he’s got a bad case of acne. But he’s wearing a bordeaux-colored vest with the logo of the ferry company on his chest.

“You work here?” she asks.

“I sure do.”

“Thank God. I need your help.”

“Sure, what can I do for you?”

Mille isn’t used to hearing Swedish, but it’s close enough to Danish that she gets the gist of what he’s saying, helped along by his tone and facial expression.

“It’s very important,” she says, lowering her voice as a few more people come up the stairs and pass by them. “There’s an infected person aboard the ferry. It’s my mother’s boyfriend. He’s got the virus-thing that they’re talking about in the news—you’ve heard about it, right?”

Even before he can answer, the boy’s face tells her with abundant clarity that he’s more than aware of what she’s talking about.

“Oh, no,” he says. “Are you sure? I mean, they told us they checked people before boarding them …”

“We weren’t checked at all,” Mille says, shaking her head. “I don’t know, we got here at the last minute, maybe we slipped past.”

The boy utters what must be a Swedish curse, then looks down the hallway and bites his lip. “This is not good. This is not good at all …”

“I know,” Mille says, almost ready to cry with relief that someone believes her, and that she now at least can put half the burden on this guy’s skinny shoulders. “What do we do? We’ve got to make them turn back, right?”

He nods. “I think we need to go straight to the captain with this.”

“Straight to the captain with what?”

Mille spins around at the Danish voice, which is so raspy that she’s surprised to find it belonging to a girl only a few years older than her. Her haircut is short and she’s wearing a vest matching the boy’s.

“Charlotte,” the boy says. “This woman just told me some pretty bad news.”

“Oh?” the girl says, looking from him to Mille. “And what’s that?”

“There’s an infected person on the ferry,” she tells her.

“Infected?” the girl repeats, frowning. “With what?” Before Mille can answer, comprehension dawns on the girl’s face. “Oh, shit! Tell me it’s not that Rhabdo-thing?”

“It is,” Mille says gravely. “He’s not … turned yet, but I suspect he will within an hour.”

“Fuck me,” the girl says, looking around as though searching for the nearest exit.

“We need to warn Sorensen right away,” the guy says, about to leave, waving at them both. “Come with me.”

“No, wait!” Charlotte exclaims.

The boy blinks. “Why?”

The girl darts another look around, as though to make sure no one else is within earshot, then steps away from the stairs.

Mille and the boy follow her, leaning in as she waves them closer and whispers in a hoarse voice reeking of stale coffee: “We need to think this through. If we go and tell the captain, what do you figure will happen?”

The boy shrugs. “He’ll turn back, of course. We won’t be allowed to land in Sweden when someone aboard is—”

“Exactly. But what makes you think we’ll be allowed to land back in Denmark?”

The boy blinks.

“We won’t,” the girl hisses. “We’ll be quarantined at sea. There’s no way in hell they’ll ever land a ship containing the virus anywhere.”

The boy bites his lip. “You may be right … I hadn’t thought about that.”

“Then what if we can isolate the person?” Mille interjects. “He’s still pretty healthy, I don’t think he’s even contagious yet. We could just get them to lock him up somewhere he can’t get into contact with anybody, can’t we?”

The boy frowns. “I think that would be against maritime law. You can’t detain someone unless they’re threatening to sink the ship or—”

“Oh, fuck your maritime law!” Charlotte snarls. “This is a fucking emergency. The whole country is already in lockdown. I’m sure they’ll let us lock him up.”

“But that will have to be the captain’s decision,” the boy goes on. “We need to bring this to him immediately, the sooner the better, so he can contact the authorities and find out what needs to be done.”

“And by the time that’s decided?” Charlotte asks, her eyes wide now. “And they find this guy? Do we even know where he is?” She snaps her head to look at Mille.

“Uhm, cabin B55, right down the hallway,” Mille says, pointing.

“And what if he’s gone when they come for him? Or dead? He could be dead as we speak, right?”

“I don’t think it—”

“This fucking thing is spreading like crazy!” the girl goes on, paying no more heed to Mille, but looking back at the boy again. “It’d be better to seal off the whole deck …”

“That would condemn a whole lot of healthy people,” Mille says.

“And still, it would be the captain’s decision,” the boy repeats.

Charlotte doesn’t seem to listen; she’s running her hand through her hair repeatedly and begins mumbling. “Shit, I knew it … I knew it when they said the borders might be shut down … I should’ve called in sick, but I thought it’d be safer to get to Sweden and just stay there until this thing blows over … and now look!”

“I’m sure they’ll figure out a way to deal with this,” Mille says, trying to get through to the girl, who’s looking like she’s about to panic. “Even if they quarantine the ship, they’ll probably let us non-infected leave and get back to—”

“Back to where?” Charlotte exclaims, staring at Mille. “To Denmark? Where the shit is already running wild? No, they won’t let us go anywhere. We’ll be trapped on this ship.”

“They might let us leave,” the boy argues. “Perhaps they’ll test us or something first, but I’m sure they won’t just let three thousand people strand out here.”

The girl grinds her teeth and spits at him: “They couldn’t deal with it on land, why the fuck do you think they’ll be able to on a ship full of people? The only difference is, out here, there’s nowhere to run!”

“Okay,” Mille says, trying to keep her cool. “You don’t want to take this to the captain, right?”

“No, I don’t. Because if we do, they’ll shut down everything, and we’ll be at the mercy of whatever they decide. I mean, maybe they’ll get it under control, fine, I’ll give you that—there’s a chance. But are you willing to risk your life on that?”

“What do you suggest we do, then?”

Charlotte thinks for a second, clicking her jaw. Then she says firmly: “We bail. We launch a lifeboat and get the hell off the ship as soon as possible.”

“That would be cowardly,” Mille says before she can help herself. “We can’t leave the rest of the people here unknowing about the threat.”

“Fine, then we call them once we’re far enough away.”

The boy is about to say something, but Mille cuts him off by raising her voice.

“Let me tell you something. I already bailed on a bus full of my classmates. You know what happened to them? They’re dead. Every last one of them. I’m not bailing again.”

“That’s fine, you play the hero,” the girl snaps. “But I’m leaving.”

“Charlotte, wait,” the boy says, but Charlotte has already turned to leave, and she runs downstairs.

Mille looks at the boy, and he looks back at her.

“You still want to tell the captain?” Mille asks.

The boy doesn’t look so certain anymore. “Maybe … we should secure the guy first. You know, just so we don’t risk him infecting anybody else.”

Mille nods. “That’s a good idea.” And when the boy is about to run down the hallway, she grabs his arm. “Wait. It’s better I do it alone.”

He looks at her. “You sure? I mean, what if he doesn’t … agree?”

“He definitely won’t. That’s why we need to be sneaky about it. If he sees anyone else than me, he’ll freak out.”

“Okay, well … I could still come, but just stay back? And if you need help, you can call out to me.”

Mille nods. “That’s fine. Come on, then.”

Mille is about to run, when the boy holds out a hand. “I’m Iver, by the way.”

She smiles and takes his hand. “Hi, Iver. I’m Mille.”

SEVEN

The room falls completely quiet. It’s like a vacuum. Like sounds never existed.

Josefine watches her father take his last breath before his chest stops rising and falling.

And then she just sits there for a minute, still holding his hand, feeling the warmth leaving it.

Something begins to stir at the back of her mind, some incessant thought telling her to remove her hand, to get away from the bed, to leave the room.

At first, the thought annoys her, but then she realizes it’s simply her mind trying to protect her, and she decides to follow its advice.

She squeezes his hand one last time, then gets up and steps back.

And at that exact moment, there’s a rattling of keys, a snap of a lock, and then the door to the room is opened briskly. A man—at least Josefine assumes it’s a man, judging from his height—all dressed in what looks like a medical spacesuit, stares at her from the doorway.

“What the hell are you doing in here?” he exclaims, his voice distorted by the breathing mask. “No one is allowed in the patients’ rooms!”

“He’s my father,” she says, as though that explains anything.

“Christ, we’re trying to keep people safe,” he mutters, then walks to the bed, his suit swishing and swooshing. “Per?” he exclaims. “Per Rasmussen? Can you hear me?”

“He’s gone,” Josefine hears herself tell the man in the hazmat suit. “He died less than two minutes ago.”

The man looks at her, and she can make out his eyes through the protective glass. He’s younger than she thought. Around her own age. “You really shouldn’t be in here,” he tells her, and this time, the voice is almost compassionate.

And Josefine knows he’s right. But she doesn’t want to leave.

“I’m fine,” she says. “I’m going with him.”

“You are?”

“Yes. They told me one relative could go.”

“Yes, but …”

Josefine never finds out what comes after “but,” because the man in the suit is interrupted by a throaty noise coming from her father.

His chest jerks upwards, and for a second, it looks to Josefine like he’s suddenly begun breathing again, but then she realizes it’s simply his body cramping, as he thrashes his head from side to side and tries to lift his arms and pull up his legs. He’s stopped by the straps. Instead, he cranes his neck and stares directly at her.

Josefine thought she was prepared to see him like this. She thought the years of dementia had gotten her used to looking at his face and seeing a stranger.

But this …

This is different.

It’s not a stranger glaring at her from those empty eyes. It’s no one. It’s a dead thing. And as much as Josefine wants to feel pity and grief for the thing strapped to the bed, she finds nothing but horror in her heart.

The thing bares its grey teeth and growls at her.

Josefine automatically takes a step backwards.

“The patient in room 14 has just turned,” the man in the suit says, and when Josefine looks dreamily over at him, she sees him talking into a walkie. “I need two of you to come and help me secure him.” Then, he looks over at Josefine. “You really don’t need to be here for this.”

“It’s fine,” her voice tells him. “I want to.”

The man looks at her a moment longer, then shrugs. “Suit yourself. But I warned you.”

He opens a small medical purse Josefine hasn’t noticed till now and produces a syringe and a tiny bottle from it. Even with the big gloves on, he manages to prepare the syringe with no real trouble; he’s obviously trained in doing it.

“What are you giving … him?” Josefine asks, hesitating at the final word, weary at even referring to the thing on the bed with a pronoun.

“It’s a sedative,” the man answers. “It won’t hurt him, but he’ll be unable to move for about four to six minutes.”

Josefine takes a deep breath. First the straps and now a forced injection. Somehow, that’s what she finds most scary about this whole thing: the fact that nursing homes are treating the people like inmates in a high-security prison. Or like psychotic people in a 1920’s asylum.

The door to the room opens, and two more suits enter, bringing a gurney and what looks an awful lot like a straightjacket. They look at Josefine, but ask no questions. After briefly coordinating amongst them, the three men take up position around the bed, where the dead thing is still struggling and groaning, trying to get at anybody.

“Ready?” one of them asks. “I’m giving it now.”

He plunges the needle into the inner thigh of the thing that was Josefine’s father a few minutes ago, swiftly pushing the clear liquid into the body.

The effect is almost immediate.

The thrashing subsides and the groans die out. The milky-white eyes close halfway and the mouth stops biting.

“Okay, let’s do it!”

The men work like they’ve done this at least a dozen times before; working together as a team. Within ninety seconds, the body has been unstrapped, hoisted up, dressed in the straightjacket and placed on the gurney. They then fasten another set of leather strap around the shoulders, chest and waist.

They step back and watch the thing strapped to the gurney as it makes a few halfhearted attempts to move its sedated and secured limbs.

“Great job,” one of the men says, letting out a discrete sigh of relief. “He isn’t going anywhere.”

“Is the other patient ready?” another one of them asks.

“Yeah, we loaded her into the chopper twenty minutes ago. The tranq must have worn off by now, so she’s probably alive and kicking.”

“Then let’s get this guy out there before he wakes back up, too.”

They go to open the terrace door and roll the gurney outside. As they pass by Josefine, who’s standing by the wall, watching silently, one of the men—the first one—stops and looks at her. “You coming or what?”

EIGHT

Mille returns to hallway B and finds door number 55 open. From inside, she can hear her mom and Torben speaking.

“Ouch!” Torben exclaims. “Be careful, that stings like hell.”

“It’s supposed to sting,” Mille’s mom tells him. “That’s how you know it works.”

Mille pushes the door open all the way and steps inside the crammed cabin. There are four bunks and a single, narrow window at the end, letting in the early, greenish twilight.

Torben is sitting on one of the bunks, his head tilted to the side, his shirt buttoned down to show one hairy, brown nipple.

Mille’s mom is busy dabbing at the scratch right above his collarbone—which looks glowing red—with a wad of wet toilet paper. In her other hand is a bottle of what looks like chlorhexidine.

Torben already looks feverish; his forehead is beaded with sweat and his cheeks are pink. Also, the air in the cabin is stuffy and moist.

He’s dying even faster than I feared, Mille thinks, feeling her stomach tighten.

Torben winces and is about to say something when he notices Mille. “Oh,” he groans. “She’s back.”

Mom turns her head, sees Mille, and her face turns blank. “What are you doing here? I thought you were going to get them to turn the ferry around …”

“Mom,” Mille says. “Can I talk with you outside for a moment?”

“I’m kind of busy,” her mom retorts coolly.

Mille looks at Torben, and he scowls back at her. “What?” he barks.

“You look terrible.”

Torben shoves Mille’s mom’s hand away as she tries to resume rinsing the scratch. “Don’t you start again. I’m fine, it’s just a goddamn scratch, and it’s been disinfected thoroughly.” He points a fat finger at Mille. “You get the hell out of here! I don’t need you around to be a pain in my ass.”

Mille answers in a calm voice: “You obviously have a fever.”

“No, I don’t,” he scuffs, pulling out his shirt and fanning it. “I’m just warm. It’s very warm in here. Damn, honey, get me a Coke, will you?”

“Sure,” Mille’s mom says.

Torben sends Mille one last, triumphant look.

Mille simply turns and leaves the cabin. She darts a look down the hallway to see Iver standing by the end. He sends her a questioning look, and Mille shakes her head. He steps out of sight.

Her mother joins her a moment later, gently closing the door behind them, right after telling Torben: “I’ll be back in a jiff, honey.”

“Hurry up,” Torben groans. “I’m burning up.”

Mille’s mother looks at her defiantly. “So, is this how you’re going to play it? Act all grown-up on me.”

Someone needs to, Mille thinks, but keeps the thought to herself. Instead, she says: “You can’t go back in there. He’ll be dead within half an hour. Probably sooner.”

“Will you stop with that nons—”

“Please believe me, Mom,” Mille says, surprising them both by reaching out and taking her mother’s wrist gently. “It won’t be safe for you with him. As soon as he dies, he won’t recognize you. He’ll only want to attack you.”

A host of different emotions flicker across her mother’s face. Then she settles on disgust and pulls free her arm. “You have no way of knowing what’ll happen to Torben. He’s strong as a bull. He’ll fight it off.”

“No, Mom. He won’t. No one can fight it off.”

“Torben can,” her mother sneers, putting her face close to Mille’s. “You’ll see.”

Then she walks right past her.

Mille stands there for a moment, considering her options.

I need to secure the door.

Mille looks around. A few doors down the hallway a trolley containing cleaning supplies are parked. The cabin door opens in, however, which makes it impossible to barricade from this side. But Mille’s gaze fall on the roll of extension wire hanging from the trolley, and she reacts without thinking.

She runs to the trolley and drags it back to door 55, placing it right up against the door. It’s just wide enough that it can’t pass through the doorway. Mille grabs the wire, twirls it a few times around the handle, then secures it tightly to the trolley.

Just as she pulls a firm knot, she hears heavy footsteps from the other side, and then the handle turns and someone pulls the door. It only opens half an inch, though, before the wire pulls the trolley up against the doorframe.

“What the—” Torben’s voice from the inside. Another tug at the door. Then Torben’s face appears at the crack, one bloodshot eye peering out at the trolley. Then the eye fixes on Mille, and the gaze turns icy. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Where’s your mother?”

“It’s important you stay out of contact with an—”

“You open this door at once!”

The handle is pulled violently back—so hard, in fact, that Mille for a moment is sure something will give.

But the extension cord holds, and so does the handle itself. The trolley slams up against the walls as Torben pulls the handle again, even harder. Still, the blockade works.

Mille is about to leave, when the door to the neighboring cabin opens and a woman pokes her head out. “What’s going on? We’re trying to sleep.”

Mille sees the woman looking at the trolley serving as a homemade barricade, and her expression darkens.

“Why is someone locked inside that cabin?”

Torben yanks the handle again, and Mille has no idea what to say to the woman.

Then, suddenly, Iver steps in front of her and addresses the woman in a low voice: “Hello, and sorry for the disturbance. The passenger in cabin 55 is possibly infected and contagious. You need to stay inside your own cabin. Please don’t tell anyone. The situation is being dealt with.”

Mille is amazed at how calm and assertive Iver sounds, talking with an authority she didn’t sense in him before.

The woman seems to take him very seriously, because her eyes widen immediately. “Is it … is it that virus they’re talking about?”

“We don’t know yet,” Iver lies without flinching. “But we don’t want to take any chances. The doctor will see to the person very soon. The best thing you can do is stay inside your cabin until further notice.”

The woman nods, looks over at the trolley again, then back at Iver. “All right,” she whispers. Then she closes the door and locks it.

“Well done,” Mille praises him, and Iver smiles briefly. “Let’s go.”

“You come back!” Torben shouts, his voice already sounding strained and raspy. “You open this door! When I get my hands on you, young lady, you won’t like it! I swear!” Then he breaks into a nasty cough.

Mille and Iver are about to walk away when a shrill voice comes from behind: “What the hell are you doing?”

Mille spins around to see her mother standing there, a Coke in her hand, glaring at her open-mouthed, eyes wide in disbelief.

“Have you lost your mind completely? Torben is sick, he needs medical attention. And you’re locking him in? And who are you?” Staring at Iver. “You told the crew about Torben? How dare you?”

“Torben is infected, Mom,” Mille says. “He can’t get into contact with anybody. It’s only a matter of time before he …”

Her mother obviously isn’t listening. Even as Mille is speaking, she puts the Coke on the trolley and makes to undo the wire.

Mille grabs her wrist hard and flings it away. “You stop that!” she shouts, looking her mother dead in the eye. “Listen to me! For the last time: you can’t let him out! He’ll endanger everyone on this ship.”

“But … he needs help …” her mother croaks, apparently taken aback by Mille’s sudden anger, and—as she always does when she can’t bully someone—resorts to her hurt-little-girl-demeanor. “It’s cruel locking him up like that …”

Torben is still coughing and banging at the door.

“It’s too late, Mom. I’m sorry. I really am.”

Her mom’s lips start quivering.

Mille feels an unexpected stab of sympathy, and she reaches out to take her mom’s hands. “Listen to me, Mom. I’m going with Iver to talk to the captain now. They’ll decide what to do.”

“Will they … will they cure him?”

Mille shakes her head. “They can’t.”

Her mother starts crying.

“But … I’m sure they’ll do everything they can to ease his discomfort,” Mille goes on, offering what is probably a white lie. “We need your help, Mom. Are you listening?”

Her mother looks at her through wet eyes. “What?”

“You need to stay here and guard the door. Make sure no one comes by and tries to open it. Okay? It’s very important.” She points to the door. Torben has fallen silent on the other side now. Mille says very firmly: “If that door is opened, a lot of people will die. You hear me?”

She holds her mom’s gaze, watching the struggle on her face. Then, she nods in resignation.

“Good,” Mille says, smiling vaguely. “Thank you, Mom. I knew I could trust you.”

Her mom nods again, avoiding her eye.

Before she can stop herself, she puts her arms around her mother and whispers: “You’re being very brave. I know how difficult it is. I lost my best friend just two days ago. I was right there. I … I know how it feels.”

She pulls away gently, and her mother sobs, nods again, but still doesn’t look Mille in the eye. Mille squeezes her arm and whispers: “Stay strong until I come back, Mom.”

Then she walks away, waving Iver after her. It takes an effort not to look back.

NINE

“I told you it was a bad fucking idea! Didn’t I tell you?”

Malthe’s voice is shrill with shock, cutting through the music blaring from the speakers.

Aksel ignores him, concentrating instead on the road and the many obstacles in the form of living dead people staggering back and forth, grabbing hopelessly at the car.

“You fucking asshole, you just had to do it, didn’t you?” Malthe goes on, running his hands through his slicked-back hair. “And now look at you! Your hand is all fucked-up!”

He reaches over and grabs Aksel’s wrist.

“Let go of me!” Aksel snarls, swatting at Malthe—then instantly regretting it, as the movement sends a pang of pain through the busted hand.

“Ugh!” Malthe shrieks and pulls back. “You got blood on me, asshole! This is my best shirt.”

“Then keep your fucking hands to yourself,” Aksel mutters, blinking sweat from his eyes and clutching the steering wheel as he swerves the Mercedes to narrowly avoid a dead woman with one tit hanging out of her tank top—and not a bad tit at that, Aksel has time to notice.

“Hey, you saw that broad?” Eli croaks from the backseat. “She was half-naked!”

“I thought you were out cold,” Malthe remarks and looks back at Eli. “After you downed that last rum, I was sure you were out for the night.”

“No, no way,” Eli says, hoisting himself up from the seat.

Aksel notices in the rearview mirror how Eli’s head dangles from side to side, his eyes swimming in their sockets. He burps and laughs. “I could go for another cold one. We got any more beers?”

“I think you had enough,” Malthe says.

“Fuck you, Mom,” Eli grins, reaching out his hand. “Gimme! Or I’ll start kicking your seat.”

Malthe bends down, takes another can from the box, then throws it over his shoulder. “Here, catch!”

“Ouch! You hit me right on the fucking nose!”

Malthe snorts laughter, and Aksel can’t help but smile despite the pain in his hand at the sight of Eli in the mirror, rubbing his nose, looking at it cross-eyed, like a goddamn cartoon character.

“Hey, what was that about some naked chick?” Eli asks.

“I don’t know, you tell us!” Malthe blurts out. “You were the one who mentioned her!”

“Oh, right. I saw her out the window. Had one boob hanging out.”

“’One boob’,” Malthe repeats. “How old are you, five? They’re called tits. Or bazookas. Or melons. Or anything but boobs, really.”

“I call them whatever the boob I want,” Eli grunts and opens the can. “The point is, it was hanging out.”

“Was she dead?”

“Huh?”

“I asked you, was she dead?”

“No, she was walking around.”

“That doesn’t mean she wasn’t dead,” Malthe says grimly.

“What are you on about?” Eli asks, sipping his beer and spilling half of it down his shirt. “Hey, where are we?”

“In Aarhus, you drunk asshole. You forgot? You wanted to see real-life zombies, so we drove here.”

“All the way from Fredericia?” Eli asks earnestly.

“Yeah, and you slept through most of the trip. So take in the view, because we’re leaving again.”

Just then, Aksel turns on to the freeway and speeds up. The number of dead people decreases drastically, so does the number of cars abandoned on the road, making it possible for him to get the car in fourth and floor it.

“No, wait,” Eli says, turning in the seat to look back. “Why are we leaving already? I want to see more of them!”

“Because Axe got bitten,” Malthe says, looking at Aksel’s hand and immediately—as though he recalls the seriousness of the situation—his voice turns shrill again. “He wanted to high-five one of them, and it caught him like a fucking alligator; almost ripped his hand clean off.”

“Holy shit!” Eli gasps. “Is that true, Axe?”

“He’s exaggerating,” Aksel mutters, holding up his right hand for Eli to see. “It looks worse than it is.”

Actually, it doesn’t; it looks exactly as bad as a bite wound to the hand looks. There’s a deep, ragged-edged gash between his middle and forth finger, making it look like someone tried to cleave his hand in two. His first three fingers are relatively unscathed, but the two others took the worst of it: the teeth of the zombie peeled the skin all the way to the bone on the ring finger, and the nail on his pinkie is missing altogether.

“Holy shit,” Eli says again. “Looks like you stuck it in a fucking blender, dude.”

“It doesn’t even hurt,” Aksel shrugs, placing the hand back on the wheel. It’s already sticky from blood, and some of it has dripped onto the seat. What does it matter at this point anyway? His father is going to have him boiled alive for taking the car without asking, not to mention driving around in it drunk.

“You’re going to die, man,” Eli says, glaring at Aksel wide-eyed. “You’re going to turn into a zombie.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Aksel says.

“It’s true!” Eli shouts. “Didn’t you play Dying Light? You’re going to die and wake back up again. That’s how it works. Once you’re bitten, there’s no way to save you.”

“Except for chopping off the hand,” Malthe remarks.

Aksel looks at him sideways. “Fuck you.”

“I’m serious,” Malthe says, sending him his most earnest look. “I think we should do it.”

“I think you should blow yourself.”

Eli snorts with laughter. “If only he could!”

“I won’t be able to play the drums with one fucking hand, will I?” Aksel says, looking at Malthe.

“Fuck that, wouldn’t you rather live?” Malthe says, throwing out his arms. “There are more important things in life than playing music, you know.”

“Not to me there isn’t.”

“Gotta agree with Axe on this one,” Eli says. “I wouldn’t know what the fuck to do with my life if we broke up the band.”

“You guys are nuts,” Malthe says, shaking his head. “I’d screw the band in a minute if it meant I could live.”

Aksel shakes his head, placing his limited focus back on the road. He realizes they’re going way above the limit, the Mercedes’s engine working like a beast. He lets off the gas a little.

A surprisingly sober thought shoots through his mind then. If they hadn’t all been boozed out of their minds, the situation would look a whole lot different. If he hadn’t downed all those Carlsbergs and almost as many shots, he would have been terrified right now. He would have cursed himself for putting his hand out the window. For even coming here. For going out drinking with his friends in the first place, when everyone was talking about staying at home, staying indoors, staying safe.

But no, he just had to play the asshole, didn’t he? He was the one who wanted to go, after all. He talked Eli into it, who in turn talked Malthe into it. And then they were off, buying booze at the local supermarket, where pretty much everything else had been ripped off the shelves, including cotton swabs and baby diapers.

“What … what will happen?” Malthe asks, looking at Aksel and sounding almost sober now. “When you die, I mean? You can’t drive the car when you die. You need to let one of us take over.”

“No way,” Aksel says, shaking his head. “It’s my dad’s car. No one but me drives it.”

“But we’ll crash.”

“No we won’t, because I won’t die.”

“You look pale.”

“And you look ugly.”

“You’re sweating like a pig, too.”

“Are you a fucking doctor now? Why don’t you just go ahead and take my temperature, you faggot?”

Even as he speaks, Aksel realizes Malthe is right; he is sweating profusely, his hair clinging to his temples, drops running down his back. His hands are shaking, too. And his vision is starting to go fuzzy around the edges.

“Just need to concentrate,” he mutters, not really aware he’s talking aloud.

He fucked up. Royally. He knows that, even in his heavily intoxicated state. Some deeper part of him is freaking out. He knows what happens once you get bitten by a zombie. And he knows those things back in Aarhus were most likely zombies, even though the media is calling them “sick people” and “victims of the virus” and other kind of keeping-the-calm bull-crap terms.

“It’s okay,” he whispers underneath his breath, which has turned slightly ragged now, warm spittle foaming at the corners of his mouth. “I’ll be fine. Just need to kill the germs.”

“What’s that?” Malthe asks. “You talking to me?”

“Give me your lighter,” Aksel says, turning into the emergency lane and hitting the brake hard.

“Woah,” Eli exclaims as he is thrust forward, almost taking a dive over the gear shift. “What’s with the driving, dude?”

“Get the bottle of absinth from the trunk,” Aksel says as the car comes to a halt.

“Right on!” Eli says, leaning over the backseat. “Now you’re talking!”

Aksel unbuckles and looks at Malthe. “And where’s that lighter?”

Malthe is going through his pockets. “I don’t know, man, I had it just a minute ago. Wait, here it is.” He hands Aksel a packet of cigarettes.

Aksel takes out the lighter and throws the packet back at Malthe. “I only asked for the lighter.”

“What, I thought you wanted a smoke?”

“The absinth, Eli! Hurry up!”

“Hold your water,” Eli says. He’s hanging over the seats, rummaging through the bags in the trunk, bottles clinging. “There’s a lot of booze back here. Absinth … that’s the green one, right?”

“Right.”

Aksel notices Malthe eyeing him.

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” he asks.

“I’m not going to drink it,” Aksel says, grinding his teeth as a stab of pain jolts up through his arm. It’s intense enough that the alcohol in his system can only take the edge off it.

Malthe looks at the lighter, which Aksel turns over in his good hand, flicking it and producing sparks.

“Wait … are you going to set something on fire?”

“Ten points to Einstein over here,” Aksel says, just as Eli blurts out: “There it is!”

He hands the tiny bottle of green liquid to Aksel, who places the lighter between his teeth, takes the absinth and opens the door.

“Hey, where you going?” Eli shouts.

Aksel doesn’t answer. His focus is on the task at hand. He watched a war movie once, where they cleaned a dirty gunshot like this. He knows it’ll work; fire will kill any germs or infection. He also knows it’ll hurt like hell.

He unscrews the absinth, careful not to use his bad hand, instead pinning the bottle in his armpit. He drops the cap and puts the bottle to his lips, drinking three large gulps. The booze burns like it’s already on fire, causing a searing pain down through his throat and on the inside of his chest.

“Woooh!” Eli howls, hanging halfway out the car window. “Now we’re fucking talking! Dude, you’re an animal! I’m up next!”

“No, you moron, you’ll kill yourself,” Malthe objects. “And stay in the car, goddamnit! Aksel’s about to do something stupid.”

“I sure am,” Aksel grins, blinking away the tears filling his eyes, trying to focus his gaze on the bad hand. Most of the blood has dried up by now, but fresh, red trickles are still coming out. He takes a deep breath, then pours the absinth out over his hand.

The pain is surprisingly mild, considering how people in movies always scream when their wounds are disinfected. It burns, for sure, but not worse than what the absinth did to his intestines just a second ago.

“Why’re you pouring out the booze?” Eli blurts out, hanging from the window, trying to get free from Malthe, who’s caught him by the belt.

Aksel puts the bottle on the ground and takes the lighter. “Right, here goes,” he croaks. And before giving himself time to think, he flicks it.

The flame is blue and thin and instantaneous. Beautiful, really. Licking all the way up to his elbow, nipping at the sleeve of his T-shirt. Aksel just stares at it for a moment; he can see the hair on his arm curl up and melt.

Then comes the pain.

This time, it’s just as bad as you’d expect from lighting yourself on fire, immediately drowning out the pain from the wound.

And that’s when Aksel realizes he has not thought the plan through, has no game plan as to how he’ll put out the fire again. He expected it to simply give off a quick, intense burst and then extinguish itself. But his hand just keeps burning, and with his next breath, he can smell his own skin searing.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” he shouts, beginning to flail his arm. It does nothing to put out the fire, just causes it to give off a sound like someone violently brandishing a flag. And a cascade of tiny, burning sparks fly off into every direction, some of them landing on the car, one of them catching Aksel right under the eye. He screams as he’s blinded, instinctively putting both hands to his face.

Which is when the bad plan turns into a deadly one.

Someplace nearby, he can hear someone—sounds like Eli—screaming. But he can’t make out the words. The world is drowning in fire and pain, as he smears himself in burning absinth, setting himself further and further on fire.

TEN

Josefine has never been in a helicopter before. Then again, she’s never watched a loved one die before, so flying a helicopter won’t be the craziest thing she’s done today.

It’s one of those yellow medical helicopters she’s seen fly across the city now and then. Her first impression is that it seems awfully crammed, the walls are full of medical equipment and the ceiling isn’t tall enough for a grown person to stand.

The other patient is already loaded, a woman, and quite a large one at that; Josefine recognizes her as Bodil, a lovely, jovial old lady with a booming laugh and pug nose. Everything about Bodil is gone, of course—except for the pug nose.

There’s something funny about the way she’s lying on the gurney, though. Her right arm seems to be sitting too low, twisting her torso at an awkward angle. But maybe it’s just because of how she’s writhing to get free of the straps.

The men secure the other gurney opposite to Bodil’s, just as the thing that was Josefine’s father begins to move more frantically again, rearing its head, snapping its teeth and trying to sit up.

The two patients don’t seem to notice each other, both are only concerned with getting free and reaching the nearest live person, which right now is the man in the protective suit, who’s placed himself on the seat next to Josefine.

The way the two gurneys are placed parallel to each other leaves only a narrow passage between them.

The man next to her has taken off the mask and zipped down the suit enough to free his arms and shoulders.

To Jennifer’s surprise, he’s at least ten years younger than she first thought, though he’s sporting grey sideburns and a week’s worth of stubble. He’s also a lot more handsome.

“I guess it’s just going to be you and me, then,” he says, putting his radio away. “One of my colleagues was supposed to join us, but he just got himself scratched.”

“Oh. Sorry to hear that.”

“Never mind, he was kind of an asshole anyway.”

Josefine looks at him in stunned surprise.

He sighs and rubs his face. “I’m sorry. It’s been a really tough couple of days. I watched so many people die, you wouldn’t believe it.”

“Everything set back here?” a hoarse voice shouts from the open door, causing Josefine to jump.

A muscular guy wearing a helmet with a headset looks in at them. He’s wearing a tight, white T-shirt and grey aviator sunglasses. And as though the clichés weren’t obvious enough, he’s also chewing loudly on a piece of gum.

“I think we’re good to go,” the man next to Josefine says.

“And the patients?” the pilot asks, nodding towards the gurneys. “Are they secured properly?”

“We double-checked.”

“Sure? Wouldn’t want anything to happen while we’re up in the air.”

“I think we’re good.”

“Great. Well, let’s get ’er floatin’, then.” The pilot grins at them, slaps his palm against the outside of the helicopter twice, then closes the door and climbs in the front.

“It’ll be pretty noisy,” the man tells Josefine, pointing over her head. “You can put those on if you like.”

Josefine turns her head and sees a set of earmuffs hanging from a hook.

“I didn’t even catch your name,” he goes on, securing his seat belt. “Mine’s Michael.”

“Josefine. Nice to meet you.” Without thinking, she offers him her hand.

He looks at it, then looks up at her. “We better not. The virus, you know.”

“Oh. Sorry.” She pulls back her hand, feeling stupid.

“Don’t be sorry. Just get used to it. We’ll all be practicing social distancing for the foreseeable future.”

“I thought they said it only transfers through blood?”

“That’s how it looks right now, yeah, but we can’t know for certain. There’s also the possibility that we’re dealing with more than one thing, so better safe than sorry.”

“More than one virus?”

“Yeah, or rather, several strains of the same virus. It could have mutated already.”

“I see.”

The pilot says something on a radio, then begins navigating the instruments with practiced movements. A deep rumbling as the engine starts, then a fluttery whisking sound grows louder and faster.

Michael puts on a set of earmuffs. Then, he reaches over and flips a switch on Josefine’s pair, and the sound changes slightly.

“Can you hear me?” he asks, his voice sounding in her ears, slightly delayed in comparison with the movement of his lips.

Josefine nods. “I can.”

“Good. Then we don’t need to shout.”

The sound of the rotors has by now risen to a booming roar, and suddenly, Josefine feels a jolt in her stomach as the helicopter lifts off.

She watches through the window how the parking lot moves away from them, then she sees the roof of the nursing home, the lawn behind the building, the street and the next street, more buildings, and soon she has a clear view over the whole town.

Her mother has probably already left for home. The thought of her driving home alone makes Josefine sad.

The only good thing about the noise from the helicopter is that she can’t hear the groans from either of the two bodies writhing on the gurneys in front of her.

She looks at Bodil and again notices something odd about the way she’s lying; the right arm looks like it’s not moving properly, and Bodil has pushed herself sideways, causing her to almost turn over on the gurney, if it hadn’t been for the straps, of course.

“What’s up with her arm?” Josefine asks, pointing at Bodil.

Michael looks at Bodil, then at Josefine. “I think it’s dislocated. They told me they had a hard time getting her on to the gurney. She was very heavy, and it tipped over.”

“Oh. Was she …?”

“Dead when it happened? Yeah, don’t worry. She didn’t feel anything.”

“How about now?” Josefine glances at the thing that used to be her father. “Do they feel pain?”

“There’s really no way to tell. But from looking at them, I’d say no. They don’t react the least to things which would cause pain.”

“I guess that’s a good thing.”

He shrugs and looks out the window.

Josefine does the same, surprised at how far they’ve traveled already; the town is gone and all she can see now are open fields, yellow and green and thriving under the baking sun.

She looks over at Michael once more. “Did you know any of them?”

He nods towards the gurneys. “Any of them?”

“No, the ones you watched die?”

“Oh. No, they were all just patients.” He glances at her. “I’m sure it’s different when they’re your family …”

“I’m actually surprisingly okay with it.”

Michael raises one eyebrow. “You are?”

She nods and shrugs. “I’ve seen him slowly disappear for years now. It’s like my brain has gotten used to seeing his body without him in it.”

“Oh, that’s right, he had Alzheimer’s, didn’t he?”

She nods again.

“Interesting.”

She looks at him, and his expression changes.

“I don’t mean to sound insensitive. It’s just that, examining a patient with severe dementia might teach us something new.”

“Well, I hope he can be of some help. Are you … close to finding a cure?”

“Not as far as I know.”

“How can a person with Alzheimer’s tell you anything about a virus then?”

“It’s a little technical to explain.”

“Try me—I had biology in college.”

She says it as a joke, but Michael doesn’t seem to catch it. He leans forward.

“Whatever this thing is, it’s clear that it’s affecting the brain. All other vital organs seem to shut down once the patient reaches the final stage. In fact, they begin decaying, just like the rest of the body. The blood more or less coagulates, the muscles atrophy, the bones even turn brittle. That’s why they have a hard time moving normally; for all intents and purposes, they’re corpses walking around.”

Josefine feels an involuntary shiver.

Michael is too busy talking to notice. “For some unknown reason, the virus is able to highjack the motor cortex and keep it running even after everything else has been shut down. That’s why it has zero effect when the police use rubber bullets and tear gas to try and pacify them. The only thing stopping an infected person is either damaging the brain or cutting it off from the rest of the nervous system.”

Josefine flinches. “Do you mean, like … decapitation? That’s brutal! Has anyone done that?”

Michael sends her a grim look. “I’ve heard some pretty gruesome stories. People get very creative when they’re trying to survive. One guy saw his neighbor use a tennis rachet to—”

“I think I can do without the details.”

“I get that. What I’m trying to say is, it doesn’t need to be anyway near that brutal.” He reaches over and places two fingers gently on the back of her neck. “You feel this? The soft spot right at the base of the skull? That’s where the connection to the brain is most vulnerable. A half-inch cut would probably do it.”

He takes his hand away again and Josefine takes a second to rid that awful image from her mind. Then, she asks: “How do you feel about euthanasia?”

He gives her a curious look. “I’m a doctor. My job is to keep people alive.”

“I know, but … aren’t these people already dead?”

“Clinically, yes. But we might need to redefine the term.”

“Okay, but if we assume they are dead and that this virus is keeping them artificially alive, don’t you believe there comes a point where death is the merciful thing?”

“Merciful to whom?”

Josefine frowns and gestures towards the gurney. “The person suffering, of course. I mean, if there’s no cure …”

“I’ve always opposed the thought of death as the easy way out,” Michael says. “But this is different. Here, we might need to do it to stop the virus from spreading any further.”

Josefine considers it for a moment. “I think it still might be justified. You know, for the greater good.”

“The thing is, we wouldn’t be doing it to ease their pain, but to save our own asses. Besides, you’d be talking about organized mass murder. The number I heard this morning suggested that almost a million people are now infected. By tomorrow it’ll likely be triple that. And once it really reaches mainland Europe, it’ll grow exponentially. Within a week, we’d have to orchestrate a genocide even the Nazis would’ve envied.”

Josefine swallows dryly, then clears her throat. “But if they are … rotting, basically … won’t they eventually stop moving and die for real?”

Michael shrugs. “It’s too early to tell. So far, there’s no signs of any of them slowing down, even in the first patients we restrained. The human body is a tough machine; it takes weeks for it to decompose completely, even after the respiratory and circulatory systems have ceased functioning.” He looks at the two bodies, and Josefine can tell from the way his cheek is moving that he’s biting down hard. “I don’t think waiting for the infected to die out will be a viable option. Just like putting down that many people won’t be possible, even if we wanted to.” He shakes his head slowly. “No, I’m telling you: a vaccine is our only hope. If we don’t find one very soon, there won’t be a happy ending for humanity.”

ELEVEN

Mille and Iver step inside the elevator, and Iver scans a card hanging from his hip, then presses a button. The elevator starts moving up.

“You think your mom will let him out?” Iver asks.

“No,” Mille says.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I could tell she understand the danger.”

Iver doesn’t say anything, but he keeps looking at Mille sideways.

She looks back at him. “What?”

“It’s just … I didn’t feel good about leaving her to guard the door.”

“Look, she’s a coward, but she wouldn’t risk other people’s lives,” Mille says, feeling suddenly and unexpectedly protective of her mother.

“So you don’t think she might give in if he starts talking to her through the door?”

“No. I trust her.”

Mille hears the lie in her voice even as she speaks the words. And Iver hears it too, apparently, because he looks at her until the elevator stops. Mille makes a point to not look back. She believes her mother won’t open the door. No, she needs to believe it. Needs to believe that her mother is capable of doing something unselfish for once. Just this one time. That’s she’s not a complete and selfish narcissist.

She glances at Iver and wants to say something, to tell him she’s sorry for snapping at him. But she doesn’t know how, and then the doors open and they step out into a wider hallway ending in a couple of double doors.

Iver knocks on the door twice and opens it without waiting for an invite, waving Mille after him.

The room must be the cockpit of the ferry—if that’s even the right word, Mille has no idea—and it’s impressively big. In the middle is a big control desk with all kinds of screens and buttons, and on three sides are tall windows showing the open sea and the dawning sky above.

There are only two people in the room, both male, both dressed in white uniforms and ties. One is sitting by the desk, sipping from a mug of coffee; the other is standing off to the side, looking at his phone. The guy at the desk is young and heavyset, the guy checking his phone is older and has a grey, well-trimmed beard.

“Darn it,” the older guy says. “It keeps telling me the app is already running, but it won’t open.”

“Hi, Iver,” the chubby man says, raising his mug as a salute. “You found a friend who wants a look-see?”

“Could you help me out here, Frederik?” the older man says with a grunt of annoyance, stilling looking at his phone. “I’ll never figure out this silly technology.”

“Captain,” Iver says, turning to the older man. “I’m afraid we have a serious problem.”

The man looks at him over rimless glasses. “So?”

Iver takes a deep breath. “I believe … we believe … there’s a person aboard who’s infected with the Rhabdo-virus.”

The guy with the coffee stands up, almost spilling coffee down his shirt.

The older man doesn’t move a muscle; he just holds Iver’s gaze. “That’s not possible. We checked every last passenger before boarding.”

“You didn’t check me,” Mille blurts out.

Both men turn their eyes on her, and she feels an impulse to shrink back, but doesn’t.

“You’ll excuse me for saying this, young lady,” the captain says in a still calm voice, “but you don’t look sick to me.”

“It’s not me.”

“It’s not her.”

Mille and Iver speaks in unison.

“It’s her stepfather,” Iver goes on. “He’s locked inside cabin B55.”

The guy with the coffee looks from Iver to the captain and back again.

The captain finally moves. He looks down at his phone again, and for a moment, it looks to Mille as though he’s simply going to continue doing what he was doing before they came in. But he puts away the phone after carefully shutting off the screen. Then he takes off his reading glasses, folds them and places them in his breast pocket. He then comes, placing his hands casually on his hips. He’s older than Mille took him for—close to seventy, probably.

He smiles a little when he looks at her. “What’s your name, young lady?”

“Mille Klitgaard.”

“I’m Carsten Sorensen, I’m the captain of this ship. This right here is Frederik, my second mate. So, what makes the two of you think that Mille’s—was it stepdad?—is suffering from the infamous virus?”

Iver looks to Mille.

“He was scratched by another infected person,” Mille says. “I saw it happen. He has a tear in his skin right here.” She taps her collarbone. “He’s already feverish. It’ll be a matter of fifteen to twenty minutes tops before he dies and—I mean, before he becomes contagious.”

Mille realizes at the last second that explaining to the captain how things really work with the infected probably isn’t the right thing.

“Back up a minute, please,” the captain says, waving his hand. “Where exactly did this happen? Where did your stepdad get this scratch?”

“In Frederikshavn.”

“There are no infected people in Frederikshavn. We checked with the authorities less than an hour before we took off. They wouldn’t have let us leave if the infection had reached Frederikshavn.”

“Well, it has,” Mille says plainly.

The captain moves his jaw in a peculiar thinking motion, then he looks at the second mate. “Call this in. Ask them if there’s been any infected people reported in Frederikshavn since we took off.”

The second mate puts down his coffee and goes to another, smaller desk by the windows.

“So, please carry on,” the captain encourages Mille. “Once you came aboard, what happened?”

“I didn’t realize he was infected until we were already on the ship,” Mille goes on. “When I did, I tried to convince my mother that we needed to take it seriously, but … she didn’t really believe me. Then I found Iver and explained it to him. After that, I went back and locked my stepdad in his cabin.”

The captain raises one bushy white brow. “You locked him in the cabin? How did you manage that?”

“I barricaded the door using a cleaning trolley and some extension cord.”

“That’s very resourceful of you,” the captain says, a tone of mild condescension in his voice. “Did your stepdad try to get out?”

“Yes. He couldn’t.”

“Is he alone in the cabin?”

“Yes.”

“You mentioned your mother—where’s she now?”

“Outside the cabin. Guarding the door.”

“And was it just the three of you who boarded together?”

“Yes.”

“Anybody else been in close contact with your stepdad?”

Mille thinks for a moment. “No.”

“But you and your mother have?”

“Yes.”

“Hmmm.”

He eyes her with something Mille can’t quite read. She’s about to say something else when the second mate comes back and cuts in. “They said they’re just beginning to get calls about people being attacked in Frederikshavn, too.”

“Darn it,” the captain says, much in the same tone of voice he used five minutes ago when he couldn’t get his phone to work. “I guess that settles it, then. We have to treat this as a possible outbreak of the virus aboard the ship.”

Mille feels a deep pull of relief in her lower belly.

“What … what do we do?” the second mate asks in a hoarse voice, looking at the captain like a small boy looks at his father.

The captain turns his head and looks out the windows for a moment, as though the answer is out there amongst the waves. Then he takes a deep breath through the nose and begins speaking.

“We need to get the infected person into proper isolation. Send medical personnel to move him to the ICU, then get them to confirm this is the virus. Make sure they understand the situation and take whatever precautions they need. Until we know for sure this is in fact the virus, we don’t mention that word to anybody who doesn’t need to know about it. The last thing we want is a panic spreading.”

“Yes, sir,” the second mate says, reaching for his phone and calling up someone.

“I … I don’t think that’s wise,” Mille says, frowning. “Sending someone to move him. You shouldn’t let anybody near him …”

The captain doesn’t listen; he’s busy navigating something on the control panel.

“Please listen to me,” Mille says, stepping closer, raising her voice. “Don’t send the doctors to check up on my stepdad; it’s too late anyway.”

“We’ll let the medical professionals decide that,” the captain says without looking at her. “Please step aside.”

Mille moves out of his way as he walks briskly to another desk.

“They’re on their way,” the second mate reports, putting his phone away.

“Good,” the captain says. “Now, please lock both doors to the cockpit, Frederik.”

Iver frowns. “Excuse me, but why would you lock the doors?”

“Because the four of us are quarantined starting five minutes ago.”

The second mate, who was striding towards the door Mille and Iver came in through, now stops and turns around. “Wh-what?”

“You heard me,” the captain says, still with a calm voice, but with an added tone of not inviting any backtalk. “These two young people might have brought the virus up here with them, and we could all be infected by now.”

“No,” Mille says, shaking her head. “No, that’s not how it works.”

“I’m sorry,” the captain says, turning away from her, “but I’m obliged to follow the guidelines put forth by the authorities.”

“Listen, you’re completely missing the point! This is not the right way to deal with this …”

“Frederik, the doors.”

Before Mille can think, she steps out in front of the second mate, cutting him off. He recoils like she was a leper.

“Listen to me!” Mille demands, almost shouting. “I know more about this than the damned authorities, I guarantee you that! I’ve seen this shit go down firsthand more than once!”

All three of them look at her.

Mille realizes there’s no other way than breaking the Z-word to the captain. So she addresses him: “Have you heard of zombies?”

He frowns. “Zombies?”

“Yes.”

He shakes his head. “Can’t say I have.”

“I have,” the second mate says, raising a hand in a schoolboy like motion. “They’re dead people coming back to eat the living.”

“That’s right,” Mille nods.

“Come now,” the captain says in that overbearing tone that’s starting to grind Mille’s gears. “You can’t expect me to believe—”

“I’m not,” Mille cuts him off. “I don’t expect you to believe anything. ’Cause you haven’t seen what I’ve seen.”

Mille realizes her lips are shaking, and she takes a couple of breaths to steady herself.

“To my knowledge,” the captain says calmly, “not a single person has died from the Rhabdo-virus yet.”

“That’s bullshit,” Mille says plainly. “You heard about the school bus that was attacked the day before yesterday?”

The second mate nods emphatically. The captain gives a single tip of his head.

“Well, I was on that bus. And I’m the only one still alive. I saw most of my classmates die. One of them right in front of me.” Mille suddenly sees Mads’s face drift by and she blinks dazedly as she keeps talking. “He stopped breathing. His heart stopped beating. He was dead. If you’ve ever been close to a dead person, you know without a doubt they’re dead. And he stayed that way for maybe a minute. Perhaps two. It’s hard to tell. Then, he woke up again. But it wasn’t that he came back to life. He was still dead. Just, somehow, able to move. He attacked my friend and killed her almost instantly. She bled out in a matter of minutes. Then she woke up again, too. Started chasing other living people, I’m sure. By that time, I was unconscious. Someone else came by just in time and saved me.”

She pauses, steadies herself and looks the captain squarely in the eye.

“I don’t know if ‘zombies’ is the right term for the people infected, but I think it comes pretty close. Once you’re infected, it’s done. You’ll be dead within minutes. It can’t be treated; it can’t be cured. If we don’t handle this properly, everyone on this ship will die.”

The captain looks at her for a couple of seconds. Then, he clears his throat. “I assure you, I’m taking it very seriously,” he says, a note of insult in his voice now. “This is my ship, and the thirty-two hundred passengers are my responsibility.”

“Great, then make sure they get off this ship alive.”

He crosses his arms. “Since you’re an expert on the subject, how do you suggest I do that?”

“First off, don’t send anybody to look at my stepdad, and certainly don’t move him. No matter how cautious they’ll be, it’s too dangerous. Secondly, make sure there’s no way he gets out of that cabin. Seal the door properly and get somebody with weapons to guard it. Then turn the ship back and let the rest of the passengers off somewhere safe.”

“And where would that be? Frederikshavn is now infected, and so are the rest of the major harbors. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t get permission to board anywhere. The authorities simply wouldn’t let—”

“Then don’t tell the authorities! All of these passengers deserve the chance to get off this ship, and not being trapped here waiting to get eaten alive!”

The captain breathes deeply. Then he takes a step towards Mille. It’s not an aggressive gesture, but still Mille draws back a little.

“I understand you’ve been through some terrible things,” he says, suddenly taking on a fatherly demeanor. “And I appreciate you trying to help. But there are protocols. And I’m obliged to follow them. End of discussion.” He turns to the second mate. “Now, close those doors, Frederik.”

The second mate glances briefly at Mille, then nods and goes to the door. The captain turns towards the desk and picks up the radio.

Mille just stands there for a moment, the terrible realization dawning on her that no matter what she says, the captain is never going to listen. That Charlotte was right. That it was a mistake coming up here.

Iver leans towards her and whispers: “Why is it so bad to be quarantined up here? I mean, at least we’ll be safe.”

“We won’t be safe, we’ll be trapped,” Mille mutters, turning around to look for another exit—the captain said there were two doors. She sees it at the far end. It has an EMERGENCY EXIT sign on it.

Mille looks to the second mate, who’s busy locking the first door. Then to the captain, who’s now speaking into the radio.

“This is Captain Sorenson of the Stena Danica. We just left Frederikshavn, but we’re stopping at our current position at fifty-seven-point-five-three-three and ten-point-seven-eight-six due to a possible contagion aboard the vessel …”

“Captain!” the second mate suddenly blurts out. He’s holding a phone to his ear and looks at the captain with wide eyes. “They found cabin B55 empty … the door has been opened …”

Mille feels a sinking sensation going down all the way to her feet.

“Darn it,” the captain says, lowering the radio. “Tell them to find the infected person as soon as possible. And put out a message over the speakers, telling everyone to stay inside their cabins …”

Mille decides then and there to make a run for it. She turns around and grabs Iver’s wrist, pulling him along.

He’s too stunned to resist.

She opens the emergency exit door and slips out of the cockpit without the captain or the second mate even noticing.

TWELVE

Malthe is trying hard to focus. Trying hard to clear his head of the fuzzy buzzing. But it’s hard, fighting off the effects of a dozen Jägerbombs.

Part of him understands the gruesome seriousness of the situation: Axe got himself bitten and is likely infected with that nasty zombie virus. His friend is probably going to die, and sterilizing the wound with fire will likely do squat to save him.

Yet another part of Malthe finds it all perfectly hilarious: Who the hell tries to high-five a zombie? It’s like the perfect YouTube movie. Axe almost deserves to die for something that stupid. And setting his hand on fire afterwards? That just seals the deal.

Also, holding on to Eli’s belt, trying to keep him from nosediving out the car window while his legs kick frantically and his pants are pulled down far enough to show Malthe an all-too detailed view of his ass crack is enough for him to start snorting laughter.

That is, until he notices Axe burning.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

The sound of pain and fright in his friend’s voice makes Malthe forget completely to hold on to Eli, who falls out of the car with a yelp.

The night has turned into morning, which means the surroundings are getting brighter. But Axe still lights everything up in a greenish glow. In a matter of seconds, both his arms are burning, his white Pet Shop Boys T-shirt is turning black as the flames spread across his chest and down his back. Axe’s head is also quickly engulfed in blue-green flames, lapping at his skin, turning it red and eating away at his hair.

Eli screams out as he finally realizes what’s happening right in front of him.

“Axe! I’ll help you!” he shouts, clumsily getting to his feet and pulling off his T-shirt. “Hold still, man! Hold still! Let me put it out!”

He begins whacking his T-shirt at Axe in a hopeless effort to quell the flames, none of his attempts hitting the mark, as Axe is spinning and jumping around, screaming. He grabs onto Eli—more out of blind luck than actual intention—and Eli roars with pain and tries to pull back.

“Let go, man! You’re burning me!”

Axe obviously doesn’t hear him; he probably doesn’t hear anything anymore, Malthe surmises in his stunned state of fascinated horror, because Axe’s ears have both curled in on themselves, like plastic cups melting on a hot stove.

Eli pulls away with a jerk, managing to trip over his own heels and fall flat on his back, narrowly missing the side of the car with his head.

Axe gets pulled down too, and he doesn’t miss the car, slamming his temple squarely onto the back door, hard enough to shake Malthe out of his stupor.

He blinks and comes to, just as Eli pops up and runs away, looking back at Axe, as though he expects him to follow.

Axe is suddenly quiet. No more screaming. Only a seething crackling of fire.

Malthe leans forward and peeks out the window. The heat is enough to make him gasp. And as he does so, he also breathes in a lungful of the smoke coming off Axe’s burning body.

The stench of scorched skin and melted flesh barely registers in his brain before sending a wrenching cramp through his stomach.

Malthe pushes himself backwards, fumbles for the opposite door and opens it just in time for the last hour’s supply of booze to come spilling up his throat and out onto the pavement.

He pukes until there’s nothing left, then he spits and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Oh, man … oh, fuck me …”

He gets out of the car on legs shaky with shock. He walks around the car to find Eli standing a few yards away, squatting over a fresh pile of puke of his own.

“Don’t … don’t breathe in … the smell …” he croaks as he sees Malthe. “It smells like … spareribs …” Eli burps and wrenches again.

Malthe isn’t sure what kind of gross spareribs Eli has been eating; the smell from Axe’s burning body doesn’t remind him the least bit of anything edible.

Still, he clams his nose shut using two fingers before he turns to look at his friend.

Axe is poised up against the Mercedes, his cheek resting against the door. There’s a dent in the metal where his skull connected with it, and the white paint has got streaks of black and brown from the flames, which are still lapping away, though less so than before.

Axe is clearly dead. At least, Malthe dearly hopes so.

His hair is gone, and what’s left of his skin is black and bubbly. His face reminds Malthe of The Grauballe Man—a famous bog body he saw at a museum on a school outing once—it’s dark and crumbled, his lips gone and his eyes halfway opened, staring at nothing.

“Oh, shit,” Eli croaks. “Oh, shit, dude … why the fuck would he …? I mean … oh, fuck me …”

Malthe tries to say something, but his throat is still clogged with puke, and he has to swallow to clear it.

“It’s … it’s too late, right?” Eli goes on, his eyes darting from Axe to Malthe. “I mean … he’s dead, isn’t he?”

“I think so,” Malthe mutters, feeling like someone else is speaking through his mouth.

“So … what do we do?” Eli goes on. “Do we … I mean … call someone?”

“I don’t know,” Malthe says, rubbing his brow, which feels numb. “Let me just think for a moment …”

He collects his thoughts as best he can. There’s a bunch of unpleasant facts they need to put together. Axe’s dead. They are parked on the freeway in the middle of nowhere. It’s nighttime. Not to mention—

“Malthe!”

“Hold on,” Malthe says. “I’m trying to think here.”

“No, seriously, look!”

Malthe looks up.

Eli is pointing down the freeway. Four or five figures are coming this way, waddling out of sync in that already familiar dead-people-stride.

“Fuck me,” Malthe whispers. “Okay, we need to scram. Do you know how to drive manual stick shift?”

“Sure, I’ve done it many times,” Eli says, already headed for the driver’s door, but tripping over his own feet on the way, almost falling over.

“Forget it,” Malthe says, shoving him back. “You’re way too drunk. You’ll drive us into a tree or some shit.”

“There’re no trees on the freeway!” Eli argues.

“You take the passenger seat and tell me how to do it.”

Eli scuffs, but then, apparently remembering the threat, he darts a look at the oncoming zombies and runs around the car.

Malthe turns to get in behind the wheel, when his gaze falls on Axe’s corpse. It’s still smoking, but the fire’s out. And suddenly, without any discernable preamble, Malthe gets a vision of Axe’s mom and dad, smiling at him. Malthe has known them his whole life, just like he’s known Axe. He really likes them. The thought of them hearing what happened to Axe causes Malthe’s stomach to clench up hard.

“We can’t leave him here,” he hears himself say.

“What?” Eli bleats from inside the car. “Come on, man! Let’s get the hell outta here!”

“We can’t leave Axe! Get your ass out here and help me!”

Eli steps back out and comes around the car. The sight of Axe makes him recoil. “Oh, Jesus fuck, dude … I can’t … I can’t do it, man … I can’t, like … touch him …”

“You have to! What if it was you lying around here like that? Would you want to be left behind like fucking roadkill?”

Eli doesn’t answer; he suddenly looks thoughtful for the first time since they began drinking earlier that evening. “You don’t … you don’t turn into a zombie when you die from, like, natural causes … do you?”

Malthe thinks about it for a second. He had taken it for granted that no, you don’t wake up when you’re killed by fire. But then again, Axe was bitten. And in the video games you always need to destroy the brain to kill a zombie.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “Don’t you think he would have … come back by now?”

“Probably,” Eli shrugs. “We should put him in the trunk, though. Just in case.”

“That’s the first useful thing you’ve said,” Malthe remarks.

“Fuck you,” Eli bites back.

“Help me hoist him up. You want the legs or the arms?”

“None of them!”

“That’s not a choice! Take his fucking legs!”

Malthe reaches over and grabs hold of Axe’s wrists. He pulls back immediately. The skin is warm, but not burning. Yet the mushy feel of the charred skin is like touching a chicken leg that’s been cooked for way too long.

“They’re coming!” Eli remarks in a shrill tone.

Malthe looks back and sees the zombies approaching. Two of them have taken the lead, apparently upping the speed at the sight of fresh meat.

“Help me!” Malthe shouts, biting down hard and grabbing Aksel’s wrists once more, ignoring how it feels. “Lift him up!”

Eli does so very reluctantly. “Oh, fuck, his skin is all fucked up!”

“I know, think about something else,” Malthe breathes through gritted teeth as they haul Aksel around the back of the car. “Hold on,” Malthe says, fumbling with one hand to open the trunk. He finds the button and it pops up.

“Hurry the fuck up!” Eli shouts.

The dragging steps and the hungry groans are now audible in the morning air.

They hoist Aksel’s body into the trunk, and Malthe slams the lid. Eli has already run to the front door, and Malthe follows his example, not noticing the pile of burnt blood and black pieces of clothing left on the pavement from Aksel. All he can think of is the oncoming dead people, now only a few yards away.

His left shoe slips in the greasy gunk, sliding sideways and causing him to do a nearly perfect split. He screams out in pain as the tendons in his inner thighs are stretched to the ripping point and he falls hard on his ass, clapping his teeth together, biting his tongue hard. He barely notices the pain, though, he just scrambles to get back up. But his left shoe is still slippery, and as he tries to push himself to his feet, it betrays him a second time, sending him back to his knees.

A hand clasps down on his shoulder hard, and someone growls wetly into his ear.

Malthe throws himself sideways out of pure reflex, rolling around like James Bond, scraping his elbows and palms bloody on the asphalt, but managing to get free of the dead person’s grip.

He jumps to his feet and backs away from the car as he realizes three of the zombies are coming at him from different angles.

“Malthe!” Eli screams from inside the car. “Look out!”

Malthe keeps backing away and ignores the warning; he knows to look out, he can see the three fucking dead people coming at him. Does Eli think he’s blind?

Eli bangs the window frantically. “Look out behind you!”

Malthe snaps his head around, expecting to see a zombie coming at him.

Instead, he sees the headlights of a car. The horn blares and the car swerves to avoid him.

Malthe has no choice but to lunge forward. The car misses him by mere inches, the slipstream is strong enough to spin him halfway around.

Before he can get out of the way, the nearest zombie grabs him by the neck and digs in its nails.

“No!” Malthe screams, shoving the guy—a tall, gangly dude somewhere in his late forties—in the chest, hard enough to make him stumble backwards.

Malthe feels his neck and for a moment, the world stops moving. He looks down at his fingers, blinks and stares at the blood. His blood.

“He … he got me …” Malthe hears himself whisper.

Then the second zombie reaches him—a young woman who might have once been pretty—it’s impossible to tell, because someone dug out both her eyes and ripped the skin off her forehead. She wastes no time, but grabs his elbow and buries her perfectly white teeth in his triceps.

Malthe screams at the pain and yanks his arm away, but the woman has bitten down like a predator and follows suit with a hungry growl.

“Get the fuck off me!” Malthe screams, punching the woman between the empty eye sockets with his free hand. She ignores him and starts thrashing. She manages to rip off a large chunk of skin and the muscle underneath.

Malthe screams as the blood begins spurting, and then his legs give out and he finds himself on his back, still screaming up at the dark-blue sky where a few golden stars are still visible, and suddenly he’s no longer on the freeway but lying on the terrace back at the house where he grew up, his younger brother Mark lying next to him as they take turns pointing out constellations. That summer evening is one of Malthe’s happiest memories, and it floods his mind in that instant, drowning out reality and causing him to stop screaming, and though his eyes are wide open, he sees none of the dead faces crowding his field of vision as the zombies descend upon him. He doesn’t feel them eating him alive, either, nor does he hear their eager growling or the wet noises of his flesh being ripped from his bones. The only thing he perceives is his brother’s voice, laughing: “That doesn’t count, I already said Orion!”

There’s a smile at the corner of Malthe’s mouth as he dies.

THIRTEEN

“Holy shit!”

Dan wakes up with a startle at the sound of William’s voice. He looks around frantically, finding himself in the backseat of a car in between people he doesn’t immediately recognize.

William is driving, and he honks the horn and twists the wheel at the same time, causing the car to lunge sideways.

“Jesus!” Dan’s father exclaims from the passenger seat.

“Look out!” the woman next to Dan yells.

The car narrowly misses a person who jumps awkwardly to get out of the way.

Dan has time to see a white sports car parked in the emergency lane and a few other figures standing next to it.

“Who the hell was that?” William shouts, fighting to get the swerving car back under control. He hits the brake and brings the car almost to a stop, looking up at the rearview mirror. “What the fuck was he doing in the middle of the road?”

Dan turns in his seat to look back. He can’t quite make out what’s going on next to the sports car, but he doesn’t need to see it clearly; he can hear the scream as one of the figures is brought down by the others, and that’s plenty for Dan to know.

“Oh,” William says. “He was trying to get away …”

“It’s too late to help him, right?” Dan’s father asks, watching the scene in the side mirror.

“It is,” Dan says, as he sees the guy William almost hit being wrestled to the ground, right before he looks away.

“Poor prick,” William sighs. “I almost wish I had clipped him. Would’ve been over much faster.”

“What’s going on back there?” Ali—who just woke up—asks, looking from the window to his sister.

Nasira replies in Arabic.

Dan can’t tell what she’s saying, but her voice is soothing, and Ali is satisfied by it, because he relaxes and leans back up against her.

“Shouldn’t we stop anyway?” Dan’s father asks. “See if there might be anyone left back there who needs our help?”

“I say we keep going,” William says, upping the speed again. “We are six healthy people here, no need to risk that. Besides, I’m pretty sure the rest of those back there were already dead.”

At that moment, a pair of headlights turn on behind them. Dan turns back around to see the white car taking up pursuit.

“I guess you were wrong,” Dorte remarks. “Unless the dead people know how to drive.”

The sports car quickly gains on them, even though William is still speeding up. The headlights grow bigger, and within half a minute, the Mercedes speeds past them, its engine whining like an angry wasp.

Dan has time to make out the person driving it—it’s a teenage boy with blond hair, clutching the wheel, darting a quick glance at them before passing. The white car swerves dangerously back and forth.

“Well, he’s in a hurry to get out of Dodge,” Dan’s father remarks.

“Yeah, and he’s driving like he’s drunk,” William adds. “He’ll probably crash before long.”

They watch in silence as the red taillights of the Mercedes quickly grow smaller and then disappear.

William is the one to break the silence.

“This thing is spreading so fucking fast,” he mutters. “I thought we’d outrun it, but turns out it outran us.”

“Most of the country must be affected by now,” Dan’s father says. “It probably already reached Haderslev.”

“How long till we’re there?” Dan asks.

“Fifteen minutes, tops,” William says.

“What do we do if there’s already chaos when we get there?” Dorte asks.

“Let’s cross that bridge if we have to,” William says.

“I think it might be a good idea to have some sort of game plan,” Dan interjects—surprising himself by speaking up. “I mean … just so we don’t end up getting a surprise.”

William looks at him briefly in the mirror. “The thing is, we have no idea what to expect. Hard to plan for something you don’t know.”

“No, but if we assume Haderslev will be about as badly hit as Aarhus was,” Dan’s father asserts, “then we might have to abandon the idea of finding this pilot guy. It might be wiser to just pass right by and keep going south. We could drive to Germany, or maybe—”

“Hold on a minute,” William says, turning up the radio, which has been going on low volume.

A calm but assertive female voice is speaking.

“… which means that all borders will be closed indefinitely as of six o’clock this morning. This goes for all traffic, both in and out of the country, including but not exclusive to airlines, ships and cars. All neighboring countries have been asked to help reinforce this border blockade, and military personnel is already stationed at all airports, harbors and land border crossings. I repeat that all attempts to leave Denmark will be met with deadly force. The situation is critical, and the government asks for all citizens to fulfill their civic duties and obey the rules set out in this emergency protocol. Thank you.” A short pause, then a brief melody plays, and the voice starts speaking again. “This is an urgent message from the Danish government addressed to all citizens. Please pay close attention to the following …”

“Christ on the can,” Dan’s father whispers. “They’re finally doing it. They’re shutting the whole place down.”

“About damn time,” William mutters. “Should’ve done it two days ago. I bet you it’s too late now.”

“You think any of the dead people reached the border already?” Dorte asks, leaning forward. “I mean, they’re on foot, and there’s at least seventy-five miles from here to Germany, which is the only land border.”

“It can spread a lot faster than by foot,” William says grimly, darting her a significant look in the mirror. “Like if someone infected but not dead yet decides to make a run for it.”

Dorte sinks back in her seat. Dan notices her face grow pale.

“Luckily, there’s only about forty miles of border they need to close down and defend,” Dan’s father says. “That should be possible, given that none of the infected have already crossed it, of course. Good thing Denmark is a peninsula, right?”

“Then what about the several hundred miles of coastline?” William asks.

Dan’s father looks at him. “You think they can swim?”

“I don’t know. But I think they can get aboard ships. And planes. And right now, I’ll bet you thousands of people are scrambling to get out of the country, just like we are. What are the odds that none of them are harboring a zombie? Or someone bringing along an infected loved one? Or a person hiding a scratch? I mean, come on. It only takes one little mistake, and this thing will turn into a pandemic.”

A long pause follows inside the car, where they all exchange glances. Dan gets the feeling that everyone is suddenly suspecting the others of hiding something.

He decides to break the unpleasant silence. “If they’ve shut down the airports, do you still think we can fly out of the country?”

William shrugs. “I still think it’s our best bet. It’s a lot harder for them to patrol the skies than the roads, so if we can just get airborne, then at least we have a chance.”

FOURTEEN

Josefine is gently pulled from what feels like half a dream, half a memory, as someone touches her knee.

She was back at the facility on the day her father was admitted. That was the day it finally dawned on her how sick he’d turned, how little of his old self was left. Her mother couldn’t bear having him in the house anymore, but she probably would’ve gone on if Josefine’s father hadn’t insisted in moving to the facility himself in one of his still-rarer moments of clarity.

Josefine remembers tears forming in her eyes as they’re about to leave, and when her father noticed, he looked at her with a frown which Josefine first took to be a sign that he was gone again. But when he spoke, she realized he was more there than he’d ever been.

“Why are you crying, Josie?”

“I … it’s just … seeing you here, Daddy.”

“I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”

He held out his hand, and Josefine placed her own in it. Even at the age of almost seventy, his hand was nearly double the size of hers. It was warm, too, as it squeezed hers.

“Seriously, Josie. I don’t want you to cry. It’s very important that you stay strong, okay?”

“Okay,” she told him, wiping her eyes obediently, feeling like a little girl. “I’ll try, but I’m not sure I can help it. I’m not strong like you.”

“Sure you are. You’re my daughter, aren’t you?”

There’s a brush at her knee, shaking the dream.

That meeting is one of Josefine’s fondest memories, and she doesn’t want to let go of it, not now, not until she’s relived it once more. Her father speaks again.

“It’s always—”

Then, there’s another brush at her knee, and she opens her eyes. The pleasant feeling of the memory evaporates as she finds herself back in the helicopter. Michael is leaned against the wall, eyes closed. Her father is dead and strapped to a gurney opposite her.

Bodil is dead, too, but she’s no longer strapped down—not completely, at least. Somehow, she’s managed to push herself sideways just enough to escape one of the shoulder straps.

For the longest second, Josefine can do nothing but stare at the heavy, dead woman hanging off the side of the gurney, her only-partly-working right arm groping at Josefine’s leg, the fat, wrinkly fingers with those thick, yellow nails typical of smokers brushing her knee a third time, scraping at the fabric.

Then, Josefine’s brain finally kickstarts, and she sits upright with a jerk and a gasp, pulling back her legs. There’s only enough room to create a few more inches of distance between her and Bodil’s flailing hand, and Josefine moving back only seems to make Bodil more eager to reach her: she leans farther out, twists and pushes against the straps. The way she’s hanging, it looks like her entire torso might slip free at any moment.

“Michael!” Josefine calls out, reaching over and tapping his shoulder hard. “Michael, wake up!”

Michael jerks awake. “What? What’s happening?” Then, seeing Bodil: “Oh, Christ! Steen! Steen, we got a problem back here!”

The pilot twists in his seat to look over his shoulder. “What’s going on?”

“Move away from her!” Michael shouts at Josefine as Bodil edges a little more to the side, her reach growing a couple of inches longer.

“I can’t!” Josefine shouts back, fumbling to unbuckle her seat belt and get to her feet at the same time but succeeding in neither.

“The fuck are you doing back there?” the pilot shouts.

“One of them is trying to get free!”

“Fuck me! I thought you said they were secured?”

“Apparently not!” Michael shouts, unbuckling. “She must have twisted out of the strap due to her dislocated shoulder.”

“Well, get her back on that fucking gurney!”

Michael works quickly to get the top half of his suit zipped back up and the gloves on. “I’ll try, but you might have to land!”

Josefine is squeezing up against the back of her seat, her fingers still working the belt buckle, which isn’t like the ones in cars. Bodil’s hand is dangerously close now, and her upper body is dangling in free air, the only thing keeping her from falling to the floor being the waist strap. The way Bodil is hanging looks extremely painful, her hip twisted almost ninety degrees, while carrying all the weight of the upper body. It doesn’t seem to bother her at all, though.

Finally, Josefine hears the click from the buckle, and she scrambles to her feet, pushing past the seat and reaching relative safety at the farther corner of the passenger area.

“What’s going on?” the pilot demands, turning in his seat. “You got her secured?”

“Not yet,” Michael answers. He has managed to get all the protective gear on now, except for the mask. He’s about to put it on, when there’s a loud, crunchy snap.

Josefine can’t immediately tell where the sound came from, but then Bodil flops sideways and slips out of the straps completely, landing clumsily on the floor.

Josefine hears herself scream and Michael shout at the same time, and when Bodil begins getting to her feet, Josefine realizes what made the sound: it was some large bone in Bodil’s body—the hip, most likely—giving in to the pressure and cracking in half. As the heavy lady makes it up on all fours, her whole lower body seems to buckle at the waist, making her look like someone going limp on one side.

“Christ!” Michael shouts. “She’s free!”

It’s not completely true, though, as Bodil’s legs are still entangled in the now loose straps, hindering her from moving forwards.

The pilot turns his head and looks back, then shouts: “Get her tied up, will you!”

“I’m trying!” Michael replies, approaching the woman and grabbing her before she can get to her feet. He tries to lift her back up onto the gurney, but she’s clearly too heavy, and she’s also trying to grab him, which doesn’t seem to make the task easier, her fingers clawing at the suit.

Michael lets go of her with a grunt, and Bodil slumps to the floor with a thud.

“I can’t do it! She’s too heavy!”

“Use the fucking wire!” the pilot roars.

“What wire?”

Josefine turns her head and realizes she’s staring right at metal wire with a hook and a strap-arrangement at the end, protruding from a box on the wall, apparently meant for picking up stuff from the ground while the helicopter is airborne.

She grabs it and yanks it hard, pulling out at least ten feet. “Michael!” she shouts, before realizing he’s already looking at her. “Here!”

She throws the end of the wire clumsily at him, and he catches it.

Bodil has gotten halfway to her feet and now lunges at him in a crooked but very eager thrust, finally slipping out of the straps completely. Michael manages in the last second to thrust the wire out in front of himself, catching Bodil under her fat chin and forcing her head backwards. He deftly maneuvers around her by climbing over the gurney and uses the wire to pull her back before she can turn around. She stumbles and falls to her knees, hissing and moaning angrily.

“That’s it, I’m putting her down, hold on!” the pilot shouts.

“No, wait!” Michael objects, but too late.

Josefine feels a strong sinking sensation in her stomach as the helicopter drops suddenly. The abrupt change in gravity causes Michael—who had finally gained the upper hand over Bodil—to lose balance and stumble backwards, his back hitting the pilot’s seat, his arm reeling for something to grab hold of.

What he finds is the head of the thing that used to be Josefine’s father. And the thing doesn’t hesitate, but immediately bites down hard on the gloved hand.

Michael gives off a roar of surprise while yanking his hand back, losing the glove, which the thing is still tearing at like a furious dog. Michael stares at his bare hand, eyes wide, while turning it over.

Josefine can’t see any blood on it, and apparently neither can Michael, because he gives off a brief sigh of relief, just as Bodil—who has managed to turn around despite being entangled in the wire—lunges for his legs.

“Lookout!” Josefine screams.

Michael almost manages to dodge the attack. Bodil catches him around the waist like a rugby player, forcing him backwards while biting at his groin and sliding down his legs.

“Get off me!” he roars, pounding away on the top of Bodil’s head with his still-gloved left hand. The punches seem to do little damage and only cause Bodil a slight inconvenience, as she keeps biting down on the fabric of his suit, trying to tear through it and get to his skin underneath.

She’s on her knees now, forcing Michael to back up, pinning him in the narrow space between the pilot’s seat and the other gurney where the thing that was Josefine’s father is twisting eagerly, craning its neck and clawing at the air in a futile attempt to reach Michael, who’s less than ten inches away.

Then, a terrifying sound rips through the raucous: fabric tearing open.

“No, no, no!” Michael roars.

He has no choice but to use both hands, so he grabs Bodil’s heavy jaw and pushes her head backward at what looks to be a severely painful angle. Between her teeth is a large piece of his suit, and Josefine gets a glimpse of the hole right at his navel-area, revealing his blue T-shirt and part of the bare skin. There’s a clearly visible red mark formed like two half-moons facing each other where Bodil’s teeth has pinched the skin.

“Help me!” he roars. “She bit me! She fucking bit me!”

Finally, Josefine wakes up from her stupor and is able to move. She looks down and sees the wire, which is still halfway wrapped around Bodil’s neck and chest like a seat belt.

Josefine bends down and grabs it, then yanks it hard.

Bodil is jerked backwards, tips over onto her back, both her knees twisting to max capacity. Her fingers are still holding onto Michael’s suit, but he manages to rip himself free and thrust himself to the side, grabbling for something in a box.

“Where is it? Where’s the damn methanol?”

Josefine has enough to do with her tug-of-war with Bodil, who’s pulling sideways now in order to reach Michael, the only thing holding her back being the wire.

Michael hardly notices; he’s found a plastic bottle and is now pouring the content—a clear, jell-like liquid—onto his stomach, rubbing it in frantically.

Josefine stares at him for a second, hardly recognizing the calm, assertive doctor she had a conversation with just minutes ago. Now, he looks more like a wild animal, his eyes wide, foam at the corner of his mouth.

“She didn’t pierce the skin, she didn’t pierce the skin,” he chants in a shrill voice, rubbing away at the bite mark on his stomach.

“I can’t hold her!” Josefine cries out as Bodil makes another sideways thrash and lunges for Michael.

He screams, drops the bottle and climbs backwards, kicking his legs blindly as he squeezes himself onto the passenger’s seat.

“The hell are you doing?” the pilot shouts, staring from Michael to the back of the helicopter. “Go back there and tie her up!”

“I can’t! She came this close to biting me! Get us down to the ground!”

“I’m trying!”

Bodil slips out of the wire and grabs Michael’s leg, which is still kicking the air. She tears off the shoe with sudden determination and sinks her teeth into Michael’s bared ankle.

He screams again, even more high-pitched, and the pilot shouts something as Michael grabs his arm in a desperate attempt to get his help, causing the helicopter to swerve violently. The sudden movement makes the second gurney—the one holding the thing that used to be Josefine’s father—to buckle two of its legs and flop to a forty-five-degree angle. If the thing on it hadn’t been secured by the straps, it would’ve tumbled to the floor.

Josefine is suddenly thrown into a weird detached state where she sees everything from behind her own eyes and in slow motion: Michael, scrambling to get Bodil off his leg, the pilot, fighting to keep the helicopter level, the thing on the gurney, writhing to get free and join the party, the tops of trees passing by out the windows.

And Josefine herself, watching everything from the back of the helicopter. And as she does, a thought comes to her, very clear and concise: We’re going to crash now. This is how I die.

And amazingly, she’s actually kind of okay with it. At least this way, it’ll be fast. She won’t have to grow old and get an awful disease like Alzheimer’s and slowly wither away. Most of all, she won’t have to live in a world without her dad.

Then the thing still strapped to the tilted gurney turns it head and hisses at her, and for some strange reason, she’s thrown back into the memory and she actually hears her father’s voice in her head, hears him uttering the words he told her that very first day in the facility: “It’s always up to you, Josie. No matter how bad things turn, you decide how you handle it. Even if that’s the only thing left for you to control, no one can take that away from you.”

“You’re right, Daddy,” Josefine breathes, and the words are drowned out by the noise and the shouting.

She climbs back into her seat, grabs the belt and buckles it.

Then, half a second later, the helicopter meets the ground.

FIFTEEN

A ton of different scenarios fly through Mille’s mind as she runs down the staircase, closely followed by Iver.

Somehow, Torben got out. The first thing Mille considers is that her mother left her post and someone came by and opened the door.

Or maybe Torben managed to call up someone in the neighboring cabins and convince them to open the door.

He could also have gotten out if the barricade had failed. If he had simply kept at it and pulled at the door hard enough, the extension cord or the handle might have given way.

Or maybe he simply smashed the door, put his boot right through it.

The possibilities are plenty. But for some reason, Mille’s imagination refuses to go to the most likely one. In fact, she doesn’t even consider it until they reach the hallway.

She stops abruptly a few doors away, almost causing Iver to bump into her. She stares at the trolley and the cord hanging from it like a dead snake. She looks at the wide-open door which has no marks or other signs of damage.

A woman dressed from top to bottom in a light-blue spacesuit and wearing a face mask comes out of the cabin, talking on a radio in a high-pitched voice. “Well, I don’t care! You tell them to lock down the entire deck if that’s what they need to do to find this g—” She stops talking the minute she sees Mille and Iver staring back at her. “We have a situation here,” she says in what should probably have been a reassuring tone. “Please return to your cabins and stay there.”

“Uhm, I don’t—” Iver begins, but Mille cuts him off.

“Sure, we’ll go now.” She drags him past the doctor and the cabin, darting a glance inside as they pass. Another spacesuit-clad person is in there, rummaging through the bed where Torben had lain, as though to find him in the sheets.

Mille and Iver keep going until they reach the other end of the hallway where it meets up with the wider passage connecting the next hallway to this one. At the intersection, the carpet is replaced with linoleum. And Mille sees the puddle of clear liquid right away; it’s about the size of a half-dollar and has a yellowish hue.

“Look,” Mille says, pointing. “He came by here. He spat right there.”

“That could be anybody,” Iver says without much conviction.

“It’s him,” Mille says. “He went this way. Come on.”

“Wait!” Iver says, throwing out his arms. “What exactly are we doing?”

“We’re finding him, of course. Before it’s too late.”

“And then what? Do we wrestle him to the ground and call security?”

“I … I don’t know,” Mille admits. “But we have to find him.”

Iver shakes his head, but still follows along.

They reach the next hallway where a watercooler has been used by someone obviously not concerned with spilling; water has been splattered all over the wall and formed a pool on the floor. Wet footprints lead to the right, which is the opening to the stairs.

There are two sets.

“Looks like he had company,” Iver remarks.

Mille just stares at the prints—one pair big and clunky and the other a lot smaller and slimmer—as something very unpleasant tries to make it into her conscious mind. She shoves it away, muttering: “Could have been someone who came by later. Come on.”

The wet marks indicate that Torben—and his possible companion—went upstairs, and Mille and Iver follow suit. By the time they reach the next landing, the prints have dried up.

Mille steps out into the hallway, looking down both directions, but seeing no one.

“I think he went up another deck,” she says, and just as she’s about to step back into the stairwell, there’s a wet cough coming from down the hallway.

Mille looks back.

And she sees Torben.

He enters the hallway from a glass door leading outside. He looks horrible, most of the color has drained from his face and he’s barely able to walk. The only thing keeping him on his feet is his companion, who’s doing her very best to support him.

“Come on, Torben, let’s get you back inside,” Mille’s mother says, and even from this far away, Mille can hear her sobbing.

“That’s him!” Iver exclaims from behind Mille.

His voice makes Mille’s mother look up. Her red eyes fix on Mille. “Oh! Mille! I’m so glad you came … please, help us! We need to get Torben to the doctor …”

“No doctor,” Torben drools, his eyes only halfway open.

“He said … he said he just needed some fresh air,” Mille’s mother goes on, her voice jumpy with sobs now. “But I think … I think he’s really sick … I think you were right, Mille … it’s that virus, isn’t it?”

Mille isn’t able to answer, much less move. For several seconds, she just stands there, like a cowboy on the main road of a dusty old Western town, facing his opponent in a draw match. She stares at her mother clutching Torben, who’s all but tipped over now, leaning on her and breathing in sticky rasps. And Mille finally realizes the thing she didn’t want to see. It finally comes home to her how Torben got out of the cabin.

How could you?

“Mille, please,” her mother says, all-out crying now, stumbling to keep to her feet as Torben collapses sideways. “Help me!”

Then the weight of Torben becomes too much for her to bear, as his legs finally give way completely, and the two of them sink to the floor in unison, Torben’s body coming to rest halfway atop Mille’s mother.

“Torben!” she cries out, trying to free herself from underneath him while shaking him. “Torben, please wake up!”

“I think … I think he died,” Iver says.

“He did,” Mille hears herself say.

“We have to help her!” Iver says. He is about to step forward, but Mille flings out her arm and grabs his shirt firmly.

“Stay here. It’s too late.”

Iver glances at her sideways, then back down the hallway, where Mille’s mother has now managed to squeeze herself free. She’s kneeling over Torben, crying and hugging him, begging him to wake up.

And then he does.

And Mille thinks she’s prepared to see it happen. But she’s not. And she can’t look away.

“Oh, my God,” Iver breathes.

Mille’s mother’s cries turn to high-pitched shrieks of pain and anguish, as Torben reaches up and pulls her head down, biting into the soft flesh behind her ear, ripping out a big chunk of skin with hair still attached to it. The blood begins to spurt out like a fountain, painting Torben’s face red. He doesn’t seem fazed by it at all, though, as he immediately goes for another bite out of Mille’s mother.

How could you? Mille thinks again, as she watches her mother die.

Then something else comes into view. Only a few yards away from Torben and Mille’s mother, a door opens, and a young woman comes out, carrying a sleeping toddler on her arm.

As the woman sees the bloody scene unfolding in front of her, she freezes up, her face going blank, her mouth opening wide, but no words are coming out. She simply stands there, like a deer in the headlights, less than five paces away from Torben, who’s now really getting into it, burying his face in Mille’s mother—who’s already stopped screaming.

“Get away!” Iver shouts, his voice ringing in Mille’s ears. As the young woman doesn’t seem to react, he tries flailing his arms, like a stranded person signaling to a passing ship. “Get away from there!”

While his call has no effect on the young mother, it does seem to wake up her child. The toddler—a boy, Mille can tell—lifts his head from off his mother’s shoulder, rubs his eye with one chubby, pink hand, then turns his head and looks at the scene unfolding right in front of him with no comprehension on his sleepy face.

Iver is still shouting and waving at the woman. Mille is still unable to do anything. The woman is still paralyzed. Torben is still eating.

And then he’s done.

And he gets to his feet with slow, cumbersome movements, mimicking how he had trouble moving when he was alive, turning towards the woman.

At the sight of Torben facing her in his full height, his face and neck covered in blood, the woman is finally jerked out of her stupor. She begins to scream, backs up and clutches her son tightly. Her back meets the wall, and Torben reaches out his arms.

That’s when Mille realizes she’s begun running. In fact, she must have been doing so for at least a couple of seconds, because she’s already at full speed and closing in on Torben fast.

Just before he can grab the screaming woman, Mille flings herself into him. It’s like colliding with a rhino. The wind is knocked out of her, and there’s an audible crack from someplace between her neck and shoulder, and she slumps to the floor.

Luckily, though, so does Torben, losing his balance from the shove and tumbling sideways like an overgrown toddler.

“Get … out of … here,” Mille croaks, looking up at the woman, who’s stopped screaming and is now breathing in rapid gasps like someone drowning, her eyes darting back and forth from Torben to Mille.

The boy is crying now.

“Run away!” Mille says hoarsely.

The woman blinks, gasps some more, then, just as Torben begins crawling towards her, she finally regains enough of her bearings to turn on her heel and run down the hallway, the crying toddler bouncing in her arms.

Torben, realizing almost immediately that his easiest prey is out of reach, turns his attention to Mille instead, reaching for her shoes.

Mille bites down hard, pulls back both legs and stomps them as hard as she can into Torben’s face. There’s a satisfying snap as both his front teeth break, and Mille thinks with manic elation: I’ve always wanted to do that!

Then she uses the two seconds she bought herself to get back onto her feet. But when she uses her right arm to push off the floor, a searing pain shoots out from her collarbone, causing her to cry out.

At the same time, there’s another scream from behind her, and Mille turns her head to see the woman now splayed out on the floor. The toddler is a few feet away from her, rolling around. The woman must have tripped and dropped him, but, amazingly, he seems unharmed as he manages to sit up and look around with an expression of shock and confusion on his little face. His mother screams again, reaching for him but can’t quite make it.

At first, Mille has no idea why she’s screaming like that, or how she could fall on a perfectly flat floor.

Then she sees her mother gnawing away at the woman’s leg. Mille’s mother is still lying down, but she must have awoken just as the woman passed by her, and maybe she reached out an arm to grab her, thereby tripping her, or maybe she just sat up and the woman ran right into her; whatever the case, the woman wasn’t fast enough to get back up, and now it’s too late.

“Mom!” Mille hears herself cry out. “Stop that!”

Her mother doesn’t react to her call, of course, just working her way farther up the legs of the woman, tearing at the skin and biting off chunks.

The toddler begins to cry at the sight of his mother screaming.

“Iver!” Mille shouts, even as she’s trying to get back up herself. “Iver, help her!”

Iver comes closer with a look of utter horror on his face, but he’s still too far away to do any good.

Just as Mille makes it to her hands and knees, there’s a growl right behind her and a big hand grabs her by the belt.

Mille flings back her elbow as a reflex, connecting squarely with Torben’s temple, and she thrusts forward, freeing herself from his grip and stumbling to her feet.

Iver has almost reached them now, and Mille notices a lot more people behind him, a crowd starting to gather as other passengers come out from their cabins to see what’s going on.

Mille’s mother has reached the lower back of the woman, and the pool of blood growing on the floor suggests that not much can be left inside the woman. She’s fallen silent and is no longer struggling to get free, only one hand still reaching blindly for the toddler.

“Get him, Iver,” Mille tries to shout, but only has air enough for another croak. “Get him away from there!”

Things are moving very fast now.

Mille’s mother, maybe drawn by the crowd, maybe just losing interest in the now obviously dead woman, decides greedily to move on to the next course and begins crawling down the hallway.

“Don’t you fucking touch him!” Mille screams, bending down and grabbing her mother’s ankles just as she reaches out her arm for the toddler. Mille pulls her back, but her mother kicks with surprising force, slipping out of her shoe and leaving Mille to stumble backwards.

The toddler, though, now bawling loudly, seems to have taken matters into his own little hands, because he’s now crawling away, headed for the glass door leading outside. They open for him and let him crawl through.

Mille’s mother isn’t giving up on her tiny prey, and she, too, crawls for the doors like a big, clumsy spider.

Mille would maybe have had the time to stop her, if Torben hadn’t made another attempt to grab her pant leg just at that moment, forcing her to once more turn and place a hard kick to his jaw.

As she turns back around, she sees her mother’s feet disappear through the open door out into the dawn light.

“Iver!” she shouts—unnecessarily so, because Iver has finally gathered enough courage to come close enough, and is headed towards the door.

Mille’s shout makes him stop and look in her direction. But he looks right past her, at something going on behind her, and Mille darts a glance back to see Torben attack some old guy in his underwear, who’s just come out of a nearby door. Another, younger man rushes to help but only manages to get his hand bitten.

It’s happening, Mille thinks.

But she wastes no time brooding; she simply gets to her feet and runs out the glass door. The fresh morning air is cool and salty and makes her gasp for breath.

A narrow passageway between the ship and the railing leads maybe thirty yards down, and the toddler is still crawling to get away with Mille’s mother close at his heels.

Mille feels her heart jump as she speeds up and catches up with her mother just inches before she can reach out and grab the boy.

Mille throws herself flat on top of her mother, pushing the skinny woman to the metal floor. She immediately begins squirming and tries to reach back and grab at Mille, but Mille gets to her knees and shoves down hard with both hands between her mother’s shoulder blades. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Iver hesitating.

“Get the boy!” she shouts.

But Iver can’t seem to squeeze past, and the half a second she takes her attention away is all her mother needs. She twists sideways, Mille’s hands slip, and her mother bites down on her wrist.

Mille screams in pain and rips her arm back. A piece of skin comes off with a snap and the blood begins trickling immediately.

Mille tumbles backwards, clutching at her wounded wrist, trying to stop the blood from flowing, but it makes its way through her fingers.

Oh, no, no, I’m infected …

“Mille!” Iver shouts from behind her.

Mille looks up and sees her mother going for the toddler again. He’s reached the end of the walkway and is just sitting there, bawling and looking scared.

Mille, without thinking, throws herself forward and lands on top of her mother for the second time, this time her mother’s eager hand is even closer to the toddler, almost grazing his feet. But instead of just holding down her mother, this time, Mille locks her arm around her throat and pulls back as hard as she can, craning her mother’s neck back, hoping to break it. She realizes she’s screaming. She pulls back harder as her mother reaches her hands back and claws at her hair and her cheeks. Mille closes her eyes as her mother’s fingers fumble their way to her face. She wrestles her back and to the side, managing to keep herself on top and still keep her mother in a headlock. However, her grip slips just enough for her mother to get her mouth to Mille’s arm, and she doesn’t waste a second, but immediately begins biting at it. Mille screams again, but for some reason, the pain isn’t as bad this time, and that’s good because she can’t let go; if she does, her mother will go right after the toddler, so Mille just holds on with all her might. At the same time, she uses her other arm to reach up and grab the railings. She then hoists herself up, and—with a strength she had no idea she possessed—she pulls her mother to her feet, too.

Mille isn’t really aware of what she’s doing before she’s doing it. It’s like her body is no longer under her own power but is being controlled like a character in a computer game.

She slings one arm around the railing, while the other—the one being eaten—is still locked around her mother’s head. She pulls her arms towards each other, forcing her mother up against the railing. Then, with a sudden jerk, she rips her arm free, and for a split second she sees just how badly hurt it is—the skin open like a bloody flower, the flesh gone and revealing the bone—then her arms dip down and go between her mother’s legs, one from each side. It happens so fast Mille barely has time to register anything herself. But suddenly, she’s lifting her mother off the floor. Mille is fueled with the power of panic, and her mother, luckily, weighs below a hundred. And with a twist of her upper body, Mille throws her mother over the railing.

The movement is far from elegant, but it has enough force behind it to be successful.

Just before she disappears out of sight, Mille gets one last glimpse of her mother’s face, as she turns her head in what could be construed as surprise to look back at Mille. The eyes, though, which are white and empty, reveal that Helle Klitgaard is no longer capable of feeling anything, much less surprise.

Then she’s gone.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” Mille sighs, waddling backwards. Suddenly, she picks up on the noise of the crying toddler, and she turns to see him sitting there, shrinking back and looking up at her.

Mille smiles at him as she bends down. “Hi there, buddy. It’s all right now. You’re safe.”

He looks at her questioningly, and he stops crying for a moment. She reaches out her arms, and, to her surprise, the toddler returns the gesture. Mille picks him up and holds him tightly, making sure to keep the wounded arm by her side so as to not get any blood on him. She turns to see Iver still standing there, dumbstruck.

There’s a scream from the other side of the windows, and Mille looks to see a terrible scene unfold right behind the glass; people scrambling, many of them with bloody wounds, some of them fighting against Torben and the toddler’s mother—who’s now gotten back up and joined the fun.

The toddler begins sobbing again, and Mille turns towards the sea so he can’t see what’s going on inside.

“It’s okay,” Mille whispers, placing her mouth close to his little ear. “The bad people can’t hurt you now.”

Then, suddenly, Iver comes back to life, like a robot being plugged back in. “Oh, fuck! Oh, no! Oh, fuck!” he begins chanting in a shrill voice, holding his head with both hands as he looks from the window to Mille. “It’s all messed up now! It’s all messed up! We should have just jumped ship like Charlotte said. Now we’re all going to die!”

“It’s okay now,” Mille tells the toddler, hugging him a little tighter, placing a kiss on his temple, as he leans his head against her shoulder and stops crying with a whimpering sigh. “You’re going to be okay; I promise.”

“Don’t say that!” Iver cries out. “Don’t tell the baby he’s going to be okay; he’s not! We’re all going to—”

“He’s going to make it,” Mille says, looking at Iver, her expression set in stone, her voice offering no room for debate. “You’re going to take him, and you’re going to find a way to get him off this ship.”

Iver shakes his head. “I … I can’t … there’s no way …”

Mille steps towards him with great difficulty; pangs of pain shoot from her busted shoulder and the many bite wounds all over her arm. Her body is already aching from the inside, too; she can literally feel the virus coursing through her veins, setting everything on fire, killing her with the efficiency of cyanide.

I’ll be dead within three minutes.

The toddler moves a little in her arms, but keeps holding on to her shirt and pushes his cheek against her.

“You take him, Iver,” she says softly. “You make sure he gets off the ship.” When Iver begins to shake his head again, she goes on: “I thought I was going to save everyone. Turns out, I was only meant to save one.”

She looks down at the toddler who’s looking back up at her with big, blue, timid eyes, and she smiles as tears begin spilling from her own.

“But then again, one is better than nobody, right?” she tells the toddler, her voice surprisingly calm. She looks at Iver again. “Do whatever you need to do. But get him to safety.”

Iver hesitates. But this time, instead of shaking his head, he actually holds out his hands.

Mille kisses the toddler’s head once more, then hands him over. He gives off a weak whimper, holds on for half a second, then surrenders to Iver and tucks himself in the same way he did with Mille.

“This is how it was supposed to happen,” she says, not sure where the words are coming from. “I get it now.”

She steps back a few paces, struggling to keep her balance as her vision begins to go blurry.

“Get him off the ship,” she tells Iver one last time. “Promise me.”

“I will,” he says. And there’s sudden conviction in his voice. Maybe he’s simply offering her one final piece of solace, but Mille doesn’t think so; she thinks he really means it, that he’s determined to save the boy.

“Good,” Mille says, turning towards the railing and the bright morning sky reflecting in the calm ocean several feet below, the light already bright enough to cause her to squint her eyes. “I did it,” she whispers, smiling to herself.

She reaches out and grabs the cold metal. Then she hoists herself up with a painful grunt.

“Mille, wait,” Iver says.

But Mille doesn’t wait. She turns her face towards the sun one last time, as she leans forward and allows gravity to take over.

And as she falls through the air, faster and faster, there’s no memories passing in front of her eyes, no scenes from her life rushing by.

Instead, her last thought goes to the toddler and his big, bright eyes, and she imagines how he’ll get to grow into a handsome teenager and how those eyes will one day break the hearts of quite a few girls.

Mille is smiling by the time she hits the water.

SIXTEEN

Eli tries his best to keep the wheel steady, but his hands are trembling and drops of sweat keep running down his forehead, stinging his eyes.

His ragged breath competes with the scream of the engine as the lights of the freeway zip by. He already passed the exit for Fredericia. He’s not going there; why would he? Malthe’s apartment is in Frederica, and Eli was supposed to spend the night there, but Malthe is dead. So is Axe. Eli can still smell his burning flesh.

“Fuck me,” he mutters, fumbling for the ventilation, not wanting to take his eyes off the road. He finds it and cranks it up.

He suddenly feels strikingly sober. Apparently, seeing two bandmates lose their lives within a couple of minutes is enough to kick the brain into gear.

He passes a sign telling him Haderslev is only four miles out. He pushes the accelerator down even farther, pushing towards 130. Axe didn’t exaggerate when he bragged about how fast his dad’s car could go.

The thought of Axe makes Eli conscious of the stench again, and he frowns. “Fuck, how can I still smell him on me? Oh, man, I need some goddamn music …”

He turns on the stereo at max volume. The tunes of Kraftwerk make his eardrums throb pleasantly, soothing his nerves a little. It’s not enough, though, and before he knows what he’s doing, Eli finds himself leaning over and rummaging through the glove compartment.

“Come on … come on … didn’t Axe say he brought some green?”

Eli has been clean for almost seven months, the only thing he’s enjoyed being alcohol; no drugs whatsoever. It’s been very hard sometimes, especially that time he almost got run over by a car while riding his skateboard. Or when he found a lump on his balls which turned out to be harmless.

Fear of death seemed to be the biggest challenge; the thing most likely to bring back the urge for the comfortable numbness the drugs provided him. And ever since he heard about this virus spreading across the country, Eli had been more scared than ever. No wonder he was quick to agree when Axe called him, wanting to go drinking.

The first time Eli ever used was when his mother killed herself. Eli was the one who found her in the garage. The car was still running, the air thick with smoke. He was only fifteen back then. Finding her like that was the biggest scare of his life. He spent five months having terrible nightmares, trying to shake the image of her sitting behind the wheel, head tilted to the side, her eyes closed and her mouth open.

It wasn’t until he met Axe and Malthe and they introduced him to pot that he was finally able to sleep again.

Of course, pot was only the beginning.

“Shit!” he hisses to himself as he realizes there’s nothing in the glove box but stuff you ordinarily keep there. “Okay,” he mutters, clenching the wheel. “Okay, I can do this. I don’t need it. I can do—”

Suddenly, he becomes aware of a strange, deep vibrating feeling in the air. He has no time to figure out where it comes from, because without warning, something large and yellow comes into the upper corner of his visual field.

“Wow, shit!”

Eli hits leans against the side window to see a spinning helicopter dropping out of the sky at an alarming speed just off the road. It connects with the ground behind a couple of trees, the rotors still spinning as Eli loses it from sight.

“Holy hell,” Eli whispers to himself as he keeps driving. “Hope whoever was in there is all right …”

He doesn’t think too long about it, though; he knows he’s in deep trouble himself. Worst off, he’ll likely go to jail. He was at least partly responsible for Axe and Malthe dying, since they all broke the rules and went out even after the curfew had been put out.

Unless this is the end of the world, of course. Like Axe kept saying it was. Going drinking was Axe’s idea. Come to think of it, Eli has never seen Axe act like he did tonight. It was like he wanted to die. Like he knew they would all end up dead soon, so they might as well get it over with.

Eli knows Axe has been struggling lately. Something about depression. Maybe that’s why he wanted to go in the first place. Not that it matters now. Axe is dead. And Eli can still smell him even with the ventilation on.

He rolls down the window, and the brisk morning air comes roaring in, clearing the stench a little.

Maybe there’s still a way out … Maybe I don’t need to go to jail. What if I simply don’t tell anyone about what happened? Who can prove I was even there?

The thought brings a glimmer of hope.

The exit comes up ahead. Eli lets off the gas and turns off the freeway. He hasn’t given much thought to where exactly he’s going until now, but he suddenly realizes he’s heading for Claus’s place.

It’s silly; Eli is nineteen. He should be old enough to deal with this. But he automatically sought the one person that can help him now.

Claus has bailed him out of trouble before. He will know what to do. And he won’t judge him.

As he drives through the city, Eli notices the smell of burning flesh growing stronger inside the car again.

It’s incredible how strong that smell is; Eli only touched Axe’s body for a few seconds when they lifted it, and yet his hands must be where the smell is coming from.

He tentatively sniffs his palms, but to his surprise, he can only smell his own sweat. He sniffs his T-shirt, but that doesn’t smell either.

“The fuck?” he mutters, as he makes a left turn. Claus’s place is still a few blocks away.

He decides to call up Claus and ask him to come out. Eli finds his phone and turns down the music.

That’s when he hears it: the noises coming from the trunk.

And finally, his brain connects the dots.

The stench. That’s where it’s coming from. That’s why he can still smell burning flesh. They put Axe in the fucking trunk.

How could he forget? He’s been driving with his dead friend in the car.

Except that, judging from the thuds and the scraping and the moaning coming from the back, his friend isn’t exactly dead anymore.

SEVENTEEN

The impact is hard enough to make her teeth chatter and her vision go blurry for a few seconds.

When she’s able to focus again, Josefine is amazed that the helicopter is actually standing upright. And that she’s still alive—unhurt, even.

Which is more than she can say for Michael.

When they hit the ground, everything went flying, including Michael, who was still sprawled out between the seats. He was thrown hard against the ceiling, then flopped lifelessly to the floor.

Bodil, who took a rough tumbling herself, has landed on top of him and is now busy working on him with both hands and mouth. What exactly she’s doing to him is mercifully hidden from Josefine’s view, but the wet noises leave little room for interpretation.

The pilot is unconscious or maybe even dead, tilted over in his seat, not moving.

Josefine glances dazedly out of the window at the bright, sunny day. They have touched down on a grassy field next to the trees which the pilot must have steered clear of at the last second.

At that moment, the pilot moans and sits upright, rubbing his forehead. “Goddamnit …”

Josefine tries to speak, but her breath is still too shallow, and the words come out as no more than a whisper: “Watch out …”

The pilot gradually comes to, and when he looks to the side, he utters a curse at the sight of Bodil eating away at Michael—who by now, Josefine figures, must be dead, if he wasn’t already.

“Get out of here,” Josefine croaks.

The pilot still doesn’t hear her, but he doesn’t need to; he’s finally caught on to the fact that he’s within reach of Bodil, and he immediately begins scrambling to unbuckle.

Unfortunately, his movements seem to draw Bodil’s attention away from Michael—or perhaps she’s simply done with him—because she looks up with a predatory snap of her head, red droplets flying to both sides. Even from the back, Josefine can tell Bodil’s fat cheeks are smeared in blood.

“No!” the pilot roars, pushing at the door as Bodil comes at him. “Don’t you fucking touch me!”

If the door had given way at first try, the pilot may have made it out. But it doesn’t. Maybe the handle slips. Maybe the door just jams slightly after the rough landing.

Either way, it takes the pilot another violent push to get it open, and that’s all Bodil needs to shoot forwards and bite down hard on his shoulder.

The pilot roars out in pain, flails his arm in an attempt to get Bodil off, just as the door opens and he tumbles out of the helicopter. Bodil, who’s bitten down on his shoulder like a police dog on duty, follows suit.

Josefine can’t see from in here what’s going on, but she can hear them fight on the ground; the pilot curses and shouts, Bodil groans and snaps her teeth.

Then the pilot manages to get to his feet, grabbing the door to gain his balance. He then heads off away from the helicopter, running across the open field, holding his bleeding shoulder as he looks back. He seems to be aiming for the highway Josefine hadn’t noticed until now.

Bodil’s head comes into view as she too manages to stand up. She takes up pursuit, but she’s hopelessly slow, waddling away crookedly on the broken hip, almost falling over with every step.

Within ten yards or so, she seems to realize her chances of catching up with the pilot—who has now reached the highway and is running along it—are close to nothing.

So, she simply stops, turns around and begins trudging back towards the now-closest prey: Josefine.

At the sight of Bodil coming back this way, Josefine is finally called out of her stupor. She has no idea whether Bodil will be able to climb in through the open door, but she has no intention of leaving it up to chance.

She tries to get up, then remembers the belt and fumbles to unbuckle it. This time, it only takes her a couple of seconds, but those seconds feel more like minutes to Josefine. When she finally hears the snap of the buckle, she lunges forward and climbs right past the thing still secured to the tipped-over gurney.

She grabs hold of Michael by his shoulders, intentionally not looking at the bloody craters Bodil left on him. It takes all her strength to haul him up against the sliding door. She grabs the handle and opens the door, then shoves Michael out. He tumbles to the ground.

Josefine looks up to see Bodil come waddling at her, and she slams the door shut at the last possible second.

She breathes a sigh of relief.

Then, she remembers.

The front door … it’s still open …

Josefine jolts back into action, squeezes through the seats and reaches for the door, but can’t quite reach it.

Bodil has made her made around the helicopter and is coming at her as fast as she can.

Josefine bites down hard and climbs all the way over to the pilot’s seat, leans out and grabs the handle just as Bodil reaches out her bloody hand. As Josefine yanks the door shut, Bodil’s fingers graze the back of her hand.

Then the door slams, and Josefine screams out in a mixture of relief and terror, staring from the window with Bodil’s blood-red face and white, empty eyes glaring back in at her, to the traces of blood smeared across her hand.

She recalls Michael pouring the disinfectant over his stomach and looks down to see the bottle on the floor. She picks it up and squeezes out plenty of the chilly liquid, then rubs her hand thoroughly.

When the blood is gone, Josefine examines the skin closely. It doesn’t appear to be broken anywhere. Hopefully, that means she’ll be okay.

Still, her system is panicking, her heart is racing, her lungs heaving for breath.

It’s okay, she tells herself. I just need to calm down. I’m not in any immediate danger anymore.

It’s true; the situation is bad, but not critical. She has time to think. She can figure out a way to get out of here. The thought actually calms her down a little.

She turns in the seat and scans the inside of the helicopter, looking for exits. There are four, but the two in the front are impossible to use because of Bodil standing right outside. Which leaves only two of them as viable exits: the right-side sliding door and the rear-end opening through which the gurneys were passed. The sliding door requires she climb over the gurney with the writhing thing on it. The thing has managed to pry one arm free from the straps, which must have given way during the crash-landing, and, looking at the way the others straps are only barely holding on, it doesn’t exactly seem like an inviting choice to scale the gurney.

Which leaves only the rear opening. Josefine climbs back through the helicopter, passing the gurney at a safe distance, ignores the arm reaching greedily for her.

She looks at the handle to the rear hatch and realizes it requires some sort of key to open.

“Damnit,” she mutters.

Then she becomes aware of the sound of fingers scraping on the outside of the helicopter right in front of her. For a moment, she figures another dead person must have joined Bodil, but then she looks back out the window and realizes Bodil is no longer at the front of the helicopter.

“She followed me back here,” Josefine mutters. “She can sense where I’m at …”

This means, of course, that if she wants to get out of the helicopter, she needs to either lure Bodil away or slip past her. If she’s too slow, Bodil will be waiting right outside, welcoming her with open arms …

Think. There’s got to be another way.

She looks up, hoping to see a sunroof or the like, but the roof of the helicopter is all metal.

Then her gaze falls on a square on the floor. There’s a handle in the middle and an unmistakable drawing of a guy running away from a fire plus the words: Emergency Exit – Warning: Do Not Open While Airborne.

She tries to recall the outside of the helicopter, tries to remember how much space there is below it. She had to take a big step up to get in, which means there’s probably at least a couple of feet. Plenty of room for her to slip out. But will Bodil also be able to get under the helicopter?

Her question is answered as nails scrape audibly on the underside of the helicopter.

But, lifting her head back up, she can hear scraping from the back, too.

Someone else is out there …

Josefine goes to the window and looks out. Within thirty seconds, Bodil comes waddling into view. And then, from below the helicopter, Michael comes crawling. He gets to his feet and joins Bodil in clawing at the window.

Josefine steps back, breathing quickly again.

At the same time, she’s reminded of another, much more immediate danger, as there comes a snapping sound from the gurney.

Josefine stares at the thing, which is now hanging awkwardly from the two straps still clinging on to the gurney, both its arms are now free and able to grab at the legs of the other gurney, pulling the body forward and putting pressure on the remaining straps.

It’s only a matter of seconds. Better get my butt in gear and get out of here somehow …

Despite the very clear command from her thoughts, Josefine doesn’t move. A strange sensation fills her. It feels like her body knows something she doesn’t.

I can’t leave; not with the two of them outside. And I can’t leave him like this.

It seems like two separate issues, but as they merge together, Josefine’s brain finally catches on and she knows what she needs to do.

It’s obvious, actually, now that she sees it. She even spoke with Michael about euthanasia.

At first, the notion is terrifying to her, impossible to even consider. But this is no longer her father. It never will be again. There’s absolutely nothing left of the strong, loving man who raised her. Letting him go on like this is undignified. He would have been mortified had he known he would end up a living corpse. He would probably have ended it himself if he could, simply stopped eating and drinking. There would have been no fear, no hesitation on his part whatsoever. Even up until the end he never lost his fierce determination.

But I can’t do it … I’m not nearly as strong …

“Sure you are. You’re my daughter, aren’t you?”

The voice is so clear in her mind, it’s almost like he spoke right next to her.

Josefine breathes deeply. Then she looks around the medical equipment, some of it still hanging on the walls, some of it has fallen to the floor. She sees a tiny utensil with a cap on. She picks it up and removes the cap. The silvery blade of a scalpel shines up at her.

Josefine swallows, and for some reason, she feels a tingle at the back of her neck while Michael’s voice echoes in her mind: “A half-inch cut would probably do it.”

She looks over at the gurney. One of the remaining straps has given way a few inches, enabling the thing to put one foot on the floor, kicking eagerly to get going, to get at her, its dead eyes fixed right at her chest.

Josefine maneuvers around to the head-end of the gurney, making sure to keep out of reach of the flailing arms. The chest strap is still in place, hindering the thing in reaching its arms overhead. Instead, it cranes its nearly bald head backwards to growl up at her.

“I’m so sorry about this, Daddy,” Josefine whispers as she slips the scalpel under his neck. She can’t help but feel the soft skin, and the coolness of it makes her flinch. It also solidifies her decision; whatever this thing is, it’s dead. It should have stopped moving by now. What she’s about to do is simply setting things right.

She closes her eyes, tries to block out the groans and the creaking from the straps, tries to envision her father’s face, smiling up at her. Tears begin to spill from her eyes, her breathing grows faster, and her hand begins to shake.

I can’t do it. I just can’t.

“Sure you can. Go on, sweetheart.”

Josefine shakes her head as she begins to cry out loud, still with her eyes closed.

“I don’t even know if it’ll work,” she sobs.

“It will. The doctor said so. Do it now, sweetheart. Before it’s too late.”

Josefine clenches her teeth, gathers her willpower, focuses all her attention on the scalpel clutched in her sweaty hand.

Then there’s a loud snap as the chest strap gives way …

EIGHTEEN

“Hello? Eli?” Claus’s voice in his ear, drowsy. “Why you calling so late? Everything okay?”

Eli isn’t able to answer. He’s barely able to concentrate on driving.

He’s staring in the rearview mirror. Staring at the backseat. The leather is bulging and moving where Axe’s hands are fondling it from the backside. It looks like he’s already torn out most of the upholstery, the only thing separating him from Eli being the leather. Luckily, his nails don’t seem sharp enough to penetrate it.

“Cl … Claus,” Eli manages to croak. “I … I need your help …”

“You sound terrible, buddy. Don’t tell me you used again?”

“No, it’s not that.”

“Oh, thank God.”

“It’s even worse.”

A brief pause. “How can it be worse?”

“Look, I really need to see you.”

“I’m sorry, buddy, but that’s not going to work.”

Eli is so stunned he forgets about Axe for a moment. “What? You said I could always call you if I needed help.”

“Wish I could, but you see—”

“It’s a matter of life and death!”

“I get that, Eli, but I’m just not—”

“You’re just not what? In the mood for my annoying problems? Well, I’m fucking sorry to trouble you, but I almost got killed two times this morning already! How’s that for your—”

He’s interrupted by a ripping noise causing him to look into the mirror once more. Axe is now biting his way through the leather, tearing at it like an animal. And it’s working. Within seconds, there’s a gash wide enough for his face to squeeze through.

“Oh, fuck, no!”

He didn’t look at Axe when they moved him; he made very sure not to. But now, his friend’s face is staring right back at him, protruding comically from the backseat.

“Eli? Eli?” Claus’s voice calls from somewhere nearby, and Eli realizes peripherally that he must have put the phone back in his pocket without disconnecting the call, because it’s not in his hand anymore.

Eli can’t get a word out. He can only stare at Axe.

Axe’s eyebrows are gone, his lips are blistered and pulled back in a snare, revealing the pink gums and white teeth, a string of black leather caught between two of them. His skin is mostly black and has been peeled off in several places, causing the white cheekbones to peek through. Also, his hair is mostly gone, or rather, it’s melted onto the skull like a wilted flower bed.

No wonder it stinks in here, a thought interjects in Eli’s mind, surprisingly clear. He looks like a pig roast.

Axe begins squirming eagerly, trying to push his shoulders through the seat.

Then, Eli is jerked out of his stupor, as the car bounces violently, making its way up onto the sidewalk, smashing a parking meter.

“Fuck!”

Eli jerks the wheel sideways just in time to avoid a light post. Instead, he crashes into a parked car. Something white covers his field of vision in a flash, and even before the sound of the collision reaches his ears, his face is slammed into something not quite soft.

Eli sinks back into the seat with a deep sigh as he slips away into a freeing darkness. The last thing he hears is someone growling behind him.

NINETEEN

Iver just stands there for several seconds which feel more like hours, staring at the railing at the place where Mille stood just a moment ago.

What brings him back isn’t the noises of people fighting and dying, but the toddler moving gently against his chest, whimpering.

He looks down at the boy’s face, blinking like a sleepwalker being called back to wakefulness. And he recalls the fact that he’s now responsible for this little guy.

Iver is eighteen and has only had one sexual encounter with a girl—which ended pretty disastrous, as most first times do. The experience did serve a useful purpose, though, as it brought home to him what he’d expected since early puberty, namely that he was gay.

So being a parent is something very far from how Iver sees himself. He doesn’t have any younger siblings, either, so taking care of a toddler is pretty much completely foreign to him. The closest he comes to any kind of paternity is RuPaul, his Maine Coon, who’s waiting for him in his apartment back in Stockholm.

Still, to his amazement, he feels a strong surge of protectiveness as he looks at the boy. It’s like a primal instinct coming to life, and he resolves himself to keep his promise to Mille, shoving aside the shock of seeing her jump over the railing, putting a pin in it for later processing, once he’s no longer in danger.

And, speaking of danger, when he turns to look through the windows, the sight that meets him is something straight out of a horror movie. Most of the people he sees inside are either dead or dying. A few of them are fleeing. Blood is everywhere, painting the floor and the walls and everybody, even staining the glass in several places. The doors to the elevator close and open again as they meet the obstacle that is a woman eating away at the face of another woman.

Suddenly, a bald, blood-stained head appears right on the other side of the glass, as an old man rises and begins groping at the window with a hand that’s been gnawed to bloody stumps.

The toddler whimpers and Iver turns his head gently towards his chest. “It’s all right, don’t look at them,” he whispers.

The sound of the glass door sliding open causes him to spin around. A young guy not much older than Iver comes waddling out onto the walkway. For half a second, he stops, almost as though to take in the fresh air, tilting back his head slightly.

He’s using his sense of smell, Iver thinks with a sinking feeling in his gut.

And his thought is confirmed as the zombie turns towards them and begins staggering down the walkway.

The glass door is the only way for passengers to enter and exit the walkway. There is, however, another way, which is only meant for emergencies. Iver can’t really think of a situation more emergent than the one he currently finds himself in, so he turns to the other end of the walkway.

A ladder poised at eye level can be slid down, offering a way to enter the front deck. Iver reaches up and pulls down the ladder. “Listen, little buddy, I need to hold on now, okay? Hold on to me.”

He’s not sure whether the toddler understands him, but there’s no time to find out, because the young guy is closing in on them, so Iver begins climbing, squeezing the toddler while climbing awkwardly using only one hand.

It’s difficult but doable, and as the zombie reaches the ladder, Iver’s shoes are just out of its reach. Iver has never been much for heights, and he feels his muscles begin to tense up as the ladder shakes.

For a terrifying second, he’s sure the zombie has taken up pursuit and is also scaling the ladder. But as he glances down, Iver sees it simply bumping into the ladder, aimlessly groping for Iver’s legs, not even trying to climb up.

Iver is already several feet above the walkway, yet he’s only halfway to the front deck, and he can’t help but notice how easy it would be to slip and fall over the railing from here, only to plummet to the sea below.

“Don’t look down,” he breathes, focusing on the ladder. “Just don’t look down.”

It’s an increasingly difficult task to convince his limbs to keep working, as sweat pours down his forehead despite the chilly sea breeze. But finally, there are no more rungs, and Iver climbs onto the deck, stepping quickly away from the railing, as though some strange vacuum could pull him back over the edge.

“We made it,” he whispers, offering a weak smile to the toddler, who’s resorted to suck his index and middle finger in an obvious effort to console himself.

Iver looks around. The deck is lit up by the early day sun and mostly empty but for a couple of smokers. None of them have the slightest idea of what’s going on a couple of decks below them.

“So far, so good,” Iver says. “Now, let me just think for a second. How do we get off this ship?”

There are really only a couple of options when wanting to leave a ship at sea.

Someone picks you up from the air; another ship invites you aboard; you launch a lifeboat; or you jump in the water and begin swimming.

Iver looks west. Denmark is still very much visible in the horizon. In fact, they seem to be only around eight nautical miles out, which translates to a little over nine miles. That’s a long way to swim, but Iver might be one of the only ones aboard the ferry who could actually do it. He’s an excellent swimmer, having competed at the Swedish national youth championship for the past three years. He’s even trained at swimming long distances at open sea, and right now, the water isn’t even that cold.

So it’s probably doable. The thing is, he could never do it with a toddler. And he’s not going to abandon either the boy or his promise to Mille.

Contacting another ship or a helicopter is also out of the question; even if he could get access to a radio and call the Danish authorities, they would need to know why he needed their help.

Which leaves only one option; the one Charlotte spoke in favor of.

Iver turns to look up at the bridge—from this position he doesn’t need to worry about the captain or the second mate spotting him, as he’s too close to the bridge. The orange lifeboats, however, are clearly visible from down here, suspended in heavy wires from which they can be lowered down to sea level.

Lowering and launching the lifeboats is a surprisingly simple task, and it can even be done by only one person. The entire process is operable from inside the boat and is done with no electrical systems, but solely by mechanical and hydraulic means. It also doesn’t require any special access key or the like; only knowledge. And Iver has that knowledge.

The only challenge, really, is getting to the boats and lowering them without anybody noticing.

If a passenger spotted the lifeboat being released, panic would quickly spread across the ship.

If a crew member saw it, word would soon reach the captain, and Iver is pretty sure Sorenson would order security to stop him or maybe even apprehend the boat, should Iver manage to get it launched.

He even suspects that, failing to stop the lifeboat, Sorenson might feel forced to take more drastic measures, like alerting the authorities, or, even worse, take direct action to sink the lifeboat.

It’s a crazy scenario, but given the situation and Sorenson’s dedication to his duty, Iver doesn’t find it all too far-fetched.

So he needs to not only lower the lifeboat unseen, he also needs to get as far away from the ship as possible the moment the lifeboat hits the water.

Iver looks up at the lifeboats, brooding over the difficult task, trying to find a way to go about it, when, suddenly, a movement by the rear lifeboat catches his eye. He squints to see better.

A person is handling the crane. Another one pops up from behind the lifeboat. Both are wearing life vests. And one of them looks a lot like …

“Charlotte,” Iver breathes.

“Excuse me?” a voice behind him.

Iver turns around and sees an old lady approaching. Her husband is sitting on a bench, looking this way.

“Do you work here?” the woman asks in Danish, smiling at him.

“I … I do,” Iver says.

“Could you tell me why we’ve stopped? Is there some sort of problem?”

“It’s, uhm …” Iver fumbles for an excuse. His mind is still working on understanding the fact that he just saw Charlotte prepping the lifeboat—he had taken it for granted that she was long gone by now. But she obviously decided to not go about the task alone, and has spent some time to find someone to help her.

The old woman is still looking at him, her eyes hopping back and forth between Iver and the toddler in his arms, her expression growing more confused by the second.

“Listen,” Iver says, deciding suddenly to be honest. “There’s been an outbreak of the Rhabdo-virus on the ship. I don’t know what’s going to happen, but I suggest you return to your cabin immediately and lock yourselves in. Bring some food if you have any; you might have to stay there for a while.”

Iver waits only long enough to see the look of terrified comprehension on the woman’s face, then, before she can ask him anything else, he turns and heads for the nearest door.

TWENTY

“Sorry, you guys,” Eli whispers hoarsely. “It wasn’t supposed to happen. We should’ve never left town.”

Axe looks at him, a curious look on his face. “The fuck are you on about, dude?”

“You’re dead,” Eli says, feeling like crying. “So is Malthe. It’s all fucked up. Everything is fucked up.”

Axe scuffs. “Dude, you need to get a grip.”

“I’m so sorry,” Eli repeats, and now he can actually feel the tears spilling down his cheeks. “I’ll really fucking miss you guys. You were my best friends, you know. My only friends, really. And the band … how the fuck am I going to live without the band?”

Axe moves closer. It’s a weird movement, almost like his face is drifting on its own. “Listen, dickbreath, you really need to get yourself together. We all feel sorry for ourselves now and then. I know, believe me. That doesn’t mean you just lie around and cry like that. You either get on with it or you put an end to it.”

Eli sobs. It’s very dark in here—wherever “in here” is. There’s also an unpleasant smell. And a strange noise. Eli couldn’t care less about any of that, though. All he cares about is that Axe and Malthe are both dead.

“I’m so sorry,” he sobs. “It’s all my fau—”

“Hey!” Axe says, his voice turning weirdly distorted, like he’s growling. “You listening to me? If you don’t want to end up like us, then you need to get the fuck up and keep moving!”

The words are becoming harder to discern as Axe speaks, and something’s happening to his face as well—it’s morphing into something else. Something dead.

“What … what’s going on?” Eli mutters, trying to sit up, trying to look around, but it’s very hard to move, like he’s being pinned in place by something, and he can’t take his eyes off of Axe’s face, which is still transforming in front of him, the skin flaking and darkening, the features contorting into an angry mask, the pupils fading and leaving the eyes as white, empty balls.

Axe’s expression turns into a sneer as he croaks: “Get … away … from … me!”

With each word—which is more of a snarl now—Axe seems to lunge at him, opening and closing his mouth, his teeth clapping right in front of Eli’s face. Spit drizzles onto his face and now the stench is so intense, it finally snaps Eli back into a waking state.

The surroundings change all at once, and in a flash, Eli realizes where he is: in the front seat of Axe’s dad’s Mercedes, squeezed in between the door and the steering wheel. The airbag is lying on his lap like a big, flaccid balloon.

The upper body of Axe—or what was Axe just an hour ago—is protruding from the backseat, one arm groping at the airbag, the other one reaching backwards in an awkward angle, trapped in the backseat seat belt, hindering Axe from pushing forward farther. Instead, he bites at Eli like a rapid racoon, snapping his teeth with piercing claps, snarling and drooling.

“Oh, fuck, oh, fuck,” Eli breathes, reaching his arm over his shoulder, fumbling for the handle. He finds it, yanks and tumbles backwards out of the car.

The slight movement of the car is enough for Axe’s wrist to uncoil itself from the seat belt and he lunges halfway out the door, grabbing at Eli’s feet. Eli yelps and rolls to the side, jumping to his feet.

Axe is trying to do the same, raising himself up on his arms, and he would’ve probably made it, if Eli hadn’t grabbed the door and slammed it.

The sound of the inside of the door connecting with the top of Axe’s head is loud enough that Eli feels it in his gut—especially because of the crackling crunch as Axe’s skull apparently caves in.

He sinks to the ground as the door swings halfway open again, and Eli turns around and empties what’s left in his stomach—which isn’t much more than foamy bile—out onto sidewalk. He tries to keep standing, but his knees are buckling, and he grabs hold of the light post he narrowly missed.

While still heaving, he looks down at himself.

I’m okay. He didn’t scratch me. The airbag covered me. Holy fuck, that was close …

The thought of himself lying unconscious in the front seat for—what, minutes?—while Axe made his way through the car, the only thing stopping him from eating Eli’s face clean off being the seat belt.

“Sorry, Axe,” he croaks, looking back over at the burned corpse hanging out the open car door.

Then his gaze is caught by two people coming this way, running. It’s a fat guy wearing nothing but boxers, his hairy man-tits bouncing away and an almost-as-fat woman with messy, curly hair wearing a nightdress with penguins on it.

“Jesus Crist!” the guy exclaims, stopping by the car and clapping both hands on top of his balding head. “Jesus Christ, what happened here?”

“It’s … it’s okay,” Eli tries to tell them, but his throat is still throbbing from the throwing up, and his voice is weak.

“Oh, my God!” the woman squeals, seeing Axe’s blackened body. “Oh, that poor guy! He’s all burned! Jesus, Brian, you need to call the ambulance!”

The guy’s hand goes to where his pocket would’ve been, had he been wearing his pants, but finds nothing. Instead, Eli notices to his horror a flaccid condom hanging out from the boxers.

They were fucking just a minute ago, he thinks to himself, almost retching again at the thought of those two pale, sweaty bodies going at it.

“Where’s the fire?” the guy—Brian—asks, looking at the car. “I don’t see anything burning … how did he end up like this?” He looks at Eli, open mouthed.

Eli just shrugs. At that moment, his mind is blank. He couldn’t explain what has happened if his life depended on it.

“I’m getting my phone,” the woman says, frowning at Eli for one long moment, but not moving.

“Yeah, you do that, hon,” Brian says, not taking his eyes off of Eli. “And call the police while you’re at it.”

“The police?” Eli repeats, automatically beginning to back away.

“You stay here, buddy,” Brian says, jumping forward with surprising agility and grabbing him by the wrist. “I’m placing you under civilian arrest.”

“You’re … you’re what?” Eli exclaims, almost laughing. “Get your fucking hands off me, you fat pig!”

He yanks hard backwards to get free, but Brian’s sweaty grip is too firm, and with another remarkably swift movement, he twists Eli’s arm around to his back, pinning it in a painful lock.

“Ouch! Let go! You’re hurting me!”

The woman has stepped closer. “You need help, hon?”

“You’ve got no right to do this!” Eli shouts. “Let me go!” The thought of him ending up in police custody fills him with a blinding panic.

“I’ve got him, just go call the cops,” Brian sneers, pushing down Eli’s head in an awkward position. “Hurry up!”

The woman turns to leave, and Eli is about to shout something, when his gaze falls on Axe’s arm, lying on the pavement. The hand opens and closes in a jittery way, like a robot coming back to life.

The woman, who seems to be doing her best not to look at the body hanging from the car, passes by close enough that Eli can reach out his leg and trip her—and so he does, hardly thinking.

The woman, obviously not expecting this, screams out in surprise and falls flat on the sidewalk with a thud and a wheezing groan, as the air is audibly knocked from her lungs.

“Oh, shit!” Brian exclaims. “You okay, hon?”

The open door is blocking most of the view from where Eli and Brian are standing, but since Eli is bent over, he’s able to see under the door. And he witnesses Axe drag himself out of the car.

That’s right, Eli thinks to himself, feeling a crazy elation. Get her, Axe!

Axe claws his way atop the woman, who’s still gasping for breath. Then he makes her forget all about her troubles breathing, as he bites down hard on the fleshy part of her backside.

Suddenly, the woman has enough air in her lungs after all, and she screams in pain.

“Jesus!” Brian shouts and lets go of Eli, jumping to the rescue of his girlfriend. “Holy hell, he’s not dead!”

“Get him off!” the woman screams, slapping at Axe with open palms. “Get him off of me!”

Brian bends down and grabs Axe by the shoulders, tugging him backwards hard. But Axe has ground down on the woman’s back-fat with his teeth, and he’s holding on like a crocodile. As Brian yanks him away, the woman’s skin is first stretched, then ripped open with an awful elastic sound.

Her scream grows a couple of octaves higher and Brian roars out too at the sight of his girlfriend’s open back wound from where the blood immediately starts spilling.

Axe is the only one not reacting with horror; in fact, he seems even more motivated at the sight of the bleeding flesh, and he twists out of Brian’s hold and buries his face in the wound.

Brian throws himself at him, trying some awkward judo move to wrestle him off, but Axe is slippery and keeps at it, the blood now covering the sidewalk. The woman’s screams seem to lose power as she’s apparently drifting off to unconsciousness.

Eli suddenly becomes aware that his plan worked; he’s free. But he’s still just standing there, staring at the nightmarish scene. He turns his head and looks around.

A group of people have gathered by the car and more are coming from all directions. They all look mesmerized and horrified. None of them steps in right away. Then, a young man seems to find the courage and steps forward to try and help break up the scuffle.

By now, though, Axe has eaten his way well into the woman’s back, and Brian has received several scratches on his arms and face trying to get Axe away. Eli feels a strange mixture of horror and excitement at the sight.

What have I done? Right after that initial thought, another one comes to him, spoken in quite another tone: Serves you right for trying to call the police on me, you fat fucks.

The young man reaches in and tries to pull away Axe’s head. Axe turns his head and clams down hard, crunching the guy’s fingers, causing him to scream out in pain. Another couple of men enter the scene, and they actually manage to pull Axe off the woman—mostly, apparently, because Axe has lost interest in the dead-or-very-soon-dead woman. They hold him down in a clumsy headlock, one of them pinning his legs and the other holding his head. The one holding his head immediately gets bitten in the armpit, screams out and abandons the plan, freeing up Axe to twist around and bite the other guy, too.

Soon, it’s all just a pile of flailing arms and legs, screaming and shouting, still more people joining in, trying to break up what looks like a brawl, none of them understanding the danger.

They’re all dead, Eli thinks to himself. And it’s because of me. I did this. Then, that other voice comes again: They did this to themselves. They shouldn’t have tried to arrest me.

Eli finally recognizes the voice. It’s been seven months since he’s heard it. It’s the one Claus called The Demon Voice.

“Every drug user has one,” he told Eli. “It’ll tell you whatever you need to hear. It’ll tell you to hurt people you love and people you don’t even know. It only serves you, and it’ll do whatever it can to convince you to do horrible things. The trick is to never listen to it.”

Eli turns on his heel and bolts.

TWENTY-ONE

As Iver enters back inside the ship, he can immediately feel the atmosphere has changed.

Somewhere from below come faint sounds of screaming and yelling, bumps and crashes. It’s almost drowned out by the sound of the ship’s engine, but Iver is used to that and automatically filters it out.

Even though he’s entered the lounge—a large, oval room with plenty of space, dining tables, a bar and even a dance floor—which is usually the most upbeat place to be on the ship, he can sense a brooding panic lurking just below the surface. People are coming and going, some obviously just woken up, others must have been up already, all of them exchanging worried looks and keeping together in small groups, none of them sure what to do about what they’re hearing.

He heads for the farthest exit, crossing the empty dance floor, and he picks up several hushed voices.

“Should we go down there?”

“What is happening?”

“Why have we stopped moving?”

“Does anybody know anything?”

Just as Iver is about to exit the lounge, a big, muscular guy steps out in front of him, cutting him off.

“Hey, you. What the hell’s going on?”

“Uhm,” Iver says. “I’m sorry, but … I don’t know …”

The guy doesn’t let him pass. “Then what are you doing running around with a toddler?”

People have gathered around them, and Iver sees no other way. “Okay, listen to me,” he says, clearing his throat. “There’s been an outbreak of the Rhabdo-virus …”

“I knew it!” someone exclaims, and about a dozen people seem to feel they’ve heard enough, because they immediately scatter.

“What do we do?” a woman asks in a shrill voice. “Why haven’t we been informed?”

“I’m sure they’ll say something over the speakers any minute,” Iver says, even though he suspects that might be a lie. “Until then, I think the best thing you can do is return to your cabins, and keep—”

“Fuck that!” the big guy cuts him off. “I’m getting the hell off of this boat.”

He turns around and heads out onto the deck—Iver doesn’t know if the guy intends to simply jump overboard, but he hopes not. He doesn’t have the time to wait and find out, however, so he excuses himself and pushes through the remaining people, some of them still demanding answers from him.

He manages to exit the lounge and runs down the hallway, headed for the nearest elevator. But he finds two dozen people already waiting outside it, anxiously looking at each other.

Instead, Iver heads for the staircase. Luckily, he knows the ferry inside and out, and he reaches the upper lever within five minutes.

As he steps out onto the platform where the lifeboats are, a gush of fresh wind meets him, causing him to catch his breath.

The lifeboat is already suspended in midair, dangling over the edge of the ship, being lowered by the wires. There’s no one in sight, which means they are operating the lifeboat from inside.

“Wait!” he shouts, running to the railing, waving his free hand, not sure if they can hear him from the inside. “Charlotte! Hold on! It’s me, Iver!”

The lifeboat stops. The side door opens and Charlotte sticks her head out, squinting up at him. “You changed your mind?”

“I did. Let me come with you.”

“Whose baby is that?”

“Some woman. She’s dead.”

“Who is it?” a voice asks from inside the lifeboat.

“Where’s the girl?” Charlotte asks, ignoring the other question.

Iver swallows. “She’s dead. So are probably a hundred other people. It’s breaking out all over deck B as we speak. It’s just a matter of minutes now.”

Charlotte turns pale. “You … you’ve been into contact with any of them them?”

“No,” he says. “I’m fine, don’t worry. So is this guy. Please, Charlotte, let us aboard.”

Charlotte considers for a second, darting a glance down the platform. “Did anybody see you come up here?”

“No.”

“All right. Come on, then. Climb aboard.”

Iver looks down at the nauseating drop below. The water is so far away, falling from up here would be like jumping from a skyscraper. “I … I can’t. Not with this guy in my arms.”

“Get it back up, Tommy,” Charlotte tells someone inside the lifeboat.

“What?”

“Just do it!”

The lifeboat starts rising back up. When it’s close enough, Iver hands over the boy to Charlotte. “Here, take him for me a minute.”

Charlotte looks like he’s offering her a cactus with no pot, but she takes the boy awkwardly in her arms, bringing him inside.

Iver breathes deeply, then steps over the gap and into the swaying lifeboat. Inside, there’s a synthetic smell, the sunlight only making it through a row of narrow plastic windows.

The guy operating the handles controlling the wires is someone Iver’s seen a couple of times before down in the ship’s engine room; his name is Chris or Claus. He’s got black hair and stubble, and he’s a couple of years older than Iver. Iver knows him to be a moody guy who almost never says anything positive. And, as far as he knows, he’s one of Charlotte’s close friends.

“Welcome aboard,” he says, smiling sourly. “Glad you could make it.”

Charlotte hands Iver the toddler again, and the little guy seems thankful to be back in Iver’s arms.

“If he starts crying, you better make him stop,” she says. “I can’t take babies crying.”

Iver just nods. “Thanks for taking us with you.”

“Sit down,” Charlotte says, gesturing towards the seats. It’s not an invitation.

Iver sits down and looks out the window as Chris or Claus begins lowering the lifeboat. He sees the outside of the ferry drift by; now and then he gets a glimpse through the windows. There’re people running on every deck now.

“Listen, Chris,” Charlotte says, turning up the radio she’s been listening to.

“This is your captain speaking,” Sorenson’s voice comes through. “Please remain calm. Wherever you are at the moment, I urge you to return to your cabin, lock the door and stay there. We have a situation which is being dealt with as we speak …”

“Yeah, right,” Charlotte scuffs. “Fucking liar.”

“Please don’t panic,” Sorenson repeats. “And please avoid contact with other passengers. There’s absolutely no reason to try and get off the ferry …”

Charlotte looks over at Chris, then at Iver. “Are people trying to get off?”

Iver stands up and goes to the rearview window. From here, he can see the other lifeboat on this side. There’re people all around it, pushing and shoving to get on it.

“Holy hell,” Charlotte says. “Look at that!”

Iver follows her pointing finger out the front window and he sees someone throwing something out from a window. At least that’s how it looks at first. But as the thing begins flailing its arms on the way down, he realizes it’s a man.

“Oh, no,” he breathes as the man hits the water and disappears.

The jump was maybe twenty feet—probably not enough to render him unconscious. But the stream around the ferry will likely pull him down and drag him all the way to the rear end. By that time, even if he’s still alive, he’ll encounter the ship’s rotor.

The first thing you learn about emergency protocols when working on a ferry, is that you never jump from the ferry and into the water; it’s pretty much guaranteed suicide.

But most people don’t know that.

And, staring out the lifeboat’s window, Iver sees two more jumpers. Then a fourth and a fifth. Soon, the air is full of them.

“Holy hell,” Charlotte repeats.

“Goddamn morons,” Chris says. Even though he’s trying to sound tough, Iver can tell his voice is shaking.

“… I repeat,” Sorenson’s voice goes on over the radio. “Jumping ship is extremely dangerous and should not be attempted by anyone. Return instead to your cabins and avoid any contact with other passengers. Help will reach us soon. There’s no reason to pan—”

Charlotte turns the radio off, muttering: “I can’t listen to that shit.”

Then, there’s a beep from the instruments, and Chris exclaims: “We’re there! I’m putting her down now.”

Iver feels the slight bump as the lifeboat touches down on the water. Chris and Charlotte work together to get the wires free and turn the boat around. Iver realizes now that he would probably never have made it in time, had he been forced to do all of this on his own while looking out for the toddler.

He looks out the window as the lifeboat speeds up, more and more of the ferry coming into view.

The sight is far from uplifting.

People are still jumping from every height. It reminds Iver with a sinking feeling of the footage he saw from nine-eleven. These people don’t jump out to avoid fire and smoke, but dead people trying to eat them. And they don’t hit concrete, but water. But the effect is pretty much the same; only a few of them ever reaches back up to the surface—Iver counts maybe ten or fifteen lucky ones on this side of the ferry—but they will likely drown too before they reach land.

Two other lifeboats are being lowered. That is, people are trying to lower them. But one of them seems to have difficulty even getting going, because too many people are flooding it, causing it to rock dangerously back and forth.

The other one actually begins to lower itself towards the water, but as it passes by an open window, Iver sees a dozen more people trying to jump aboard, only two of them making it, the rest plummeting to the water.

Then, someone else comes out through the window, someone dead. And just as the lifeboat passes the window, the dead person drops onto the roof of it, immediately making its way inside. The lifeboat begins swaying heavily, and people start jumping out.

The other lifeboat comes suddenly into view, as the wires apparently have given in, and the whole thing drops, spilling out people all the way down.

Before it hits the water, Iver has looked away; he can’t see any more of it. He wishes dearly he could have saved some of those people. But had he waited just another minute he would probably have lost his own chance, and both he and the toddler would have died aboard the ferry.

Speaking of, the boy has tucked his face into the space between Iver’s chest and upper arm and seems to be sleeping.

Iver feels a stab in his heart of both sorrow and relief as he realizes he kept his promise to Mille.

And before he can think about it, he bends his head and places a kiss atop the boy’s golden hair.

“We made it,” he whispers. “We’re safe now.”

TWENTY-TWO

It takes Eli less than ten minutes to reach Claus’s place. Running through the streets with the sun now baking down from above makes him sweat profusely and expulses the last alcohol from his bloodstream.

He looks back several times to make sure no one’s following him. The city seems oddly quiet for a late Wednesday summer morning. It’s like people have decided to stay at home, despite the lovely weather.

No wonder. They probably watched the news.

Eli reaches the right address and stops in front of the door. He rests his hands on his knees for a minute, catching his breath. He doesn’t want Claus to see him like this, all flustered and panting, so he makes an effort to steady himself before going inside.

It’s difficult, though; his hands are shaking and he can’t seem to get his pulse down all the way.

Somewhere in the distance, he hears a siren. It sounds like a police car. He feels a stab of panic.

Don’t worry. The Demon Voice is back. They’re not looking for you. They came because of the assholes who tried to stop you.

Eli darts a look around and sees a car coming down the street, going slowly, as though looking for something.

He steps swiftly into the stairwell leaving behind the sunlight and is met by a pleasant, cool atmosphere. He scans the list of names on the wall and sees Claus’s.

“Third floor,” he whispers to himself, then runs up the stairs, his steps echoing.

He reaches the third-floor landing and looks at the door. He’s never actually been in Claus’s apartment; all their meetings took place either at Eli’s home or in a public place.

He takes a deep breath then rings the bell. Immediately after, he looks down at himself and sees his shirt is all messed up. He smooths it out as best he can.

No one comes to the door. Eli rings a second time. Still nothing.

He takes out his phone and sees three missed calls, all from Claus. He calls him up and Claus answers right away.

“Eli?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s going on, man? You scared me half to death.”

“Sorry about that. And sorry about how I talked to you. I was … panicking.”

“Are you okay? Jeez, I get a call from you telling me you’ve almost died and then there’s a bang like from a car crashing. I thought you were in an accident!”

“I was,” Eli admits, swallowing dryly. “Look, it’s a long story. Could I please come in? I’m right outside.”

“Right outside where?”

“Your place.”

Claus sighs. “That’s what I was trying to tell you, buddy: I’m not home. I’m not even in the country.”

Eli gapes at the door. “What? Why? I mean, where are you?”

“I’m on Mallorca with the wife.”

Eli’s insides feel like they all drop a few inches. “Oh, no,” he whispers, closing his eyes. “I … I really needed you …”

“I know, bad timing. Look, why don’t you tell me about it over the phone? I’m sure whatever it is, we can fix it.”

“No,” Eli mutters, shaking his head. “Not this. This can’t be fixed.”

“Sure it can,” Claus says, but Eli doesn’t hear it; he disconnects and puts the phone back in his pocket.

For a long moment, he just stands there, staring at Claus’s door, feeling the last hope leave him.

He thought he was only feet away from the one person who could help him; turns out, that person is hundreds of miles away. Without him, Eli is lost. Without him, there’s only The Demon Voice. And before Eli is even aware of it, his thoughts are searching for the nearest access to anything that might take away his awful feeling of hopelessness.

Axe had a bag of weed in his room; you could go to his place. His parents probably aren’t home.

But Eli isn’t sure smoking a joint will be enough to dull what he’s feeling right now.

There’s also the guy, The Demon Voice suggests invitingly. Remember him? Used to bring you the really good stuff. You deleted his number, but you know how to get it, don’t you?

He does. It would take him maybe half an hour. He only needs to—

A sound from below. The front door is opened, and someone enters. Two persons, as far as Eli can tell. They’re talking together in hushed voices as they come up the stairs. There’s also the panting of a big dog. The newcomers stop at the second floor, right below Eli.

He listens intently.

“It’s here,” one of them—a guy—says. “Let’s just hope he’s home.”

There’s knocking.

Then, waiting silence.

For some strange reason, Eli gets the sense that whoever is on the landing below him, and whoever they’ve come to see, it’s important.

The sound of a lock turning and a door opening.

A man’s voice: “What can I help you gentlemen with?”

“Sebastian, right? You’re a pilot?”

“I’m sorry, who are you?”

“My name’s William. I’m a friend of your brother’s. Can we please come in?”

The guys are let inside, and the door closes. As soon as Eli hears the lock turn again, he jumps down the stairs to the second-floor landing, crouches down and gently flips open the mail slot.

TWENTY-THREE

“Dad?”

Lærke’s voice calls him out of a deep sleep. It takes an effort to open his eyes enough to see her silhouette sitting up in bed next to him.

“Huh? What is it, hon? You gotta pee?”

“No, it’s your phone. It keeps lighting up.”

“Oh. Well, turn it off, then.”

Sebastian sinks his head back down onto the pillow. Lærke places a hand on his ribs and a knee on his thigh as she climbs over him.

“Jeez, hon, could you go around the bed?”

“I already got it,” she says, climbing back over him. Luckily, she’s skinny and weighs barely sixty pounds.

He senses the light from his phone as she activates the screen. The bedroom is almost completely dark thanks to the blackout curtains, despite the burning afternoon sun right outside. The temperature in the room is nice and cool; the air conditioner was one of the best investments he ever made.

He just came back from his latest flight this morning. He went by Heidi’s place and picked up Lærke, then went straight home and jumped in bed, trying to catch up on the sleep he missed. Luckily, he never suffered from jet lag.

Lærke wasn’t tired, of course, but whenever she was with him and he needed a nap, she would lie next to him playing silently on her iPad. He found it adorable, to be honest, and he was glad she didn’t mind him spending some of their precious time together sleeping.

“You’ve got a bunch of missed calls, Dad.”

“Huh,” he grunts. “I’ll call ’em back later.”

“There are, like, thirty-two,” she persists.

“Hon, I’m trying to sleep.”

“… and most of them are from Grandma. There’re five from Mom, too.”

He’s about to get annoyed and tell her to please stop talking—when it suddenly dawns on his sleepy mind what she’s saying.

“Did you say thirty-two missed calls?”

“Yeah! And a whole bunch of texts, too.”

Sebastian sits up. “Give it to me, please.”

Lærke hands him the phone. “Where’s mine?” she asks.

“Where’s what?”

“My phone? Maybe Mom tried calling me, too.”

“I have no idea where your phone is,” he says, squinting at the light from the screen. “Where you last put it, I suppose.”

She gets out of bed and begins rummaging through her suitcase on the floor—it’s always amazing to him how much clothes a ten-year-old needs to bring for a week.

Sebastian scrolls through the list of missed calls, peeking out through one stinging eye. All thirty-two of them have come between 11:04 PM when he went to bed and now, 2:11 AM.

Something bad happened.

The thought comes to him with jarring certainty. People don’t try to reach you that desperately unless they had awful news.

Two of the calls are from private numbers, meaning it’s either from work or some official business. But since he isn’t on call, it’s probably not work. He doesn’t have any flights scheduled for the rest of the week; he made sure of that, since Lærke would be spending the first week of her summer holidays with him.

“Mom called me too,” Lærke—who has recovered her phone—informs. “Should I call her back?”

“No, hold on a minute, hon. Let me handle this, okay? It might be something serious.”

“Like what?” The anxiety in her voice immediately makes him regret his choice of words.

“It’s probably nothing,” he says, sending her a brief smile, but realizing his daughter is too old to be fooled by half-baked lies any longer. “Let me handle it,” he repeats, and she nods and sits down on the bed.

He looks back down at his phone and scrolls through the texts. They’re all very similar and don’t really tell him anything.

Heidi wrote: You up? And then, three minutes later: Call me. Important.

His mom wrote four different versions of: Call me back ASAP.

He notices four messages on the voice mail and decides that might be a place to start before he calls anyone back; he’d like to know what this is about before he has to talk with anyone.

He makes the call to the voice mail and looks at Lærke, realizing she’s staring back at him expectantly.

“Who are you calling? Mom?”

“No, voice mail. Listen, I could really go for one of your ice teas right now—why don’t you go and mix us a couple of glasses?”

Lærke eyes him for a moment; it’s clear that she doesn’t want to leave, that she’s dying to know what’s up. But to his surprise, she gets up and goes to the kitchen.

Good girl, he thinks, just as a female voice tells him how many new messages he’s got.

The first one is from Heidi. “Hey. You’re probably sleeping, but … I think you need to call your mom. She just called me, and … well, shit … it’s bad news, Sebastian. I’m so sorry …”

The message ends.

The next one is from his mother. Right away, he can tell how upset she is from the shallow way she’s breathing. “Oh, dear God … Sebastian, can you please pick up? … It’s Mom again … I don’t know … I don’t know what to do … They called me from the hospital … oh, God … and I can’t even go to see him … they’ve made a curfew, but … but I tried to go anyway … I just had to see him … there were soldiers there, at the hospital … they told me to turn around, or they’d … they’d have to force me to … can you believe it? They wouldn’t let me see him, Sebastian … oh, God …”

His mother breaks into sobbing at this point, and it goes on for ten seconds or so, before the message ends.

Sebastian listens to two other—but very similar—messages from his mother, not getting any the wiser, until the end of the third message, which his mother ends by whispering: “Please call me back as soon as you get this, Sebastian … It’s about your brother …”

Sebastian lowers the phone and stares into the wall. From the kitchen he can hear clanging of ice cubes being dropped into glasses. His heart is pumping, his brain is working hard to fill in the blanks.

He knows about the situation up north, of course; everyone does, it’s all they’re talking about in the media. A very contagious disease of some kind broke out a few days ago and is spreading like wildfire.

His parents, his brother and his aunts and uncles all live in or around Viborg, where it apparently started. Sebastian called his mother yesterday to make sure everyone was okay.

She told him they were. She had kept indoors like the authorities had ordered. But she had called everyone and made sure they were safe.

The only one she couldn’t reach was Janus.

That wasn’t uncommon, though; Sebastian’s younger brother was never easy to get hold of. He had always been the family’s outsider, never listening to advise and always going his own way, even moving away from home at the age of fourteen.

So Sebastian hadn’t given it much thought. He was sure Janus could take care of himself. He might be young and stupid, but he wasn’t reckless. He knew to take the situation seriously and not get himself in harm’s way.

And yet something bad must have happened to Janus.

“They wouldn’t let me see him, Sebastian …”

Why had Janus ended up in the hospital? Did he catch the virus? Or had he been in an accident? Sebastian had seen footage of rioting in the streets of Viborg just last night.

The sound of a car horn blaring a couple of blocks away makes him turn his head and look to the window, which of course tells him nothing about what’s going on outside.

Suddenly, he feels a pang of intense fear. Not so much for himself, but for Lærke. There’s a hundred miles from here to Viborg, and he had assumed that was a safe distance. But just last night the infection had reached Aarhus, which was only eighty miles away. At that speed, most of the country could be taken over within a week, maybe even shorter once the snowball got rolling.

Still, Sebastian had believed the calm faces on the news, telling him in reassuring voices that there was no reason for panic, that the infection would be sealed off and dealt with efficiently, that this would be over in a matter of days.

Now, all of those reassurances sounded empty to him. The life of his daughter wasn’t worth any risk, no matter how small, and as he’s sitting there on his bed in the dark bedroom, he curses himself for not having heeded the warning signs. He should have ignored the authorities and gotten the hell out of here. Maybe even left the country.

Perhaps it wasn’t too late.

Perhaps they could still—

Lærke enters the room, carrying two tall glasses of ice tea, one in each hand.

He forces a smile as she stops in the doorway. “That looks great, hon. Thank you.”

But she doesn’t come to him as he reaches out his hand. Instead, she looks at him and whispers: “Someone’s at the door, Dad.”

TWENTY-FOUR

The next time Dennis wakes up, it’s not a nightmare calling him back, but something a lot less terrifying: he needs to pee really bad.

He gets up from the bunk and leaves the room to find Mom all dressed by the table in the bunker’s dining area. She has put up her black candles, placed them in a half-circle, and is sitting with her eyes closed, muttering her usual midday prayer.

“Is it morning?” Dennis mutters, scratching his hair.

Mom opens her eyes. “It’s almost one.”

“Oh.”

“I have a few chores for you today,” Mom says. “We need to finish the preparations Holger started yesterday. Do you know how we get to the vegetable garden? Did Holger tell you anything about that?”

Dennis shrugs. “No. Can’t we just go outside?”

Mom shakes her head. “It’s completely fenced in. There must be a secret entrance somewhere from underground.”

“Like the one in the courtyard?”

“Exactly.”

“Well, I don’t know where it is.” Dennis sees the idling monitor and recalls the two men who came in the middle of the night and killed all the dead people. “Did they come back?” he asks, looking at Mom.

She shakes her head. “No.”

“Good. I didn’t care for them.”

“Me neither. We might see more people coming by in the days to come. I don’t know how many knew about Holger’s safe place, but apparently, we weren’t the only ones.”

Dennis thinks about that for a moment. “Well, I’m glad we got here first,” he says, then remembering the boys and the pretty girl who were here before them, adds: “I mean, kind of first.”

Mom looks at him. “Are you hungry?”

“Not really. But I need to pee,” Dennis says and heads for the door to the tunnel.

“The bathroom is over there,” Mom says, nodding towards the corner.

Dennis stops and bites his lip. “I’d rather use the one upstairs.”

Mom sends him a curious look. “Why would you go all the way upstairs when there’s a perfectly fine toilet down here?”

“It’s just … the seat is made of metal,” Dennis says, wringing his hands. “It’s really cold and uncomfortable.”

“You’ll get used to it.”

“But I tried to use it last night. I … I couldn’t go, no matter how hard I tried. Can I please use the one upstairs, Mom?”

“It’s better we stay down here for a couple of days,” Mom says. “Just until we’re sure those guys from last night aren’t coming back.”

Dennis gazes towards the bathroom door and shifts his feet. “I just … I just really don’t think I can use that toilet, Mom.”

Mom sighs. Normally, when she tells him no, there’s no debating. But on this particular subject, Dennis suspects Mom might give in. She knows how difficult it is for Dennis to go in public bathrooms and how he used to wet himself when he was younger. He also never learned to pee standing without getting his pants wet.

“Fine,” she says. “You can go upstairs. I’ll go with you; I need to get the vegetables from the kitchen anyway.”

Dennis smiles in relief. “Thanks, Mom.”

“Let me go first,” Mom says as Dennis heads for the door. “You keep close to me, okay?”

Dennis looks at the dagger which is suddenly in Mom’s hand, and he feels an involuntary chill down his back; the sight of the dagger always does that to him.

He only held it once, one time when Mom wasn’t at home and Dennis went exploring in her bedroom. The old chest was very much off limits, but Dennis was simply too curious, so he found the key, which he knew was in the nightstand drawer, and unlocked it.

There it was, all shiny and bronze-colored and deadly.

The dagger was a lot heavier than it looked, and the handle was very cold and smooth. He only had the nerve to hold it for a few seconds before putting it back and closing the chest, making sure to lock it and put the key back.

He had witnessed Mom kill animals with the dagger from time to time, when she needed to make a sacrifice for some important ritual. And now he has also seen her kill people with it. The thought produces a sinking feeling in his gut.

Mom slides the bolt and opens the door carefully, keeping the dagger ready by her side.

The tunnel is empty. Mom steps out and waves Dennis after her.

He follows Mom down to the ladder leading up. She climbs first, unlocks the hatch and pushes it carefully open, checking in every direction before she climbs up into Holger’s bedroom. She’s gone for a few seconds.

“It’s okay,” she says from above. “You can come now, Dennis.”

Dennis climbs up and looks around the room, where everything looks like they left it.

“You wait here,” Mom tells him as they enter the living room. “I’ll make a quick round to make sure.”

“Okay, Mom.”

Dennis stays behind patiently, fighting back the growing urge to pee, as Mom takes a look around the different rooms.

“All right,” she says, returning to the living room, placing the dagger in her belt. “You can go pee now. I’ll get the vegetables. When you’re done, come help me carry them downstairs.”

Dennis nods, then heads quickly to the bathroom and closes the door behind him. He slips down his boxers and takes a seat on Holger’s toilet. It feels different than the one at home, but at least it’s not cold.

Dennis closes his eyes and concentrates hard on relaxing. After a few seconds, he manages to begin peeing and gives off a deep sigh of relief.

As he sits there, listening to the soft trickling sound, he looks around the bathroom. There’s a single, tiny window high up on the wall, and it’s barred by a thick metal grid. A warm, orange sunlight streams in and creates a gridded pattern on the floor.

Dennis follows the shadows with his eyes like he’s solving a maze, when he reaches the wall and sees something strange.

There’s a shoeprint on the floor, brown from dried-up mud.

But it’s only half a shoeprint.

The other half is cut off by the wall. As though a ghost had walked right through the bathroom wall.

Dennis thinks hard to come up with a reasonable explanation for the weird, half shoeprint—so hard he almost stops peeing—but he can’t think of any.

He lets his eyes wander up the wall, looking for anything which might give him a clue. And there, on one of the white tiles, is a greasy handprint. It’s very hard to see, and it’s only because of the sunlight hitting the tile just right that Dennis can make it out.

He is very enthralled by now; he finishes peeing and pulls his boxers back up without it even registering—his attention is completely absorbed by the wall next to the mirror. He walks over there and looks closer at the prints. The hand looks a little bigger than Dennis’s; it’s probably Holger who made it. But why would he put his palm on the bathroom wall?

Dennis places his own hand on the print. And he feels something strange. The tile gives way a little, only a few millimeters, but enough for him to feel it. He pushes a little, and the tile moves back farther.

Dennis’s heart is racing by now.

He pushes harder, and the tile sinks farther in—until it meets some resistance. Dennis applies just a little more pressure, and there’s a click.

The sound makes him flinch, and he jumps backwards. The wall swings slowly out like a door.

“Oh, my God,” Dennis breathes. “It’s another secret entrance!”

He peeks through the opening and sees a narrow staircase leading down to another tunnel. Without even thinking, Dennis slips inside and goes down the stairs.

He walks through the tunnel, which is very similar to the one leading to the bunker, except this one is longer, and the wooden floor is full of muddy shoeprints.

He reaches a ladder leading up to a metal hatch with a heavy bolt lock.

“It’s got to be to the garden,” Dennis murmurs to himself, feeling very excited, both due to the sheer experience of finding the hidden tunnel, but also at the thought of telling Mom he knows how to get to the vegetables.

He needs to make sure before he goes and tells her, though.

So, he climbs up the ladder and unlocks the hatch. With a little effort, he manages to push it open. Bright sunlight blinds him for a moment, and he can smell the vegetables even before he can see them; tomatoes, spring onion, potatoes, different herbs and even strawberries.

Dennis blinks at the light and looks around as he climbs all the way up and gets to his feet.

“Wow!”

He’s standing in the middle of a giant cage, enclosed by a thick chain-link fence on all sides—also overhead. The cage is the size of a quarter of a soccer field, and all around him are rows of vegetables. There’s even a couple of small greenhouses. A few of the rows have already been harvested. A couple of butterflies are fluttering around, enjoying themselves.

Dennis kneels down and plucks a big, red strawberry. The scent of it is enough to make his mouth water even before he bites into it. It’s sweet and juicy.

Then he notices something odd.

There’s an opening in the fence right next to where he’s standing, just above the ground. It looks like the fence might have been cut open with a pair of bolt-scissors. Like someone had—

A sharp, metallic click-clack comes from behind him, which Dennis takes to be coming from the hatch—it’s probably Mom, who found the hidden door and followed him out here.

But as he turns around, Mom is nowhere to be seen.

Instead, Dennis meets a young man’s face staring at him from behind a couple of tall maize stalks. The guy’s head is tilted slightly sideways, and he’s pointing at Dennis with what looks like a black metal rod.

“Don’t move,” he says in a low voice, which Dennis immediately recognizes from the surveillance audio. “And don’t say anything.”

Dennis couldn’t disobey the guy if he wanted to; the sheer surprise has nailed him to the ground, and he can only stand and stare as the guy stands up straight and squeezes through the maize. It’s not until the guy is fully visible that Dennis finally realizes the thing pointed at him is a rifle—probably the exact same one the guy used to kill the dead people in the courtyard.

“What’s your name?” the guy asks, not lowering the weapon. “It’s okay, you can talk.”

Dennis’s tongue has suddenly gone limp. He manages to stammer: “D-Dennis.”

“Okay, Dennis. I’m Silas. If you do like I ask, you’ll be fine. I’m not here to harm anyone. You read me?”

Dennis nods stiffly.

“Great. Now, first off, tell me: how many are inside the house right now?”

“Ju-just my m-mom.”

“She’s the one we spoke to last night?”

“Uh-huh.”

“No one else?”

Dennis shakes his head.

“You sure, Dennis? I don’t want you lying to me.”

“No, I’m not lying!”

“It’s just you and your mom here, then?”

He nods emphatically.

“All right. Who killed Holger?”

The question makes Dennis blink. He really doesn’t want to answer. He’s afraid of what Mom will do to him if she finds out he told on her. “I … I don’t … it was … an accident,” he croaks, the lie all too obvious in his shaky voice.

“Dennis,” Silas says, sounding almost overbearing. “I told you not to lie.”

Dennis just stands there, gaping and shaking his head, unable to speak.

Silas looks him up and down briefly, then goes on: “I’m going to guess you didn’t do it. Was it your mom? She actually sounded like someone who had the balls to do it. Was it her?”

Dennis closes his mouth and manages a faint nod.

Silas raises his eyebrows. “Damn. Takes a special woman to stab someone in the neck. All right, stay right where you are for me.”

Silas lowers the rifle to hip-level, the tip still aimed at Dennis’s chest, then finds a cell phone and calls up someone.

“Yeah, I got one. Told you it’d work.” A quick smirk, then Silas’s expression returns to business. “It’s a boy. Teenager. He claims it’s just him and his mom. Yeah, the mom’s the one we—yeah. And get this, she killed Holger. I know. Right. Sure. See you in a bit.”

He disconnects and slips the phone back into his pocket.

Dennis notices he’s dressed in a hunter’s outfit: all dark green and brown, cap, long sleeves and pants. It looks way too warm for the weather. But that’s why Dennis didn’t notice him amongst the maize.

“Now, Dennis,” Silas says, raising the rifle to his shoulder again. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re gonna climb back down the way you came, and I’ll follow right behind you, so don’t do anything moronic like trying to run, okay? I’ll have this pointed at you the whole time, and if you do anything I haven’t told you to do, I’m going to have to shoot you. We understand each other?”

Dennis tries to answer, but his mouth is too dry. He nods instead.

“Good. You’re going to lead me back inside the house, and then we’ll have a little chat with your mama.”

Dennis stiffens even more, his whole body trembling.

Silas cocks his head. “Hey, you look like you’re about to shit yourself. It’s okay, I told you I’m not going to shoot anyone, as long as you do what I tell you. Okay?”

Dennis swallows dryly. “So you … you won’t hurt my mom?”

Silas grins. “Of course not. Trust me, it’s going to be fine. We just want a safe place to stay. I’m sure we can make it work so everyone is happy.” He gestures with the rifle towards the hatch. “Come on, now. Lead the way.”

TWENTY-FIVE

“What was that?”

Dan stops in the middle of the street and looks around. Ozzy stops, too, raising its ears.

“What was what?” William asks.

“There was a sound,” Dan says, listening. “A loud bang somewhere nearby. Didn’t you hear it?”

“No, but I think Ozzy did.”

Dan notices the dog, patiently standing at William’s side, its ears turning like radar discs.

“Was it a gunshot?” William asks.

“No, it sounded more like something crashing. A car, maybe.”

“Oh. Well, that’s not a good sign either. We’d better hurry up.”

William walks briskly towards the building on the other side of the street, Ozzy following suit.

Dan runs to catch up. “You think it’s already here?”

“I think it’s spreading even faster than I thought,” William says, stopping in front of the door. “Number 202, it’s here.”

They open the door and step inside.

William runs his finger down the list of names. “Jensen … Abrahamsen … there, Møller! Sebastian Møller. That’s him. Second floor.”

“Great,” Dan says, darting another look out at the street through the window in the front door. It’s completely empty, both of cars and pedestrians. The whole town seems eerily quiet. Maybe it’s because of the curfew, but he gets the sense that everything is holding its breath, waiting for something bad to happen.

William’s car is parked across the street. In the passenger-side windows Dan can see his dad’s face looking out at him. He insisted on coming along, but Dan convinced him it was smarter that only the two fastest of them went out. Even with his still aching ankle, Dan knows he can outrun his dad, who hasn’t done any sports since high school. But it wasn’t until William told him they were bringing Ozzy, that Dan’s father finally consented to staying in the car with Dorte, Nasira and Ali.

“You comin’?”

Dan realizes William is already going up the stairs, and he hurries after him. They stop by the door on second floor.

“It’s here,” William says. “Let’s just hope he’s home.”

He knocks on the door. They wait for half a minute. Then, someone comes to the door, unlocking it.

A tall guy with black hair—who looks like he was recently sleeping—looks out at them. “What can I help you gentlemen with?”

“Sebastian, right?” William asks. “You’re a pilot?”

The guy frowns. “I’m sorry, who are you?”

“My name’s William. I’m a friend of your brother’s. Can we please come in?”

Soon as his brother is mentioned, something changes on the guy’s face. He steps aside and gestures for them to come in. Then he closes the door behind them.

“You okay with the dog?” William asks. “He’s very well trained.”

“I can tell,” Sebastian says.

Dan looks around the entrance; it bears the signs of a single guy not spending much time at home, the interior is very sparse and unpersonal, save for the occasional kid’s drawing on the wall.

Dan didn’t realize Sebastian was old enough to have kids. As though the thought has caused her to appear, a girl at around ten years of age steps out from the living room, holding what looks like a glass of ice tea.

“Who are you?” she asks, sipping the glass.

“We’re friends of your uncle,” William says, smiling at her. “And that drink looks really good. Do you happen to have another?”

“Sure, I’ll make you one,” the girl says, surprisingly unshy. She looks at Dan. “You want one, too?”

“I would love one.”

“What about the dog?”

“He prefers water, thank you,” William says.

The girl nods, then walks to the kitchen.

Sebastian gestures towards the living room. “Come in and sit down.”

They each take a seat at the dinner table. Ozzy walks around the table once, patrolling the surroundings, then, finding nothing to cause alarm, sits down besides William’s chair.

“I was prepared for bad news,” Sebastian says, folding his hands. “But I wasn’t prepared for two civilians and a dog to break it to me.”

“It’s kind of a long story,” William says. “Well, actually, I can make it very brief.” He takes a breath, then glances towards the kitchen before he looks Sebastian in the eye and says in a low voice: “Janus is dead.”

Dan watches the news sink in on Sebastian’s face. Besides from a few tics at the mouth, he takes it incredibly cool. Even though Dan has just met him, Sebastian already strikes him as a guy with amazing levels of self-control.

“How did it happen?” he asks in a calm voice. “Please skip out any details in case my daughter hears you.”

“It was the infected people,” William says gravely. “They got him when he tried to save his girlfriend.”

Sebastian just looks at him, as though expecting something more, so William goes on.

“She was inside a grocery store. He went inside to get her out, even though he didn’t have to. He was very brave.”

Still, Sebastian doesn’t react or say anything.

“I … I, uhm, was there with him,” William says, hesitation sneaking into his voice. “I should have gone with him to help, but …” He shrugs. “Guess I’m a coward.”

Sebastian nods, not so much to show agreement with that last statement so as to acknowledge what William just told him.

“Where did this happen?”

“In Viborg.”

“Okay, so … why are you here? I’m flattered to think you came all this way just to tell me, but I’m guessing that’s not the whole story.”

Sebastian’s daughter comes into the living room, carrying two tall glasses of iced tea. Dan licks his lips at the sight of the brown liquid.

“Thank you,” he smiles at the girl, taking the glass. It’s all he can do to down it all in one go. It tastes wonderful.

The girl gets a bowl of water and puts it in front of Ozzy.

William gulps down his drink, wipes his mouth and then looks at Sebastian. “We want you to fly us out of the country.”

Sebastian raises one eyebrow. “I’m sure you’ve heard about the borders being closed down? That goes for any air traffic as well.”

“We know, but we need to get out of the country before it’s too late. And we thought flying was our best chance.”

Sebastian leans forward. “Before it’s too late? What does that mean, exactly? What are you expecting to happen?”

William glances at the girl, who’s taken a seat next to her father. “Thank you for that lovely drink. Could I ask you another favor and let us talk with your dad alone for five minutes?”

The girl looks at her father with a do-I-have-to-expression.

Sebastian nods. “Please put your headphones on, sweetheart.”

The girl gets up and goes to the couch at the other end of the room. She picks up an iPad and connects a set of earmuffs to it.

“Okay, listen,” William says, talking fast now. “This thing with the infection—it might well become the end of society as we know it. Those things you see on the news, waddling around in the streets? That’s not people anymore. It’s zombies. Both me and Dan have seen it happen firsthand; someone getting bit, then dying, then coming back to life. Whatever the authorities are calling it, they’re wrong. However they’re dealing with it, they won’t succeed.” William places a finger on the table. “Our last and only hope is getting as far away from here as quickly as possible. For every hour we waste, it’ll only get more difficult. If you love your daughter over there, and if you don’t want her to end up like your brother, then you need to get out of the country.”

Sebastian is quiet for several seconds after William stops talking. He looks from William to Dan and back again. Then over at his daughter, who’s listening to music.

Then, finally, he says: “Tell me what you had in mind.”

William breaks into a wide grin. “I knew you’d get it. I knew you’d go along.”

“I didn’t say I would,” Sebastian points out, still very calm. “I just want to know what your plans are, exactly. How do you picture this going down, provided I agree to do it?”

William holds up a hand. “Wait, there’re a couple more of us waiting in the car. I think it’s best they join us for this—don’t you?”

TWENTY-SIX

Dennis climbs down the ladder very carefully. It’s difficult because his legs are shaking and his palms are sweaty.

He reaches the tunnel and looks back up. Silas is crouched by the opening, pointing the rifle down at Dennis.

“Right, now, move back a little, Dennis. Three steps.”

Dennis obeys.

“Perfect. Stay there.”

Silas climbs down the hatch, using only one hand, the other one holds the rifle aimed at Dennis.

He jumps the last few rungs and lands in front of Dennis, looking around. “Damn … Holger really did a cool job of this. Okay, keep going.”

Dennis walks back through the tunnel. He can hear Silas’s footsteps right behind him.

They reach the steps leading up to the bathroom. The secret wall-door has almost closed itself, only a thin slice of light is coming down.

“Dennis?” Mom’s voice from upstairs. “Dennis, where are you?”

Dennis is about to answer out of pure instinct, when a hand grabs his shoulder hard.

“Don’t say anything,” Silas whispers. “Just go up there and open the door slowly.”

Dennis holds his breath as Silas lets go of him, and he begins the ascent. As he reaches the door, he pushes it open very slowly, revealing the bathroom.

He doesn’t have the nerve to look back, but he senses Silas being right behind him.

“Dennis?” Mom calls again, sounding like she’s in the kitchen. “For heaven’s sake, where are you, boy?”

“You can answer her,” Silas whispers in Dennis’s ear. “Tell her you’re in the bathroom.”

Dennis opens his mouth, and for a few seconds, he’s completely forgotten how to talk. Then, the words come to him.

“I’m … I’m in the bathroom, Mom!”

“Perfect,” Silas whispers. “Just stay right where you are, Dennis. And don’t say anything else. I’ll take it from here.”

A very long, nerve-racking moment passes by in tense silence, before Dennis hears Mom’s steps coming this way, and she appears in the doorway. Her eyes fall on him immediately, a trace of annoyance on her face.

“Darn it, where were you? I’ve been calling for five minutes. There’s a car parked up the driveway, we need to—” Mom interrupts herself as she notices the open wall-door behind Dennis. “What’s that?”

“Hello again, missy,” Silas says, popping his head out from behind Dennis’s shoulder. “I’ve got a Winchester pointed at your son’s spine, so please remain calm.”

A flutter of surprise flies across Mom’s face, and Dennis notices her right hand going for the belt before she can help it.

“Ah-ah!” Silas says loudly. “Hands off that shiny thing. I know you used it on Holger, but you’re not doing it on me.”

Mom takes her hand away from the dagger very slowly, staring at Silas with burning eyes. “What do you want?”

“The same thing we wanted last night. A little chat and a safe place to stay.”

“We’re not interested in—”

“Shut the fuck up!” Silas bellows, causing Dennis to jump in surprise—both because of the sudden change in his voice from almost giddy to hateful, but also because no one talks to Mom that way. “You don’t call the shots anymore, lady,” he growls. “And you’d better get used to that real fast. You do as I say from now on. And I don’t want to hear from you unless I ask you a question. Got that?”

Mom stares at Silas for a few seconds. Then she nods, once.

“Perfect,” Silas says, the lighter tone returning to his voice. “Glad we got that out of the way. Now, before we go out to invite my brother inside, I need to know if anyone else is in the house?”

Mom shakes her head.

“Are you sure about that? If I walk to the front door with Dennis here, I’m not going to be surprised by anyone, am I? ’Cause if I am, I’m afraid I might get scared and blow out your son’s liver. None of us would want that, would we?”

Mom keeps completely still, as she says: “No one else is here.”

“Okay, I believe you. But just in case, I’m bringing Dennis. And you’ll lead the way. Please leave the knife here. Put it on the floor. Slowly.”

Dennis and Silas both watch as Mom takes the knife, kneels down and places it on the floor.

“Good job … uhm. Sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”

“My name is Birgit,” Mom says with an icy calm.

“Nice to meet you face-to-face, Birgit. I’m Silas, and my brother’s name is Jonas.”

A car honks outside.

“Speak of the devil!” Silas grins. “Let’s go greet him.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

“I just don’t see what the problem is,” William says, throwing out his arms. “Of course we can steal a plane; people do it all the time.”

Everyone else around the table looks at him with expressions ranging from mild skepticism to outright disbelief. The rest of the group have joined them and are now taking up every one of Sebastian’s dining room chairs.

Sebastian’s daughter has joined them and is sitting on her father’s lap. Sebastian briefly told her what their guests wanted, and she has been following the conversation with quiet amazement.

Sebastian shakes his head. “I’m telling you, there’s no way. It doesn’t work like in the movies. We can’t just Jack Bauer our way into a locked-down airport, steal a plane and take off without anyone noticing.”

“Okay,” William says. “Take me through it, then. What would you need for it to work? A key?”

“If it’s an old plane, yeah. If it’s a newer one, you’d need an electronic card.”

“What else?”

“What else what?”

“What else do you need to get the plane started? Is there any kind of password or finger scanner or …? I don’t know, anything?”

“No, there’s only the card. As long as there’s fuel in the tank, you could theoretically take off.”

“And how do you get that card?”

“You get it by being a pilot who has access to that particular plane.”

“So, you have a card for the plane you normally fly?”

“I have seven.”

William claps his hands together. “Well, that’s perfect! What are we waiting for, then? Let’s go get the nearest one!”

Sebastian scuffs. “You still don’t get it, buddy. It’s really not that simple. It’s not like a car parked out back. Those planes are inside locked hangars. Well, most of them are, a couple of them are probably parked outside, but—”

“Then we take one of those outside!” William interrupts, throwing out his hands again.

“But,” Sebastian goes on, “like I was trying to tell you, the airfields are being surveyed by cameras. There are round-the-clock guards. We probably wouldn’t be able to even enter the airfield without them knowing.”

“Can’t we just outrun them? I mean, it’s not like they have guns or anything, right?”

“No, they aren’t armed, but …”

“So what can they do? If we just rush in there, get in the plane and take off? Is there any way for them to stop us?”

Sebastian blinks, as though this scenario is so far out, he hasn’t even considered it. “I guess not. But they’ll report us right away.”

“To whom? The police? I think they’re plenty busy already, with all the dead folks eating people and all. One stolen plane probably won’t cause too much concern right now.”

Sebastian folds his arms, looking at William. “You really think we can do this, do you?”

“I can’t see why not.”

“Well, how about once we get in the air? How do you suggest we avoid being forced down again and put in jail?”

“Can’t we just fly straight out of the country? Like, out over the ocean?”

“There’s at least forty miles to the nearest sea from any airfields I have access to, and that’s plenty of time for the military to pick us up on the radar.”

“Okay, then we fly under the radar! Isn’t that where the expression comes from?”

Sebastian shakes his head. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am! I saw a documentary from World War II, and they said the pilots could fly low enough that the enemy’s radar couldn’t pick them up. What was it—below a thousand feet or something?”

“More like three hundred. We’d basically be flying in between rooftops.”

“But it’s possible?”

Sebastian scuffs again. “Jesus, man … yes, it’s possible, but so is surviving being shot—would you run the chance?”

“We’ll just avoid flying over any major cities,” William says. “It’s not dangerous crossing the open landscape, is it?”

“Not if you aren’t worried about stuff like trees and telephone poles, not to mention hills. And by the time we got flying—supposing we disregard any logic and actually go through with this—it’d be dark once we got airborne. The chances of crashing into something are way too high.”

“Couldn’t we just—”

“How about a helicopter?”

The question comes from a completely unexpected angle, spoken in an unfamiliar voice.

Dan turns around on his chair to see a boy only a few years older than himself staring at them from the doorway.

“I thought you said you were only six people in the group,” Sebastian remarks, addressing William.

“I did,” William says, looking at the boy. “Who the hell are you?”

“My name’s Eli,” the boy says.

“Wait, he’s not with you?” Sebastian puts down his daughter and gets to his feet. “How the hell did you come in?”

“Dad, language,” his daughter remarks, but Sebastian doesn’t seem to hear her.

“The door wasn’t locked,” the boy says, looking pretty uncomfortable, like he’d rather not be here.

“Jesus, will you get the hell out of my home?” Sebastian strides around the table.

“Wait!” the boy says, holding out his hands. “Wait, I know where there’s a helicopter we can take!”

Sebastian hesitates.

William gets up from the table, too. “Where is it?”

The boy shakes his head. “I’m only telling if you’ll bring me along.”

“Wait a minute,” Dan hears himself say, as something suddenly dawns on him. “I saw you in the car, the white Mercedes … out on the freeway.”

The boy looks at him with bemusement, but says nothing.

“Why the fuck would we believe you just happened to come upon a helicopter?” William asks.

“I saw it land,” the boy persists. “Just outside town. While I was driving here. I came to visit a friend of mine, Claus. He lives upstairs, but … he’s not home. And then you guys came …” He points at Dan and William. “And I heard some of what you said, so I … I listened through the mail slot.”

“Jesus,” Sebastian mutters. “The nerve on this kid.”

“A helicopter,” William says thoughtfully. “Why hadn’t I thought of that?” He turns to Sebastian, a look of elation on his face. “A helicopter would be better, wouldn’t it? It’s easier to fly low in a helicopter.”

“It is,” Sebastian agrees, still eyeing Eli.

“So, we wouldn’t have any of the problems if we flew in a helicopter?”

“None.”

“Well, that’s perfect, then! You can fly a helicopter, right? A helicopter must be easy compared to a plane.”

“It’s oranges and apples,” Sebastian says, shaking his head. “You’d need a separate education to fly a helicopter.”

“Oh, fuck,” William mutters.

A few seconds of silence.

Then, Sebastian goes on: “Luckily, I do have that education.”

William lights up. He smiles and points at Sebastian. “Oh, you got me!”

Sebastian doesn’t smile back. He looks at Eli. “What kind of helicopter was it? And where did you see it?”

Eli shrugs. “It was on a field, just off the highway. It landed right as I went by. It was one of those medical helicopters.”

William looks at Sebastian, smiling. “Tell me this isn’t a stroke of fate.”

Sebastian looks back at him, his face set in stone. “I don’t believe in fate.” He takes a breath through his nose, then he says: “But I’m willing to at least go take a look.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

“Please take a seat.”

Silas casually points the rifle at the couch, then slings it back over his shoulder.

Now that his brother—Jonas—joined them in the house, Silas seems a lot less tense, and he doesn’t keep the gun aimed at them all the time.

“That’s not a friendly invitation,” Silas says, when neither Dennis nor his mom react right away. “Sit down.”

Dennis willingly sits down on the couch, and Mom follows his example, placing herself calmly next to him. Dennis reaches for her hand, and Mom lets him take it. He’s surprised to find it cool and dry and steady, unlike his own, which is clammy and shaky.

“All right,” Jonas says, pulling out a chair and tipping the pile of books placed on it to the floor. He sits down and crosses his arms. “Let’s work out how this is going to fly.”

“What is ‘this’ exactly?” Mom asks.

“All of us living together. You could call it a commune.”

Silas puts the rifle on the table and leans his elbows next to it, looking at Mom. “Only without the orgies, of course. I mean … unless you want to.” He grins, and Dennis isn’t quite sure why, but he’s pretty sure Silas just made a dirty joke.

Mom doesn’t reply, and Jonas doesn’t smile, either.

“It’ll only be the four of us for now,” he goes on. “But tomorrow or the day after, a few more people will join us. It’s our mom, her new husband and his son. Also, my girlfriend will join us later on. She can’t leave her house right now, but we’ll figure out a way to get her here.”

“That’s eight people,” Mom says, shaking her head slowly. “That’s too many.”

“You’re right, I think six is a much better number,” Silas says, staring at Mom. “Much more sustainable.”

“You’re welcome to leave if you want,” Jonas says. “You’re not our prisoners. But I suspect you prefer to stay?”

Dennis looks at Mom.

Mom shrugs. “We would have nowhere else safe to go. We wouldn’t make it till sundown.”

The thought makes Dennis shudder.

“Right, then we need to make it work,” Jonas says. “And I’m sure we can.”

“Yeah, no problem,” Silas says with a sneer. “You see, unlike you, we don’t kill other people to get their hideout. We want to share, like good boys. By the way, how did you do it? I mean, how did you get in here?”

“I think that’s beside the point for now, Silas,” Jonas begins.

“No, it’s very important,” Silas persists, not taking his eyes off Mom. “I want to know how this sneaky bitch got past Holger’s security. Coming up with my own approach wasn’t exactly easy, but I knew it could be done. So, let us in on the secret, Mommy.”

Mom is quiet for a second or two, as both brothers watch her closely. Then, she begins to talk. She tells them about the secret hatch in the courtyard.

“So, it was just as much dumb luck as strategic planning,” Silas concludes. “You just happened to see them leave.”

Mom doesn’t answer.

“Is the hatch locked from the inside now?” Jonas asks. “I mean, can anyone else get in that way?”

Mom looks at him, then shakes her head once.

“And do you know of any other ways anyone creative enough might find their way in here?”

“No.”

“We’d better check around to make sure we don’t get any surprises,” Silas interjects. “How about weapons? Did Holger have anything to defend this place with?”

Mom hesitates for a moment, then she says: “There are quite a few weapons down in the bunker.”

The brothers exchange a look.

“What kind of weapons?” Jonas asks, addressing Mom.

“Firearms. Knives. Explosives.”

“Holy shit,” Silas whispers, grinning at his brother. “We hit the jackpot!”

“I’m not sure you can get to them, though,” Mom goes on. “They’re locked in a metal cabinet. I have no idea where the keys are.”

“You sure?” Silas asks, eyeing Mom up and down. “You sure you don’t know where the keys are? If I frisk you, will I find them?”

Mom holds his gaze firmly, as she says: “You won’t find anything.”

“We’ll check that out, too,” Jonas says. “But first, we’ll need to make some ground rules, to make sure we can coexist in harmony.”

It sounds like he’s about to go on, but Silas jumps in, clapping his palms together, causing Dennis to jump.

“Right! Now, my biggest problem is the fact that you already killed one guy who you didn’t want to hang around …” Silas points to Mom. “And, honestly, I’m getting a kind of psycho-vibe from you.”

“Silas,” Jonas begins.

“No, I’m sorry,” Silas says, shaking his head adamantly. “We know absolutely nothing about her or what she’s capable of, and given the circumstances, I just don’t feel I can trust her. You got anything to say to convince me otherwise, Birgit?”

Dennis looks to Mom, and Mom looks coldly back at Silas.

“I didn’t kill Holger because I didn’t want him here,” she says, looking from Silas to Jonas and back. “I didn’t do it in cold blood, if that’s what you think. I did it because he threatened to make us leave.”

Silas raises one eyebrow. “Oh, really? He threatened to make you leave after you forced your way into his home?”

“Tell us what happened,” Jonas says, and it sounds more like a request than a demand.

Dennis already likes Jonas a lot better than Silas. The brothers look an awful lot alike, yet Jonas seems to be a little older, his demeanor is more calm, and he doesn’t make that eerie grinning face all the time. Also, he doesn’t act nearly as hostile towards Mom as his brother.

Silas, on the other hand, reminds Dennis of a toy he had when he was small. It was a hard plastic ball full of holes in which you could load a full water balloon. Then you press a button and a hidden timer would start inside the ball, counting down until a nail would puncture the balloon. You then had to throw the ball back and forth, and whoever was unlucky enough to hold it once the timer ran out would get soaked in water.

Dennis never liked that game, and he never played it much—he didn’t have many friends to play with, either, but that wasn’t why he didn’t like the game—it was the unpredictability of the ball. You knew the risk, but you never knew when it would come.

Silas is like that ball.

And the button has already been pushed. The timer is ticking.

“It’s true that we made our way in here without Holger’s consent,” Mom begins, talking in a low, steady voice. “But all we wanted was security. We were forced to leave our own home when the dead arrived. We crashed our car a mile from here, and we just barely made it on foot. We only wanted to stay here for a few days, until the situation got better. And Holger seemed okay with it at first, but either he was lying, or he changed his mind, because suddenly, he held a gun to my son. The dead were still outside, but Holger didn’t care; he told us to leave, or he’d kill us.” Mom shakes her head almost imperceptibly, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Holger was mentally ill, and the situation must have fueled his paranoia. I regret what I had to do, but he left me no choice.”

A moment of silence in the living room as Mom stops talking and looks down at her hands.

Dennis notices the brothers exchange another look.

“That makes sense,” Jonas says, shrugging. “We saw a crashed car up the road. And we knew Holger was kind of nuts.”

“Yeah, but something’s still bugging me about it,” Silas says, eyeing Mom. “I just can’t quite place it.” Then, suddenly, he looks at Dennis. “Is your mama telling the truth, Dennis? The whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help her God?”

Dennis opens his mouth, but he can’t get a word out. So, he just nods emphatically.

“Please leave my son out of it,” Mom says with a sudden firmness.

“What’s the deal with him, anyway?” Silas asks. “I don’t mean to be rude, but is he, like, autistic or something?”

“I had a brain fever when I was little,” Dennis blurts out, surprising himself.

Silas nods. “I see. Sorry about that, kid. Good thing you got yourself a right old tiger mom, huh?” He looks back at Mom, grinning once more.

Mom doesn’t answer.

“Silas,” Jonas says, getting up. “Let’s talk in the kitchen. You two stay right here.”

Silas gets up and brings his rifle. The brothers leave the living room, but they stay within eyesight of Mom and Dennis. Then they begin deliberating in hushed voices, Silas pointing towards the living room now and then.

Dennis glances sideways at Mom, almost afraid to turn his head. “Mom?” he croaks.

“Sssh,” she hushes. “It’s okay, Dennis. Just let me handle this. I promise you it’ll be okay.”

Dennis wants to trust her, he really does, but the situation makes him very nervous.

The brothers keep talking for several minutes. Once in a while, Dennis catches a word. Silas seems to turn a little agitated at times, but Jonas talks him back down.

Finally, after almost ten minutes, they come back into the living room.

“Right, here’s how we’re going to do things,” Silas says. “Since me and my dear brother here can’t seem to reach an agreement about whether to show you guys the benefit of the doubt or not, we’ve decided to err on the side of caution. You’ll both get to stay here, but we’re keeping you locked up for now.” He points at Mom. “You’ll get a room downstairs all to yourself. That way, no one will get hurt.”

“This is a temporary solution,” Jonas adds. “If things go smoothly, we’ll be able to let you out.”

“What does that mean, exactly?” Mom asks, talking slowly and deliberately. “’Go smoothly’?”

“We just need to get to know you guys better, that’s all,” Jonas says. “Until then, it’s better for all of us not to take any chances.”

Dennis looks from Jonas to Mom, waiting for Mom to say something, to protest, but she just stares back at Jonas.

The way he said it, it almost sounded reasonable. But the thought of them keeping Mom locked up like a prisoner makes Dennis’s throat all tight.

“What about me then?” he blurts out.

Both Silas and Jonas look at him.

“That depends,” Silas says. “If you act like a good boy and behave yourself, then we’ve got no problem and you can do pretty much what you want.”

“We could use a couple of hands,” Jonas tells him. “We need to prepare this place for when our family arrives.”

“But—” Dennis begins.

Mom cuts him off by turning her head and looking at him. “You can do that, Dennis. You can help them out.”

Dennis frowns. “But, Mom, what about you?”

“I’ll be fine. You heard what they said. It’s just for a few days.”

“A few days, a few weeks,” Silas says, bopping his hand. “We’ll have to see how it goes.”

Mom doesn’t take her eyes off Dennis. It’s like she’s trying to tell him something without words. “That sounds fair, doesn’t it, Dennis?”

Dennis isn’t sure what the right thing to say is. He feels the brothers watching him closely. So, he just nods quickly.

“Great,” Silas says, clapping his hands together, then picking up the rifle. “Let’s all go downstairs and get you checked in.”

TWENTY-NINE

It’s around dinnertime when Christine begins to feel that something is really wrong.

They’ve been on the boat all day, trying to kill time by playing cards with Mommy. Daddy has kept mostly to himself, helping Uncle Kent whenever he needed it.

Anton wanted to play games on his phone, but Mommy and Daddy took it and said he couldn’t get it back just now. When Anton asked why, Daddy just muttered something about keeping low—Christine didn’t know what that meant.

Christine has been dozing off a couple of times; the low rumble from the boat’s engine is very soothing.

But each time she would awaken with a jerk, sit up abruptly and look around. Each time, Mommy would be there, assuring her that everything was okay.

Still, Christine didn’t feel okay.

She couldn’t shake the image of the old lady right before she plummeted into the water. Or Anton muttering: “She came for me.”

The cabin has only two small windows, both seated in the ceiling, showing a cutout of the sky. Christine would look up now and then to see it change color as the day wore on. Now and then, a seagull or a white cloud drifted by, but mostly, it was just blue sky.

They ate dinner in the cabin. Uncle Kent even joined them. He looked at Christine and Anton only briefly, sending them vague smiles and asking about school.

He didn’t care about the answers, though. Christine could tell his mind was somewhere else.

Then, just as she had noticed the sky turning darker, Christine feels the atmosphere change.

It begins as Uncle Kent comes down into the cabin. He looks at Daddy, who is lying on his bed, his hand resting over his eyes.

“Steffen?” Kent says. “You awake?”

“Huh?” Daddy mutters, looking around. As he saw Kent, he immediately sat up. “What’s wrong?”

“I think we’ve got a problem.”

Christine immediately feels fear in her stomach. She looks to Anton, who looks to Mommy, who looks at Daddy, who looks at Kent.

“What is it?” Daddy whispers.

“Please come up with me.”

Kent turns and leaves and Daddy gets up to follow him.

“Honey?” Mommy says.

“I’ll be right back,” Daddy says and closes the door behind him.

“What’s wrong?” Anton asks Mommy.

“I don’t know. Probably nothing.”

“Is it something with the boat?”

“No, I’m sure everything’s fine.”

“It’s not fine! Kent just said he thinks we have a problem! Stop lying to me, Mom.”

As Mom and Anton begin bickering, Christine uses the opportunity to move to the farthest end of the cabin. She sits down on the bed closest to the rear end of the boat and leans back.

Just overhead, there’s a small tube sticking out from the ceiling. Through it, she can feel a slight breeze of fresh air. She noticed it earlier, but she didn’t tell anyone else about it. Listening intently, she can just make out Daddy and Uncle Kent talking.

“… still pulling right …”

“… how come?”

“… thought it was something to do with one of the propellers, but everything looks fine …”

“… then what?”

“… noticed the rope … you see it?”

“… see what?”

There’s a pause in the conversation. Mom and Anton are still arguing. Christine can tell from their voices they’re both scared. She can’t blame them; her own heart is racing. She concentrates firmly on listening to the tube.

For half a minute or so, there’s nothing.

Then, Daddy’s voice: “Holy shit … been dragging her along all the way?”

“… looks like it …”

“… that even possible? I mean, she should’ve drowned by now …”

“… no idea …”

“… can’t we just cut it loose?”

“… no use … completely tangled up in the rudder …”

“… then what?”

“… don’t know … keep going, I guess … hope for the best …”

The conversation seems to be over.

So does the one Mommy and Anton were having; Anton is sitting with his back turned and arms crossed, Mommy is staring down at the floor.

Christine moves discretely away from the tube in the ceiling.

A minute later, Daddy comes back down. He smiles at them, and if Christine hadn’t heard him talking to Uncle Kent, the smile would’ve looked convincing.

“What was wrong?” Mommy asks.

“Nothing,” Daddy says. “Kent just thought he saw another boat coming this way, but it turned out to be nothing. Just the light reflecting on the waves, I guess.”

Both Mommy and Anton look as though they accept what Daddy just said. The atmosphere turns a little less tense.

“How long before we reach England, Daddy?” Anton asks.

“Oh, just a few more hours. We should probably try and get some rest while we can, right?”

Daddy lies back down, places his hand across his eyes again and apparently goes back to sleep.

But Christine can tell he isn’t sleeping. He’s just lying there, thinking.

She tries to make sense of what she heard him talk with Uncle Kent about. Something about something being dragged along. What could that be?

Then, Christine’s ears pick up another sound. One that cuts through the rumble of the engine. It’s very low and she can only hear it because it’s very close.

She turns her head to look at the wall.

Something is scraping on the other side. Which is very odd, because the outside of the wall is underwater.

And, even more odd, it sounds almost like fingernails.

THIRTY

“Thank God for McD, huh?”

William wolfs down half a cheeseburger, then looks around the car at the rest of them, talking with his mouth full.

“I mean, even when the world’s ending, they’re determined to stay open and serve crappy food.”

Dan can’t help but smile. They’re once again packed into William’s car, but this time with the added passenger Eli, who’s sitting in the trunk next to Ozzy.

They just came out of a McDonald’s drive-thru, and all of them have a brown paper bag. William and Ali are the only ones who seem to have an appetite, both of them digging into their burgers with gusto.

Dan’s father is looking down at his bag, as though hoping to find something down there which might actually be appetizing.

Dorte is just gazing out the window, like she didn’t even notice the paper bag on her lap.

Eli is carefully picking out the pickles from his burger and offering them to Ozzy who swallows them eagerly.

Nasira is eating fries with her usual calmness, taking out one at a time, looking at it, then putting it in her mouth.

Dan has gotten used to her almost eerie calmness by now. At first, he thought it was some sort of coping mechanism; that Nasira was really panicking on the inside but showing a brave face for her younger brother. But she really does seem at peace. In fact, she seems like the only one who’s genuinely okay with the situation.

Dan doesn’t feel particularly hungry himself, even though he hasn’t eaten anything for … how long is it? He can’t even remember.

So, he decides to at least give it a try. He takes out the burger and unwraps it. The smell of it is enough for his stomach to curl up.

The first bite is more of nibble, and it goes down like clay.

The second tastes a little better.

The third follows quickly.

And before he knows it, he’s licking the empty paper, reaching for the second burger.

Five minutes later, he’s leaning back with a heavy sigh, slurping up the last of the milkshake, the empty bag crumbled up by his feet. His stomach looks like he just ate a couple of cannonballs, and it feels great.

“It’s reached Germany,” Dan’s father says, breaking the silence. “So much for the border blockades, huh?”

Dan realizes the radio is going, a female voice telling about infected people having penetrated the border despite the best effort from the German military.

“… several affected individuals showing up all over northern Germany, including Hamburg …”

“Shit,” William mutters. “Hamburg, that’s a pretty fucking big city, isn’t it?”

“Close to two million,” Henrik says, reaching over and turning off the radio.

“All right, Eli,” William says, sipping from his Coke, then burping loudly. “Let’s change the subject. Where exactly did you see the helicopter?”

“Uhm … it was right outside the city limit, I guess,” Eli mutters from the trunk.

“Huh?” William asks.

“Right outside the city,” Dan says.

They drive on for another ten minutes. Dan is close to dozing off a couple of times. He notices William keep checking the rearview mirror to make sure Sebastian is still behind them.

They exit the city and meet a couple of cars parked or crashed by the side of the road. They all notice, but none of them comment.

“We just passed the city limit,” William remarks.

“Okay, then slow down,” Eli says. “It was around here someplace. I think.”

“You don’t sound very convinced,” William says, but lets off the gas anyway.

Dan looks out. The area is flat, desolate, not much else than heather and small spruce trees growing here.

“What side of the road?” William asks.

“I … I’m not sure.”

William sighs.

“Okay,” Dan’s father says. “Everyone please keep an eye out.”

They drive on in silence for another couple of miles. Then suddenly, Ali says: “There!”

Dan looks at the boy pointing eagerly. This part of the moor is more heavily packed with trees. About fifty yards from the road he sees the bright yellow of the medical helicopter, halfway hidden between the trees.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Eli says. “That’s the one.”

William pulls over and parks the car. Dan looks back and sees Sebastian pulling up behind them.

“It looks abandoned,” Henrik remarks. “What’s the plan? Do we go and check?”

“I think we need to make sure no one else is around first,” William says, scanning the surroundings. “Dan, are you up for another excursion?”

“Sure. What do you want me to do?”

“We go out and split up and check the area around the helicopter.”

“What are we checking for?” Dan asks. “Zombies?”

“Anything, really. I just don’t want any surprises. Seems unlikely no one noticed a helicopter sitting out here in the middle of nowhere.”

“Well, it’s actually hard to see from the road,” Henrik remarks.

“I know, but better safe than sorry. You coming, Dan?”

“I could join you,” Dorte offers.

“I think it’s better only two of us go,” William says. “The more people, the more attention we draw if anything is out there.”

He opens the door and gets out. Dan follows his example, and William opens the trunk, letting out Ozzy.

Sebastian gets out of his car and lights up a cigarette.

Dan can hear the girl—Lærke—gasp with indignation from inside the car. “Daddy! You told me you stopped smoking!”

“Sorry, sweetie,” he says, inhaling deeply. “Today doesn’t count, okay?”

She crosses her arms. “I’m telling Mom.”

William gestures to Sebastian. “We’re going to check the area. You okay with staying here?”

Sebastian blows out smoke, coughs briefly, then nods. “Sure. I’ll keep an eye on the road.”

Dan and William split up and go in different directions. Dan walks slowly, looking all around, listening intently for any sounds. It’s already past suppertime and the trees cast long, cool shadows. Birds are singing somewhere, and a bee buzzes by lazily.

He soon loses sight of William and Ozzy and the cars too, as he walks in a broad circle around the helicopter. As he reaches the other side, the trees suddenly stop and offer him a wide view. The moor stretches out for as long as he can see. There are no people in sight, living or dead.

He turns to head back when he hears it.

A moan and a scraping of nails on metal.

Dan’s heart speeds up as he slips past the nearest trees to get a view of the helicopter.

An old, heavyset lady is groping the side of the helicopter, waddling back and forth. Next to her is a taller and younger man wearing a torn-open hazmat suit, also fondling the metal. Judging from the trail running around the helicopter, they’ve been at it for quite some time.

“Someone’s alive in there,” Dan whispers to himself.

Then he catches a movement out the corner of his eye and jumps. William steps into view, a finger placed across his lips, Ozzy right by his side.

Dan points. “There’s a woman and a—”

“I’ve seen them. Ozzy smelled them right away. I tried to get a peek in through the windshield, to see what’s inside, but I’m afraid to get too close and draw their attention.”

“Someone’s gotta be alive in there.”

“I know. They’re probably trapped.”

“You think it’s the pilot?”

“Could be. Or maybe sick people on the way to the hospital. We’ll find out once we get the dude and the fat lady out of the way.”

“How do you want to do it?”

William looks towards the helicopter thoughtfully. “I think we might need to kill them.”

Dan swallows. “Why? And how?”

William looks at him, lifting one eyebrow. “Why? Because how else are you going to get inside the helicopter? Ask them to move aside?”

“No, but we could lure them away.”

“They would just come back; we’re probably the only living people within a few miles. And we need at least ten minutes to get everyone inside and start the thing up.”

Dan bites his lip. “Okay, so how? We don’t have any weapons.”

William shakes his head slowly. “No, and that’s starting to look like a serious mistake to me. Come on, let’s get back to the group. We’ll have a general discussion and decide what to do.”

William says it with a hint of sarcasm, but Dan can’t help notice the way he referred to them all as “the group”; that’s the first time any of them has done that. It kind of makes it official. They are now The Group: the people who ended up together and are now trying to survive the end of the world.

THIRTY-ONE

“This is perfect,” Silas says, looking around the tiny bathroom. “We’ll clear out the shelves and drag one of the bunks in here, and you’ll have everything you need.” He sends Mom one of his awful grins. “You don’t even need to leave to use the toilet!”

Mom doesn’t answer, she just looks right past him.

To Dennis, the room looks far from perfect—more like crammed and claustrophobic.

“We’ll bring you meals, of course,” Jonas says, standing behind them. “And if you need anything, you can bang on the door.”

Mom simply nods.

The thought of Mom living in an underground bathroom for several days makes Dennis want to cry. But he recalls the stern look Mom sent him just before they went down here, and he gets a hold of himself. He can’t believe Mom is okay with this, but apparently, she is. At least she wants the brothers to think so.

Maybe she has got an idea. Maybe she figured out a way to get out already.

The thought gives him a tiny hope, but the bathroom has no windows, only a tiny ventilation duct, which is only big enough for an arm to pass through. Also, the door is made of metal and looks impossible to break down. He can’t see how on earth Mom will get out of here.

“Do I at least get to bring my bag?”

“What bag?” Silas asks.

“The one right over there,” Mom says, pointing towards the table where her brown leather bag is lying. “I have my knitting in there.”

Jonas goes over and takes the bag.

“Better check it,” Silas tells him as he returns with it.

Jonas looks from his brother to Mom. “Is there anything in it I need to check for?”

Mom just looks back at him, expressionless. “You won’t find anything more dangerous than a knitting needle.”

“That can be dangerous enough,” Silas says. “I say we keep the bag.”

Jonas opens the bag and gives it a quick look-through. Then, he hands it to Mom.

Silas squints at this brother. “Okay, so you just overrule my objection, or what?”

“She’s not going to kill anyone with a knitting needle. We can’t keep her locked up without anything to do, that’s cruel.”

“Fine,” Silas says, throwing out his arms. “You bring her dinner then. I’m not getting my eye poked out.”

Jonas shakes his head once, then looks at Mom. “She knows not to do anything stupid like that. Right?” Then, Jonas does something strange: he looks at Dennis briefly, then back at Mom, as though adding something to the question which he doesn’t want to put into words. His expression is calm, but Dennis senses something very serious in his eyes.

Whatever it is, Mom seems to get it. At least, she nods in agreement. “I’m not going to do anything else than what you tell me.”

“Good,” Silas says. “We’ll give you time to prove it. Now, get inside.”

Mom steps into the bathroom, and Silas goes to close the door.

“Do we get to hug one last time?” Mom asks. She looks at Dennis, as though the question is for him. He’s surprised at the question, frankly; Mom almost never hugs him.

Silas is about to say something, when Jonas says: “Sure, get it over with.”

Mom reaches out her arms, and Dennis steps inside the bathroom and lets her embrace him. The warmth from her and the feeling of being held is almost enough to make him cry.

“It’s going to be okay,” Mom tells him. “Don’t be scared, okay?”

“Okay, Mom,” Dennis says, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ll be good, I promise. I’ll do what they tell me.”

Behind him, he can hear Jonas and Silas exchange a few words in low voices. It sounds like they’re planning what they need to do in the house.

Dennis is about to break the embrace, but just before he can do that, Mom grabs hold of him and squeezes hard. Then, she places her lips right up against his ear and whispers hoarsely: “Bring me a strand of Silas’s hair.”

Dennis is dumbstruck at the change of tone in Mom’s voice, as the real reason for her wanting a hug all of a sudden is made clear to him.

To cover the fact that she just whispered in his ear, she places a kiss on his cheek, then lets him go. When he looks at her, her expression is completely clean, like nothing had happened.

“Right, you guys done?” Silas says. “Come back out here, Dennis. Time to go to work.”

THIRTY-TWO

“So you see, it’s a good thing we checked,” William concludes, looking around at the others grouped around him at the side of the road. “Would’ve been a nasty surprise if we had just strolled over there.”

“This also means someone’s still in the helicopter,” Dan adds, scratching his arm. “Someone alive. Or else the zombies wouldn’t still be there.”

“Right,” Dan’s father nods. “That was my first thought, too. We need to help whoever is trapped in there.”

“And we do that by getting rid of the guy and the fat lady,” William says. “Which brings us back to the main question at hand: How do we do that? Any bright ideas?”

Everyone looks at one another.

William goes on: “I’ll start, then. The safest way to take them out would probably be with one of the cars. We could draw them out into the road and just ram them.”

“Do we need to kill them?” Dorte interjects, repeating Dan’s question from a few minutes ago. It’s the first time in hours she actually seems engaged in the conversation, Dan notices; her eyes have even regained some of their clarity. “Couldn’t we just secure them in some way?”

“Using what?” William asks, throwing out his arms. “We don’t have anything to tie them up with. And I also think it’d be too big of a risk to run. I don’t want any of us getting closer to them than necessary.”

“I get that,” Dorte says. “It just seems a little … brutal.”

“Let’s not forget they’re already dead,” Dan says.

Dorte looks at him, then lowers her gaze. “You’re right. Guess I need to stop thinking like a doctor.”

“Please don’t,” William says, sending her a smile. “Having a doctor around will no doubt prove useful. Just not when we’re dealing with dead suckers.”

Dorte returns his smile vaguely before looking down again.

William puts his palms together and looks around at everyone. “So, no one’s got a better idea than Operation Roadkill? Because if not, I call dibs on driving. I don’t want to brag, but me and Ms. Honda over there have already taken out half a dozen dead ones. Hence the bruised fender.”

“I think it’s a decent plan,” Sebastian chimes in. He’s sitting on the hood of his own car with Lærke on his knee. “How do we lure them out here, then? Do we just call to them?”

“That probably wouldn’t do it,” Dan says. “I don’t think they navigate by hearing—or any other of the usual senses, really. The only thing that’ll get them away from there is another prey coming closer than the one they can feel inside the helicopter.”

“Which means,” William jumps in, “we need someone to act as bait.”

Everyone is silent.

“I’d do it myself,” William goes on, “but if I’ll be driving the car, I can’t.”

Dan takes a deep breath. “I’ll do it.”

“No, I’ll do it,” his father cuts in immediately. “You’ve been in enough danger.”

“So have you,” Dan argues. “And it needs to be someone fast.”

His father is about to retort when Dorte interjects firmly: “I’m fast. I’ll do it.”

William looks at her. “You sure?”

“Positive.”

“Okay, because I mean—”

“I’m the only one here who doesn’t have anyone to lose,” Dorte says, staring at William. “End of discussion.”

Dan looks around and realizes she’s almost right—if you count Ozzy and William as a pair—the only exception being Eli, who’s keeping conveniently out of sight by standing a little away and looking at the ground.

William nods. “All right. We have our volunteer. Now, the rest of you should probably go a few hundred yards down road, just to be sure you’re not getting in harm’s way.”

“Hold on a minute,” Sebastian says, putting down his daughter and getting to his feet. “Someone’s coming.”

Dan follows his gaze and sees a big, green, dust-covered SUV coming this way. It slows down and stops by the roadside.

“Looks like they want to talk,” William mutters and steps a little closer as the SUV’s driver side door opens.

A tall, skinny, bald guy in his thirties gets out. He’s dressed in faded jeans and a worn-out shirt, and his hands, which look too big for his boney arms, are black from oil.

“Hi there,” William says. “Need help?”

The guy doesn’t answer right away. His eyes—blue and very deep-set—dart around the faces of the group. Then they go towards the helicopter. The guy obviously spots it among the trees, because his expression changes.

“Hello,” Dan’s father calls out, waving at the guy. “What can we do for you?”

The guy looks back at them, and his eyes grow narrow again. Then he finally speaks, revealing a thick local dialect. “We’ve been driving ’round looking for that helicopter ever since we saw it go down.”

“Okay, well, you found it,” William says. “Take a look and then move on.”

Dan winces at the slight confrontational tone in William’s voice. For some reason, he doesn’t think it wise.

The guy obviously picks up on it, too, because his demeanor grows even more hostile. “I’ve got my wife and daughter here with me,” he says in a strange, baited voice. “We’re gonna take that helicopter and leave the country.”

“Oh, really?” William says. “You know how to fly it?”

The guy lifts one boney shoulder. “I figure it can’t be too hard.”

“Well, you figured wrong,” William says. “Unless you’re a pilot and know what you’re doing, you’ll never get it off the ground. So I’m afraid you need to find some other way to leave the country.”

“There’s no other way,” the guy says, shaking his bald head slowly, not taking his eyes off of William. “They’ve closed all the borders and harbors, in case you haven’t heard. Soon as I saw this helicopter go down, I knew it was our last hope.”

“Sorry to burst your bubble,” William says. “But we came first, and we actually got a guy who can fly it.”

“William,” Sebastian whispers from behind. “Shut up.”

“You do?” the guy says, raising his eyebrows. “Who might that be?”

William hesitates.

“He’ll be here any minute,” Dan hears himself say, drawing the guy’s attention. “I’m really sorry. We’d love to take you and your wife and daughter with us, but as you can see, we’re already too many people.”

The guy eyes Dan for a few seconds. Everyone waits for him to say something. When he finally does, he addresses William again. “So, you’ve got a pilot. You got any weapons, too?”

“We do,” William says quickly—a little too quickly, Dan feels.

“Really?” the guy says. “I can’t see none.”

No one seems to know what to say.

Then, the guy reaches into the car. To Dan, it looks like he’s about to turn off the engine. Instead, he produces a large hunting rifle which he places nonchalantly on his arm, pointed in their direction.

The group pulls back. Nasira steps in front of Ali and Sebastian pulls his daughter behind the car.

“Hey, hey, hey,” William says, holding up his hands. “Don’t get excited now.”

Ozzy growls menacingly by his side.

“Could you please put the mutt in the car?” the guy asks, nodding towards Ozzy.

Dan’s father steps forward. “Look. We all know the situation is desperate, but there’s no reason we can’t make this work for everyone.”

“And how you figure we do that?” the guy asks, not lowering the rifle.

“I don’t know, we could maybe—”

“I’ll tell you how,” the guy interrupts. “I’ll take your pilot and the helicopter and we’ll fly the hell away from here. That’s how we’ll make it work. And I told you to get that dog in the car. Or you want me to put him down?”

William glances down at Ozzy and mutters: “Trunk, Ozzy.”

Ozzy leaves his side only hesitantly to slink back to the car and jump up into the open trunk.

“You!” the guy calls out, pointing at Dan. “Close that trunk!”

Dan does as he’s told.

“Hey, we told you, man,” William says. “The pilot isn’t here yet. And once he comes and sees you brandishing that rifle, he’ll turn back around.”

The guy eyes William intently. “So the pilot isn’t here yet?”

William shakes his head.

“When’s he comin’?”

“I couldn’t tell you. We haven’t heard from him lately. Could be hours.”

“You’re lying.”

The guy says it not like an accusation but like a fact. Dan can’t help but jump a little. William, however, is better at keeping up the bluff.

“No, I’m not. Why do you think we were just standing around when you came? This thing wasn’t easy to find, like you said. The pilot’s probably still driving around looking for it.”

The guy looks towards the helicopter, then back at William for a few seconds. Then, his eyes glide across the rest of the group. “Are any of you the pilot?”

Dan can’t see everyone from where he’s standing, and he doesn’t want to look around, but he assumes the rest of the group also shake their heads.

The guy clicks his jaw. “Figured that much. Okay, listen here, folks. Whichever one of you tells me who the pilot is gets to come with me and my family to safety. It’s a limited time offer, so don’t take too long thinking it o’er.”

“I told you,” William begins. “The pilot isn’t—”

“You shut up, now,” the guy says, discretely turning the rifle towards William. “There’s only one thing I want to hear: Who’s the pilot?”

Dan can’t help but turn his head slightly to look at the group. Everyone is staring back at the guy, their expressions ranging from scared to stone-faced. They exchange quick looks between them, but no one says anything.

“I’m a man of my word,” the guy says. “If one of ya’s tell me who the pilot it, I’ll bring that person along, cross my heart. Offer expires in five seconds.”

Still, no one speaks up.

Dan feels a surge of pride in the group. None of them wants to rat out Sebastian to save their own skin. Of course, like Dorte just pointed out minutes ago, all of them have someone whom they love and don’t want to leave, and that may play into it also. Everyone, except for Dorte and …

Dan’s gaze falls on Eli, who slipped behind William’s car as soon as the guy pulled out the rifle. Now, he steps out tentatively.

No, Dan thinks. No, you don’t!

“Time’s up,” the guy announces.

“It’s him,” Eli says, pointing at Sebastian. “He’s the pilot.”

THIRTY-THREE

It’s eight o’clock in the evening, yet the sun is still scorching hot, the light stinging Dennis’s eyes as he climbs up the hatch to the vegetable garden.

Silas follows right behind him, carrying the toolbox he brought from the bunker. “Take this,” he says, handing it to Dennis.

Dennis takes it, and Silas ducks back down to get the rifle. He climbs up and closes the hatch.

“Bring the box,” he says, walking to the place where he cut open the fence. He crouches down to look at the opening, the rifle resting across his thighs. “I’m not sure we can stretch it together again—it was very tight to begin with. I think we need to sew it up. Put down the box and open it.”

Dennis does as he’s told, and Silas places the rifle against the fence, barrel up. It’s still within arm’s reach, but even if it wasn’t, Dennis wouldn’t dream of going for it. It would be very stupid, as he has no idea how to use it, and Silas could easily out-wrestle him. Even though Dennis is actually an inch taller than Silas and also a few pounds heavier, he’s sure Silas is stronger.

Besides, he’s afraid that Silas might do something to hurt Mom if Dennis acts out of line.

So, he just stands there, under the baking sun and watches as Silas goes to work, using the utensils from the box. He takes out a roll of thin steel wire and a pair of pliers, then he fastens the end of the wire to the top of the opening in the fence and starts to close it by wrapping the wire around the edges and tightening it as he goes along, pulling the edges of the opening together.

Dennis recalls what Mom whispered in his ear. Those seven words burned themselves into his memory.

He didn’t understand it, though. It was so weird that he for a moment considered if he might have misheard her.

But he hadn’t. Mom had really asked him to bring her a strand of Silas’s hair.

Dennis has no idea how you would go about plucking a hair out of someone’s head without them noticing.

He looks at Silas’s hair. It’s dark brown and shiny and long enough to touch the top of his ears. The way he’s sitting, with his back halfway turned, Dennis could actually reach right over and pull out a hair.

Except Silas would most likely feel it—and how would Dennis explain it?

A butterfly flaps against Dennis’s ear, causing him to turn his head. And that’s when he sees the dead person crossing the lawn.

It’s an old guy with a potbelly, which is visible because his shirt is ripped open. His left cheek is mostly missing, causing the eye to sag and revealing the white bone and a row of yellow teeth. He reaches out a hand missing all but one finger as he approaches the fence separating the vegetable garden from the rest of Holger’s lawn.

“Silas!” Dennis croaks, staggering backwards. “Look!”

“What?” Silas says, looking up at him, squinting. “What is it?”

Dennis can only point.

“Oh, we’ve got company,” Silas says in a casual voice and gets to his feet, grabbing the rifle. “You see, Dennis? It was a good thing we went to fix the fence right away, huh?”

Dennis backs away, almost tripping over a row of pea stalks as he stares at the dead guy who now reaches the fence and walks right into it, trying to squeeze himself through. He pushes his face against the metal grid, snapping his teeth and growling hungrily at them, causing the fence to rattle.

Silas doesn’t seem bothered at all; he takes his time placing the rifle at his shoulder, just like Dennis saw him doing on the surveillance camera when he was standing on the truck bed, then he aims it at the head of the dead guy, who’s less than ten feet away—Dennis can even smell him, the stench of meat going bad reaching him on the warm air.

“What was it he said in that movie, American History X?” Silas asks, still pointing the rifle at the dead guy, moving it slightly as the dead guy rocks back and forth, trying to force his way through the fence and get at Silas. “Oh, yeah! ‘Now, say goodnight’ …”

Dennis understands hardly any English, but he doesn’t have time to worry about what Silas just said, because half a second later, the shot rings out with a deafening bang.

Dennis jumps and covers his ears, but it’s too late, the sound has already caused a shrill ringing which seems to reverberate inside his skull.

The skull of the dead guy, however, is suddenly open like a soft-boiled egg, the top quarter missing completely.

The dead guy stands there for a moment, no longer moving, his expression empty. Then his knees buckle and the rest of his body collapses like a house of cards.

“Boo-yah!” Silas cries out, laughing. “I never get tired of that! It’s like being a real-life game of Counter Strike, except the opposite team has no weapons—how cool is that?” He turns to Dennis, and his smile fades. “Hey, you got that scared-shitless expression again, Dennis.”

Dennis can barely hear the words over the ringing in his ears, and he can’t get his eyes off the corpse on the other side of the fence.

“Hey!” Silas walks closer and snaps his fingers in front of Dennis.

Dennis blinks and looks up at Silas.

Silas’s expression is earnest for once. “I’m telling you, man, you gotta man up if you’re gonna make it. The world was never a nice place and it lately turned a whole lot shittier, so get yourself together, okay?”

“O… okay,” Dennis manages.

Silas watches him for a moment, brooding. Then he asks: “How old are you, anyway?”

“Nineteen.”

“Nineteen? Holy shit! You act like a nine-year-old. No offense, I’m just telling you.”

“I had a brain—”

“I know, that brain fever thing. But still, you’re way too soft. I’m not talking about intelligence here; I’m talking about balls.” He pokes a finger in Dennis’s stomach. “Grow a pair, and do it soon. Just friendly advice.”

Dennis nods.

“Now, let’s get on with this before any more of those assholes show up,” Silas says, turning around and going back to work on the hole in the fence. Just as he’s about to kneel back down, a movement catches his attention, and he turns his head. “Oh, fuck. Too late.”

Dennis follows his gaze and sees three—no, four—dead people come waddling through the trees separating Holger’s property from the surrounding fields.

“Well, I can’t work with those pricks breathing on me,” Silas says, picking up the rifle again.

This time, Dennis covers his ears by placing his sweaty palms over them and squeezing firmly.

The shots are a lot less loud this time—partly because Dennis this time was expecting them.

Silas puts down the three front-runners before they can even cross the lawn. Then he reloads the rifle, pulling out shells from his pocket, whistling as he does it.

“Three down, one to go,” he says, raising the weapon again. Then he hesitates. Lowers the rifle slightly. Turns his head and looks at Dennis. “Come over here.”

“Me?” Dennis asks, utterly surprised.

“No, the guy standing behind you.”

Dennis looks back, but sees no one.

Silas sighs. “Jesus, dude. Come over here.”

Dennis really doesn’t want to come closer to the fence, but he doesn’t want to disobey Silas either, so he walks to him, his legs feeling weak.

The dead person is a young woman limping on her right leg, where most of the thigh muscle has been eaten away, making it look to Dennis like a pirate’s leg.

“Stand here next to me,” Silas instructs him.

Dennis does as he’s told, looking at Silas hesitantly.

“You ever used a rifle?” Silas asks.

“No.”

“Well, it’s easier than you think. Here, take it.” Silas offers him the weapon.

Dennis steps back, horrified. “No! I don’t want to.”

“Sure, you do. Consider this your rite of manhood. You’re going to kill the last one.”

Dennis shakes his head frantically.

“Take it, Dennis.”

There’s a tone in Silas’s voice which reminds Dennis of how Mom talks when she’s in no mood to tolerate any backtalk, and even though he wants to back away, he forces himself to stay.

“Please don’t make me,” he pleads, almost on the verge of tears.

The dead woman is limping her way past her fallen comrades and is now headed for the fence.

Silas lowers the rifle, and for a moment, Dennis feels relief rush over him, as he’s sure Silas has changed his mind. Then, he slaps Dennis hard on the side of the face.

“Ow!” he cries, touching his stinging cheek, staring at Silas with hurt and shock.

Silas’s face is expressionless. “You’re going to take the rifle, and you’re going to shoot that thing out there. And if you say no one more time, I’m gonna slap you again.”

Dennis looks from Silas to the rifle and out at the woman, who’s almost at the fence now.

“I … I don’t know how to … to do it …”

“I’ll show you how. It’s very simple. Here, take it and put the heel against your shoulder.”

Dennis reaches out one shaking hand.

“Both hands,” Silas commands. “It’s heavier than it looks.”

He’s right; Dennis is surprised at the weight of the weapon as Silas hands it to him.

He shifts it around like it’s a dangerous snake and lifts it awkwardly, trying to place it like he saw Silas do.

“Christ, you look like a nun handling a dildo,” Silas scuffs, grabbing hold of him and guiding the rifle to his shoulder. “There you go. Push it back firmly, like this, or it’ll slam your shoulder.”

Dennis squeezes the butt of the handle into the soft part of his shoulder, then looks out over the barrel, closing one eye like he saw Silas do. He really doesn’t want to look at the dead woman, so he focuses instead on the tip of the gun, causing everything else to go mercifully blurry.

“Great, now, when you’re ready, pull the trigger.”

Dennis fumbles for a second, then his finger finds the trigger, curling around it, tugging at it gently. It doesn’t move at all.

“Come on,” Silas says. “You’ll tire out if you wait too long.”

“I … I think it’s locked or something,” Dennis mutters, his voice shaky, not daring to take his eyes off the tip of the gun.

“It’s not locked, you just need to pull harder.”

Dennis increases the pressure on the trigger, and to his surprise, it actually moves back a few millimeters.

The woman reaches the fence and walks right into it, beginning to grope at the metal, trying to push her way through.

“Shoot her now, Dennis,” Silas commands in his ear. “Before she does any damage to the fence. Remember to aim for the head.”

Dennis takes a deep breath, holds it, closes his eyes and squeezes the trigger as hard as he can.

The sound is just as deafening, but Dennis hardly notices. He only feels the pain as the gun thrusts itself backwards into his shoulder, causing him to spin halfway around and sending him to his hands and knees.

“Whoops,” Silas says somewhere nearby, grabbing the gun from him before it can touch the ground.

Dennis blinks and looks around, completely baffled, as he gets back to his feet. “Ooh, my shoulder,” he moans, rubbing the sore spot where the gun slammed him.

The woman is still working the fence, biting and clawing at the metal. Dennis can’t see any bullet holes in her.

He looks at Silas, expecting him to stare back at him with menace, but to his surprise, he sees Silas smiling broadly, revealing a row of crooked, but surprisingly white teeth.

“That wasn’t half bad for a first try. I’m afraid you missed the mark. But you might have killed a seagull somewhere. You want to try again?”

Dennis shakes his head emphatically, afraid that Silas will make him do it anyway. But Silas just shrugs.

“I figured as much. I’ll take out this bitch; you’ll get another chance soon enough.”

He slings the rifle up and pulls the trigger almost without taking aim. The woman’s forehead opens like a tin can, spraying a grayish mush in all directions. She immediately stops moving, but stays standing for several seconds with a blank look on her face. It’s not until the ring of the gunshot has died out that she finally sags to the ground.

“Come on,” Silas says. “Let’s get back inside. This fucking heat is killing me anyway.”

Dennis follows Silas back to the hatch, his head feeling weirdly hollow, like his thoughts have all been blown away.

As Silas crouches down to open the hatch, Dennis’s eyes catch the glimmer of a hair stuck to the back of his shirt. Without thinking, he reaches out his hand and plucks it off.

Silas turns his head and looks up at him. “Did you just touch me?”

Dennis is a terrible liar. And he’s even worse at coming up with anything when someone puts him on the spot. He always gives himself away by stuttering, mumbling and blushing. He’s not at all like Mom in that way; she can say anything without revealing anything.

But for some strange reason, at that moment, he’s able to stay completely calm as he discretely hides his hand and simply shrugs and tells Silas: “Sorry. There was a bug.”

Silas eyes him for a second longer, then he waves impatiently. “Come on. You first.”

Maybe I am a little like Mom after all, Dennis thinks to himself as he climbs down the hatch, clutching the strand of hair between two fingers.

THIRTY-FOUR

“You shut the fuck up,” William says, rounding on Eli, and Eli can’t help but pull back.

He’s surprised at himself for having spoken; it happened before he could think. It was The Demon Voice. It simply jumped out of his mouth, made him speak on its behalf.

The guy with the rifle smiles. It’s an ugly smile, one of those only affecting one side of the mouth. “I knew it.”

“He’s lying,” Sebastian says in a surprisingly calm voice, almost a note of humor in it. “The only flying I’ve ever done was as a passenger going on a charter trip.”

His daughter—Eli can’t remember her name—is peering out from behind her dad, her blue eyes big and terrified.

“Really?” the guy asks. “Then why does your friend here say otherwise?” He nods towards Eli.

“He wants to save his own ass, I guess.” Still, absolutely no wavering in Sebastian’s voice or expression. Eli figures keeping one’s cool in stressful situations must be a skill they teach pilots. “But I promise you, I can’t fly that thing over there to save my life.”

“Really?” the guy repeats—obviously, that’s a favorite question of his. He turns towards Eli, giving him an intense look. “Are you lying to me, sir?”

Eli hesitates, unsure what do say. He doesn’t want to rat out Sebastian, but it’s really too late; he can’t backpedal now.

Cat’s already out of the bag, that sinister voice tells him. Would be madness to turn back now.

Eli shakes his head and says in a low voice: “I’m not lying. He’s the pilot.”

He can sense the scowling looks coming from all sides, burning. He feels his cheeks blushing fiercely and he shrinks, wishing he could turn himself invisible.

The guy with the rifle turns back to Sebastian, then comes closer, and the group draws back.

Sebastian, however, stays his ground.

The girl gives off a whimper.

For a terrible second, Eli thinks the guy might hurt them. That wasn’t Eli’s intention at all; he just wants really badly to get out of here. At least that’s the reason he keeps telling himself. In reality though, there’s something with an even harder pull on him.

Ever since he saw the helicopter, he’s been itching to get to it. Once, when he was stoned out of his mind, he saw a documentary about how medical helicopters are operated—and he recalls very clearly all the drugs they keep inside.

Axe and Malthe never did anything harder than weed; they didn’t need to. They didn’t do it to drown out anything, after all.

Eli did.

As soon as the effect started to dwindle and the images of his dead mother began creeping back into his sleep, Eli moved onto harder things.

By the time he met Claus, he was an all-out junkie.

Claus saved his life. He got him clean.

And now.

Now Eli can’t think of much else than the sweet relief waiting just fifty feet away.

Keep cool and you’ll get it.

Amazing how familiar The Demon Voice sounds, Eli muses. How intimate. Just as strong and persuasive as he remembers. It’s like it never really left him, but just went into hibernation somewhere right below his conscious mind. And now, when he needed it, it woke back up.

“It’s okay, honey,” Sebastian says, pulling Eli back to the present. Sebastian is talking to his daughter, who’s clutching his shirt. “He’s not going to hurt me.”

“No,” the guy says, stopping a few steps in front of Sebastian. “I’m not. But I’ll take your wallet.”

Sebastian doesn’t move except tilt his head slightly. “Are you robbing me?”

“Just hand it over.”

Sebastian still doesn’t move.

The guy takes a deep breath. “Look, mister, I’ve had the worst day of my life. And I really don’t want to hurt anybody here. So don’t twist my arm, okay?”

He doesn’t move the rifle, which is pointed casually at Sebastian’s feet. But Eli notices his eyes dart briefly to the girl before returning to Sebastian.

And Sebastian obviously gets the message. “It’s in the car. Let me get it.”

The guy nods.

Sebastian takes his daughter’s hand and they walk around the car to the driver’s door. Sebastian opens it, reaches inside and gets his wallet. He throws it to the guy who catches it in one hand.

The guy opens it and goes through the contents. The one-sided smile comes back as he pulls out a white card. “Sebastian Møller, Sterling Airlines. Sounds like a pilot’s license to me.”

Eli can’t help but draw a sigh of relief. At least the guy won’t suspect him of lying anymore.

“Look, man, let’s make a deal, okay?” Sebastian says.

The smile vanishes from the guy’s face. “I already have a deal.”

“I’ll fly you out of the country, then I’ll take the helicopter back here.”

“No, Dad!” the girl exclaims. “You can’t go with him!”

“You’re not taking the helicopter back,” the guy says. “I’m keeping it.”

“Why? You can’t fly it.”

“You’ll teach me how to fly it.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“We’ll have plenty of time.”

“Please don’t,” the girl pleads, looking at the guy and hugging her father closely. “Please don’t make my dad go, mister. Please!”

The guy looks down at her, and Eli sees—to his surprise—a fair amount of compassion on the guy’s face.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, but I have a daughter of my own, you see. She’s a little younger than you. I need to get her to safety. You understand, right?”

The girl starts crying.

“At least let me bring her along,” Sebastian says.

They guy looks towards the helicopter and back. He nods in the direction of Eli. “I already promised this young fellow a ride, and counting my wife and daughter, we’re at five people including you.”

“Six people is fine,” Sebastian says. “We can fit in there, all of us.”

The guy considers it a moment longer, then nods. “All right, you can come too, sweetheart.”

The girl sobs and mutters something akin to “thank you.”

The guy turns to the rest of the group. “Now, I need a couple of strong guys to help get my wife and daughter to the helicopter.”

“Why?” William asks. “Can’t they walk?”

“Not currently, no,” the guy says with no further explanation. He points the rifle at William, then at Dan’s father. “You and you. You come with me. Pilot, you go and start up the engine. The rest of you stay right here and don’t do anything.”

Eli notices Dan catching William’s eye, throw out his hands and mouth a soundless question: What do we do?

William just shakes his head. He then follows the guy along with Dan’s father to the SUV.

The guy reaches in through the open driver’s door to turn off the engine. As soon as it falls quiet, Eli can hear a moaning coming from the car.

“Oh, no,” Dan whispers.

“Oh, shit!” William exclaims as he looks in through the backseat window. “They’re dead!”

THIRTY-FIVE

Dennis is sitting on a chair, fondling the hair in his pocket, building up courage, waiting for the right moment to speak.

The living room is dimly lit by the lamp over the dining table and the television screen. Outside, the sun is drawing closer to the horizon, painting the sky red and orange.

Silas is sprawled out on the couch, drinking his fifth or six beer.

Jonas is sitting by the dining table, slowly eating the rest of his late-night dinner while leafing through one of Holger’s notebooks.

Finally, Dennis decides to give it a go.

“Uhm, Silas?”

“Uhm, yes?” Silas replies, mocking Dennis’s tone of voice.

“Can I … Can I please see my mom?”

“Why? Your mother’s fine.”

“I know, but … I’d like to see her.”

Silas shakes his head, still looking at the screen. “I’m not letting her out yet.”

“I know, that’s fine, I just … I just want to go down and be with her for a while.”

Silas doesn’t answer. He’s lost in the news. “Fucking hell,” he mutters, looking over at his brother. “You seeing this? They’re still trying to pacify these motherfuckers. Jesus fucking Christ, that’s so typical of those bleeding-heart assholes in power.” Silas crunches his beer can and lets out a violent burp. “Just fucking shoot them! They’re already dead!”

“It’s just a matter of time,” Jonas says, looking up briefly from the notebook. “Once the problem gets far enough out of hand, they’ll begin putting them down. You’ll see.”

“By then it’ll be too fucking late,” Silas groans, opening another beer. “At least that guy’s got the right idea!”

He points to the screen, now showing a press conference with a man in a suit standing behind a podium. In the background, Dennis sees a flag with red stripes and a blue square in the corner with white stars. He can’t remember which country that flag belongs to, but he manages to read the headline with difficulty: U.S. President issues ultimatum to European Union.

The man behind the podium—the American president, apparently—is talking very heatedly while pointing at something or someone out of view. There are no subtitles, and Dennis has no idea what the president is saying.

“Hoh, did you hear that?” Silas asks, almost spilling his beer. “He’s gonna bomb us back to the Stone Age if we don’t get this thing under control.”

“That’s not what he said,” Jonas corrects him calmly. “He just wants the lazy pricks at the EU to begin taking it seriously.”

“Yeah, or else he’ll ‘deploy weapons of great magnitude to help resolve the European problem’ … he’s talking about the fucking A-bomb, man! He’s gonna flatten the whole goddamn continent!”

“That’s just how he talks,” Jonas says. “He’s always boasting and pounding his chest. He’s just scared this thing will reach America.”

Silas doesn’t reply right away. He drinks most of his beer in one go, then lets out a long burp. “You think the basement is protected against radiation?”

“According to Holger’s notes, it is.”

“Good. Then we’ll be safe.”

Jonas sighs. “There’s not going to be a nuclear war, Silas.”

“We’ll see.”

Another long moment of silence passes. The television switches from the press conference and back to a news studio where three other people are discussing the situation, all of them with grave faces.

“Silas?” Dennis asks.

“What?”

“Can I please go see—”

“No, you can’t! Drink a fucking beer and chill out, that’s what you can do.”

Jonas looks up at them. “Let him go see his mother, Silas. Don’t be a dick.”

Silas chews his tongue for a moment. Then he looks at Dennis. “You know what? My brother’s right. You’ve earned it, Dennis. You’ve helped me all day, and you even tried to shoot a zombie. You can spend a little time with your mama.”

“He did what?” Jonas asks.

“I taught him how to shoot a rifle,” Silas says with a grin.

Jonas doesn’t seem to think it’s funny, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Come on, then,” Silas says with a sigh, getting up from the couch. “Let’s go see how she’s holdin’ up down there.”

THIRTY-SIX

The guy with the rifle rounds on William and points the weapon at his face. “What did you say?”

“I said they’re fucking dead!” William repeats, pointing to the SUV. He’s so angry, he barely takes notice of the rifle aimed at his nose. “Your wife and daughter. They’re both—”

He’s interrupted as the guy kicks him hard on the shin. The pain is immediate and intense. William cries out and falls to one knee. He can hear Ozzy barking from inside the Honda. Had he been loose, he would have been at the guy’s throat by now.

“You shut your fucking mouth, you big city asshole!” the guy spits. “They’re not dead, they’re sick! And they need help.”

“Listen,” Dan’s father chimes in. “I don’t think you fully realize the situation …”

The guy turns to Henrik and snarls: “I know what they said on the news. They’re working hard to find a vaccine, and as soon as they do, everyone will get cured. I just need to get my family out of the country so they’re safe until they can cure them.”

William snorts as he gets back up, his shin still throbbing. “You’re bringing two zombies on a helicopter … you’re even dumber than you look … that’s a recipe for disaster.”

The guy kicks at William again, but this time he’s prepared and moves out of his way—there’s those boxing reflexes again, and he’s thankful for them.

“One more word out of you, and I’ll put you down,” the guy sneers at him through gritted teeth—and William picks up on something other than anger in his voice, something which sounds more like grief.

He knows I’m right, William realizes. But he’s hoping against hope.

The guy opens the door to the backseat, and everyone except Henrik and William—who’ve already seen inside the SUV—pulls back.

“It’s okay,” Henrik tells them with a grim look. “He’s tied them up.”

That’s a gracious way of putting it, William thinks, and he’s very close to laughing shrilly. Of course, the timing couldn’t be worse, so he bites back the noise.

But the sight of the guy’s wife and daughter lying side-by-side on the backseat is like something straight out of a cartoon.

“You,” the guy sneers, pointing at Henrik. “You help me with my wife. And you, smartass—”he points at William—“you take my daughter. And if any of you drop them or hurt them in anyway, I swear to God, I’ll put you down.”

Henrik nods in silent agreement.

“Go on,” the guy says to Henrik. “Take her feet.”

Henrik looks at the guy with an earnest expression. “Listen, I really think you need to reconsi—”

“No more fucking arguing!” the guy explodes, causing everyone to jump. “You do as I say!”

Henrik takes a deep breath. Then he reaches inside the car and pulls out a couple of feet—one wearing a white sock, one bare. Both feet are protruding from a thick, rolled-up carpet which is held together by duct tape. When the carpet is halfway out, the guy steps over and takes hold of it with one arm, still holding the rifle with the other.

They pull the rest of the carpet out, revealing the other end, from which a woman’s head and shoulders are protruding.

Her hair is curly and her skin, which was probably once reddish and freckled, is now grey. She snarls and twists angrily, trying to wriggle free, but the homemade straightjacket the guy has made for her is quite effective.

“Oh, my God,” William hears Lærke whisper, followed by Sebastian telling her to not look.

“What are you waiting for?” the guy snaps at William. “Take out my daughter—carefully!”

William steps over to the open door and looks in at the girl. The only thing positive about his part of the assignment is that the girl is considerably smaller than the woman, and William won’t risk throwing out his back lifting her. The bad news, though, is that the guy apparently only had one spare carpet, because he decided to only use towels and tape wrapping up his daughter, which has left her a fair bit more wriggle-room. She’s lying on her side in a fetal position, looking somewhat like a cocoon ready to burst, thrashing her head back and forth.

William tries not to look at her face—she was no more than eight or nine when she died—and he has to bite down hard before he can reach in and grab her. Her feet are inside the improvised cocoon, so William takes hold of the lower part. He drags her halfway out, then turns her onto her belly and wraps his arms around her waist.

The girl snarls and groans and tries to get at him, but she can’t bend her neck that low.

William lifts her up, realizing she’s even lighter than he thought, and holds her awkwardly upwards, keeping her back turned so she can’t get at him with her mouth. It’s like holding an angry baby alligator.

“This is fucking suicide,” he mutters with a strained groan.

The guy ignores him. “Right, get moving. Keep in front of me so I can see you at all times. And you, pilot! What are you waiting for? I told you to go start it up.”

William concentrates on holding the girl in a waist-lock and keeping her from twisting either way around. So he doesn’t see Sebastian and Lærke start moving towards the helicopter.

He sees something else, though, because of the way he’s facing away from the road, something which no one else probably notices: a movement by the nearest tree. A blond head of hair pops out briefly, then disappears again.

William turns and darts one quick look towards the rest of the group. He sees Dan, Eli, that fucking traitor, Nasira and Ali—but he doesn’t see Dorte anywhere.

She slipped away without the asshole seeing her …

William feels a jolt of excitement and hope. He doesn’t know exactly what Dorte’s plan is, but he applauds her internally for having the guts to do something.

THIRTY-SEVEN

“How did you get it, Dennis?”

Mom looks at the strand of hair between her fingers with wide eyes. They’re alone in the bathroom. Just before he locked the door, Silas said Dennis could spend ten minutes with his mom. Once the time is up, Silas will come back down and get him.

“I took it while his back was turned,” Dennis says, feeling immensely proud.

“Did he notice?”

“No.”

“That’s good, Dennis. Really good. You did great.”

Dennis isn’t used to being praised like this; especially not by his mother. He feels at least three inches taller.

“Thank you, Mom.”

His mom turns her back and rummages through it, producing a tiny plastic bag which she opens and places the hair carefully inside.

“So, what are you going to do with it?” Dennis asks.

“You’ll see.”

“Will it be … some kind of ritual?”

“It’s better if you don’t know,” Mom says plainly, putting the plastic bag under the mattress. Then she looks at him. “You sure Silas isn’t suspecting anything? He didn’t feel you pluck it from his head?”

“I didn’t; I took it from his shirt.”

Mom’s eyes grow a little bigger, then they narrow. “You did what?”

“I … I took it from his shirt.”

Mom looks at him gravely. “That won’t work.”

Dennis feels his heart sink. “Why … why won’t it work, Mom?”

Mom closes her eyes for a moment. “That hair could have come from anybody. We need to be absolutely sure it’s Silas’s hair. Besides, it needs to be fresh. Still alive. A hair from his shirt—even if it really was his—could be weeks old.” She shakes her head slowly, talking almost to herself now. “Had I used this hair, things would have gone horribly wrong …”

She takes the plastic bag out from under the mattress, opens it and fishes out the strand of hair. Then, she drops it to the floor. Dennis watches it fall, feeling like a giant failure.

“I don’t get it,” Dennis says sulkily, his sense of pride deflated like a punctured balloon. “What do you even need a strand of his hair for, Mom?”

Under normal circumstances, a question like that would’ve been way out of line—with Mom having told him already he can’t know—but nothing is normal anymore.

Mom doesn’t seem to mind, either. She simply looks at him and whispers: “It’ll be our way out of here.”

“But how? I don’t understand …”

“Just trust me, Dennis.”

Mom’s tone of voice changes slightly and lets Dennis know that now he is close to being out of line and that she won’t stand for any more questions.

She shakes her head slowly. “I knew from the start they weren’t going to leave. And they’re bad people. Especially Silas. It’s only a matter of time before he’ll do something really bad to one of us.”

Dennis’s belly tightens up from fear. “Like what, Mom?” he croaks. “What will he do?”

Mom shakes her head. “I don’t know. But people like him will do bad things just for fun. You’ll see.”

Dennis can hardly breathe. “I’m scared, Mom. Really scared. I don’t want to go back up there.”

“You need to be brave, Dennis. You’re our only hope.” She locks Dennis’s gaze with hers. “You need to pretend like nothing’s wrong. And you need to bring me a fresh hair from Silas’s head as soon as possible.”

“But … when will I do it? I mean, he’ll notice me doing it …”

Dennis jumps as there’s a loud banging from the door.

“Warden’s here!” Silas’s voice shouts from the other side. “Visiting time is over!”

Dennis can hear the rattling of keys as Silas makes to unlock the door.

Mom grabs Dennis by the wrist and whispers: “He won’t notice it if you’re careful. You’ll find a way. I know you can do it, Dennis. You trust me?”

Dennis takes a deep breath, then nods.

And just as the door opens, Mom whispers to him: “It’s on you now.”

THIRTY-EIGHT

Dorte made her decision as soon as she realized the guy’s wife and daughter are both dead from the virus.

That’s also when she saw the opportunity to slip off into the moor, as everyone else’s attention was aimed at the SUV.

She simply can’t stand by and watch while this guy steals their best—and probably only—way out. Especially not if he’s bringing two infected people with him to wherever he’s going.

It’s also a simple matter of utilitarianism, really: the group with the highest number of healthy people should be the ones getting out of here. Besides, like William said, they came first, giving them the moral high ground.

Of course, the guy cares very little about ethics; as far as he’s concerned, his wife and daughter can still be saved.

Which is also why Dorte immediately realized there’s no way of talking sense to him. She for one knows all too well how irrational you become when you think you’re saving the lives of people you love.

She made a dash for the nearest tree as soon as the guy turned his back to her and everyone else was looking at the SUV. And now she’s in the perfect position to turn the tables on the situation. The guy will come right past the tree as he and Henrik carry the guy’s wife to the helicopter.

Dorte isn’t entirely sure what she’ll do once he’s within reach, though. Her first intuition is to simply jump the guy, trying to blind him or maybe even wrestle him to the ground. A smarter strategy might be to go for the rifle, however; pull it out of his hand and throw it as far as she can, thus levering the playing field and letting the men do the wrestling.

There’s really no more time to think, as the guy and Henrik are already getting closer. Sebastian and Lærke are also headed for the helicopter, but they’re walking farther away.

Dorte gets ready, her thighs tightening, her heart beating fast. Just as she’s about to make a run for it, Henrik accidentally steps in a tiny hole in the ground, almost losing his balance, causing the carpet to slip out of his hands and slump to the ground.

“Oh!” he exclaims.

“Hey, careful!” the guy shouts indignantly, still holding his end. “That’s my wife you’re carrying! Pick her back up and watch it!”

The guy’s wife, however, seems to pay little notice to the accident; she just growls on indifferently, thrashing to get free.

“Sorry,” Henrik mutters, picking the carpet back up.

“Don’t let that happen again,” the guy sneers. “Come on, let’s go!”

Okay, now!

Dorte slips out from behind the tree, revealing herself fully for an instance, and heads straight for the guy. His back is halfway turned and he’s less than ten paces away—farther than she was hoping but still close enough that she’s confident she can close the distance before he has time to see her.

Her eyes are locked on the weapon hanging from the guy’s right hand—she’s decided to go for the rifle, hoping to rip it from his hand before he has time to react. She runs as fast as she can, yet it feels like she moves in slow motion. She doesn’t even notice Henrik seeing her, or how his eyes grow wide before he can help himself. Had the guy been looking at Henrik at that moment, the surprised expression on his face would have no doubt given her away.

But the guy is focused on the uneven ground and his feet, and there’s no way he’s going to see Dorte.

She feels a wild elation as she realizes she’s going to make it—only three more steps and she can grab the rifle.

Then, a voice cuts through the air: “Look out! Behind you!”

Suddenly, everything jumps from slow motion into high speed.

The guy snaps his head around, his eyes locking on Dorte, a brief look of shock flashing across his face.

Dorte reaches out both arms, going for the rifle.

The guy utters a cry of surprise.

The rifle swings upwards, the barrel points right at Dorte, and then there’s suddenly nothing but blackness.

She doesn’t hear the sound of the rifle going off.

She doesn’t see the flash from the muzzle, either.

By the time those sensory inputs reach the appropriate centers of her brain, her brain is no longer located within her skull.

THIRTY-NINE

Dan sees everything happen from where he’s standing.

It’s like being trapped in a nightmare with no way of waking up. In the seconds leading up to the rifle going off, Dan is keenly aware of his surroundings.

Sebastian and Lærke are farthest away, headed for the helicopter.

His dad and the guy with the rifle are following them, carrying the carpet with the writhing zombie woman inside it.

William has only just left the roadside, carrying the guy’s daughter in a clumsy, backwards embrace.

Ali and Nasira are standing on Dan’s right side.

Ozzy is barking from the trunk of William’s car behind him.

And Eli is standing off to the side, looking like he wants to make himself invisible.

Where’s Dorte?

The thought hits him just as he sees her step out from behind the tree.

The determination on her face is enough to tell Dan what she’s doing even before she gets moving towards the guy.

The next thing Dan hears is a gasp coming from Eli, and he turns his head to look at him.

Eli has seen Dorte too, and he’s lifting one hand to point. Then he cries out: “Look out! Behind you!”

Dan turns his head back to look over at Dorte. She’s very close to the guy, almost there, in fact, but not quite. And the guy has already spun his head around and seen her.

Dan wants to cry out.

Wants to shout to Dorte to get out of the way.

But there’s no time.

And then the shot rings out over the moor, hitting Dan’s eardrums like the flick of a finger.

He sees Dorte’s head snap back as her face turns to the sky. He sees the red crater appear under her chin. And he sees her tilt backwards. She lands in the soft heather without so much as a sound.

For several seconds, there’s only a shrill ringing in Dan’s ears.

Then, sounds slowly make their way back. First, it’s Ozzy barking madly from the car. Then it’s Ali crying and Nasira comforting him. Then, a little farther away, Lærke sobbing, too. Then, finally, William’s voice, shouting.

“… fucking asshole! What the fuck are you thinking? You piece of shit, you fucking killed her!”

The guy is just standing there, staring down at Dorte, still holding both the rifle and the end of the carpet.

“I … I didn’t mean to …” Dan hears him mutter. “She attacked me …”

“She was just going for the rifle!” William shouts, his voice breaking. “You didn’t have to fucking kill her, you fucking piece-of-shit psycho!”

The guy visibly fights to regain control of himself as he turns away from Dorte and looks at William. His face has gone pale, and he looks almost seasick.

“She shouldn’t have done that,” he says, swallowing with an obvious effort. “That was her own fault.”

“Fuck you!” William spits. “You carry your own fucking dead daughter!” And he drops the girl to the ground.

The rifle, which is hanging like a dead snake from the guy’s hand, smoking dully, suddenly snaps back to life as the guy swings it back up to point at William’s chest.

The guy screams loud enough for spittle to go flying from his mouth: “You pick her up right now, or I’ll fucking blow your head off, too!”

William just breathes hard through his nose. He looks briefly to Dorte, then back at the guy. “You didn’t have to fucking kill her,” he croaks. Even from this far away, Dan can see the tears forming in William’s eyes.

“Pick up my daughter,” the guy sneers.

The girl is twisting and turning at William’s feet, but William doesn’t move.

“William!” Dan suddenly hears himself call out, and William turns his head and meets his eye. Dan nods. “It’s okay. Live to fight another day, right? That’s what you told me in the bunker, remember?”

William’s face crumbles for a moment, then he gets it back under control. “He fucking killed her, man …”

“I know,” Dan says. “Don’t provoke him to kill you too. We need you.”

William still doesn’t move.

Dan gets the impression that everyone is watching him, including the guy with the rifle, waiting for William’s reaction.

Then William takes a deep breath. Bends down and picks the zombie girl back up.

“That’s right,” the guy mutters. “One more time you mess with me and it’ll be your last.”

William doesn’t answer, he just looks straight ahead.

FORTY

The inside of William’s face is burning. He’s so angry and so upset, it’s all he can do to keep it in. If he got the chance, he would jump the guy in a heartbeat, wrestle the gun from him and beat him to death with it.

But he won’t get the chance. He knows that. The guy is very alert and very careful now, constantly looking around as they move closer to the helicopter.

“What are you waiting for?” the guy asks as he sees Sebastian and Lærke stopping at a distance from the helicopter. “You get in there and start it up!”

“I need to check something out here, first,” Sebastian says, his voice still surprisingly calm. “It looks like this thing had a rough landing; if the rotors aren’t working properly, we’ll never get her off the ground.”

“All right, well, make it quick,” the guy obliges begrudgingly, waving the gun like it’s a conductor’s staff. “But no funny business, or you know what’ll happen!”

Sebastian just nods once, then goes to the back of the helicopter. Lærke stays put, as Sebastian obviously instructed her. As Sebastian passes by William, he darts him a quick, knowing look.

And that’s when William recalls the fat lady and the guy on the other side of the helicopter—he had completely forgotten about them.

Listening, he can actually hear them both groan softly. The sound is drowned out by the maneuvering of the guy’s wife and daughter, and the guy hasn’t heard it.

That’s our last chance, William thinks, feeling a jab of hope. If I can find some way to lure him to the other side …

Just as he thinks it, he realizes he won’t need to lure the guy anywhere, because the fat lady comes waddling into view, passing around the front end of the helicopter, as she’s obviously sensed a much larger meal on this side.

Lærke is the first one to notice her, and she gives off a whimper.

The guy doesn’t hear it. He’s fumbling with the sliding door, trying to get it open. “How the hell does this thing work?” he grunts, and tells Henrik: “Let’s put ’er down for a second.”

Henrik looks all too willing to oblige, and they lay the carpet down carefully on the ground.

Then the guy sets down the rifle, leans it against the helicopter, the barrel pointed at the sky, allowing him to attack the door with both hands.

William can’t believe it. For the second time, the guy is about to be ambushed from behind. And this time, Eli, that fucking piece of low-life shit, is too far away to warn the guy.

The fat lady is headed right for him, and the guy still hasn’t seen her. The lady has stopped groaning, almost as if she knows to be quiet.

Henrik sees the woman, suppresses a yell of surprise and steps sideways to get out of Dodge.

“Where the fuck are you going?” the guy snarls. “I need your help here!”

“I … uhm,” Henrik fumbles for an excuse. “I thought I’d help out the pilot.”

The guy doesn’t reply, just mutters something to himself and yanks the handle hard, causing the entire helicopter to sway. “Is this fucking door locked, or what?”

Just as the woman reaches out for the guy, he apparently senses her, because he suddenly stops, grabs the rifle and jumps away.

He looks back and sees the lady taking up pursuit. “What the fuck! Where did you come from? Stop! Stop, I said!”

The woman doesn’t obey, she just keeps coming at him. And now the other zombie appears behind her, also going for the guy.

The guy puts the rifle to his shoulder and shoots the lady right in the face. She doesn’t go down gracefully like Dorte; she collapses with a moan and a thud, landing like a sack of potatoes. Then the guy reloads, takes aim again and puts down the dead guy in the hazmat suit.

William’s stomach drops.

The guy rounds on William, panting. “Why didn’t you warn me?”

William scowls at him. “Didn’t see them coming.”

“The fuck you didn’t,” the guy sneers back. He turns to look at Sebastian, who’s standing by the rear end of the helicopter, hands at his sides. “You didn’t need to check anything, did you? You knew they were there! You all knew! You were hoping they would take me out. Well, lucky for me I was just too fast—again!”

William bites down hard to keep in what he wants to say.

The guy goes back to the helicopter door, pointing the rifle at Henrik. “You stay right fucking there and warn me if anyone else tries to sneak up on me! Got that?”

Henrik nods.

The guy grabs the handle once more, tearing at it with fury.

This time, the door gives way without resistance, sliding open all the way, revealing a woman crouched down, holding what appears to be a metal rod in a ready-to-strike baseball position.

The guy hasn’t even got time to raise his arms before she swings at him, clubbing him right on the jaw with a sickening crack, dropping him to the ground.

FORTY-ONE

“Holy shit,” William mutters. “I completely forgot someone was in there …”

The woman—mid-forties, heavyset, dark hair, a very worn expression on her face—puts down the rod and looks out at them. “I saw and heard everything,” she says in a tired voice.

“Well … thank you,” Henrik mutters.

William drops the zombie girl for the second time and steps over the guy to pick up the rifle. It’s the first time he’s ever held a gun, and it’s surprisingly heavy. It also gives him an immediate sense of power. He looks back towards the road and waves at Dan and the rest. “It’s okay! You can come over now!”

The woman climbs out of the helicopter, stretches her legs and her back and gives off a sigh. “You don’t by chance have anything to eat?”

“If you don’t mind McDonald’s, I didn’t finish my cheeseburger,” Henrik says.

She looks at him. “Honestly, I would eat anything right now.”

“Let me get it for you.”

“How long were you in there?” William asks as Henrik leaves.

“Most of the day,” the woman says, looking up at the sky while rubbing her eyes. “I tried to get out a couple of times, but”—she gestures towards the corpses of the zombies—“they wouldn’t let me.”

Sebastian takes a peek inside the helicopter. “Looks like quite the party you had.”

The woman just shakes her head.

Sebastian reaches in, pulls out a roll of extension cord and begins to tie the guy’s hands behind his back.

“How did you end up in the helicopter?” William asks.

“I was flying my dad out for medical tests. He’s … he’s still inside.”

“Oh, sorry about that,” William says, as he stretches his neck to see an older guy hanging off of a gurney, obviously dead. “What happened?”

The woman shakes her head again, and William takes it to mean she’s not in the mood for reiterating right now.

Dan, Nasira and Ali join them. A bit farther back is Eli, looking like he can’t decide on whether to run or stay.

“Thank you,” Dan says to the woman.

“I’m the one who should be thanking you,” she says. “I’m Josefine, by the way.”

Henrik comes back with his paper bag and his Coke. The woman grabs the Coke, rips off the lid and downs every last drop. Then she digs into the bag and begins chowing down the burger.

“It looks okay to fly,” Sebastian says—he’s been checking out the helicopter front and back. “As far as I can tell, nothing essential is damaged.”

“It wasn’t a real crash, I guess,” Josefine says with her mouth full. “It was hard enough for everything to go flying, thought I thought we would all die.”

“How many were onboard?” Henrik asks.

“Besides the four of us, just the pilot. He got out and fled.”

“Leaving you with your dead dad and a couple of zombies outside,” William remarks. “What a hero.”

“My dad wasn’t dead,” Josefine says, and she pauses chewing for a couple of seconds. “Not at that time.”

William looks inside the helicopter again, and this time he notices the dried-up blood staining the gurney and the floor. There’s a deep cut at the base of the neck of the old guy. Right below lies a bloody scalpel.

“Holy hell,” he whispers, looking at Josefine. “Did you … did you do that?”

“William,” Henrik says. “I don’t think she wants to talk about that right now.”

“I did,” Josefine says plainly. “My dad would have wanted it.”

And that seems to be all that’s needed to be said; no one else asks any further questions, and Josefine calmly resumes eating the burger.

“Okay, you just earned cart blanche to join our group,” William says. “We need people like you onboard.”

Josefine scoffs. “People like me?”

“Yes. People with balls. No offense to the rest of the group …” He looks around and shrugs. “But I don’t think any of us could have … yeah. Anyway, my point is, you’re more than welcome to come with us.”

She looks over at him, sucking ketchup from her fingertips. “You’re taking the helicopter? Are you a pilot?”

“I am,” Sebastian says.

She looks at him. “Where are you going?”

“We didn’t decide yet,” William says. “But we’re open to suggestions. For now, just the hell out of here.”

Josefine seems to consider it. “What about him?” She nods towards the guy on the ground. He’s still unconscious, but has begun moaning and moving his head a little, like someone trying to wake up from a deep slumber. The lower left side of his face has turned a nasty purple color and swollen to the point where it looks like the guy is hiding a tennis ball inside his cheek.

William dearly hopes it’ll hurt like hell once the asshole wakes back up.

“I say we leave him,” Henrik says. “He can get free once he wakes up. By then, we’ll be gone.”

“What about his wife and daughter, then?”

They look over at the two zombies still wrapped up in the self-made straightjackets.

“We leave them too,” William says.

Josefine nods. “I don’t suppose I can bring my mother?”

“Sorry, but we’re completely full,” Sebastian says. “Even with these nine people, it’ll be a tight fit.”

“Whoa,” William says. “Nine?”

Sebastian shrugs and looks around. “I count nine of us.”

William laughs and points the rifle over at Eli, still standing a fair distance away, looking like he just peed himself. “You want to take this piece of shit along? After what he did to Dorte?” William looks at Eli, baring his teeth in a snarl. “What the fuck are you even still doing here, asshole? Get the hell away from here!”

“I … I want to come with you …” he croaks.

“Yeah? Well, that’s not going to happen. We don’t want fucking traitors around.”

“I’m sorry,” Eli says, moving in place. “I … I didn’t mean for that to happen … I didn’t think he’d kill her … I just … I just really wanted to get on the helicopter …”

“Sure, you wanted to save your own sorry ass,” William spits. “And your selfishness killed Dorte.”

“I didn’t kill her!” Eli protests, his voice shaking as though he’s about to cry. “I didn’t pull the trigger! He did!” He points to the guy still lying unconscious on the ground.

“Fuck you!” William shouts. “I’ll pull the trigger on you if you don’t fuck off!”

“William,” Henrik says again.

“No, don’t you start!” William says, snapping his head around to look at Henrik. “Don’t you go good cop on me. We can’t trust him. He’s not coming. End of story!”

“I didn’t say we could trust him,” Henrik says, keeping his voice calm. “I’m just saying, we could fly him somewhere safe, then part ways with him. Do you really want to just leave him here? He’ll probably die.”

“Serves him right for what he did,” William says, grinding his teeth as he realizes to his horror just how close to tears he is.

“I’m the one who told you about the helicopter!” Eli argues. “If it wasn’t for me, you’d have no way out of here either!”

William is about to approach Eli, when Henrik steps in front of him.

“Listen, you’re better than this,” he says in a fatherly voice, ignoring Eli completely. “If we leave him to die, wouldn’t that make us murderers?”

William is still pointing the rifle at Eli, but the barrel is shaking so much now, he would probably miss the shot if he fired.

“All right,” he finally says. “All right, we’ll have a vote. We’re a democracy, right? Every opinion matters. By show of hands, who wants to bring this piece of shit along with us?”

To William’s utter surprise, Dan puts up his hand almost immediately.

So does his father.

And Nasira. And a moment later, Ali.

Neither Sebastian, Lærke nor Josefine raise theirs, filling William with a sense of relief.

“I agree with William,” Sebastian says. “With very limited space, we should only bring people we can trust. It’s a matter of survival.”

“Thank you,” William says, looking around. “Well, looks like we have a tie.”

“I think Dorte’s vote should count, too,” Henrik says.

William looks at Henrik like he just made a bad joke. “Seriously? I think her vote is pretty fucking obvious.”

Henrik shrugs. “You tell me; you knew her. What would she have voted? To leave this guy to die? Or to bring him along to safety?”

William opens his mouth to say something, then changes his mind. Instead, he shakes his head, squeezing his lips together. “That’s not fair …”

“What would she have voted, William?” Henrik persists.

William shakes his head even more vigorously. “She was trying to help us,” he says, his voice suddenly raw. “She risked her life for us. She barely knew us, and she did it anyway.”

“Yes,” Henrik says, nodding. “She was very brave. And we’ll remember her for that. But we won’t sacrifice anyone else in her name. That wouldn’t be what she wanted, would it?”

William finally lowers the rifle to his side, fighting back tears now and making no particular effort to hide the fact. “I … I knew her since high school … I had a crush on her for the longest time …”

Henrik puts a hand on his shoulder. “I’m very sorry.”

“It’s all fucked up,” William whispers, lowering his head. “Everything is turning to shit … we’ll all be dead soon … it’s just a matter of time …”

He expects Henrik to say something, but instead a soft female voice comes from behind: “That’s true.”

They all turn their heads to look at Nasira. She’s standing there, holding Ali’s hand, smiling that soft smile at them.

“We will all be dead sooner or later. That’s true. That’s always been true.”

William scoffs. “You’re not good at pick-me-ups, Nasira.”

Her smile doesn’t falter. “What I mean is, death is coming for all of us. We don’t control that. God’s taken that choice out of our hands. Instead, He gave us control over how we choose to live. The test is to do the right thing.”

A moment of silence. Then, Josefine raises her hand. “I’m changing my vote.”

“You can’t,” William objects.

She goes on: “I’d be okay with taking him somewhere safer, then dropping him off. I believe he didn’t intend for anyone to get hurt.”

“I am changing my vote, too,” Lærke says, looking up at her father. “Dad?”

Sebastian raises his eyebrows. “Well, shit, I guess I am, too.”

They all look at William.

He wipes his nose and shakes his head. “You’re all insane. You want to bring someone who betrayed us once?” But his voice is weak, defeated; he can hear it all too well.

“I think we need more than a majority to make this choice,” Henrik says. “I think we should all agree, or it’s a hung jury.”

William looks around at them, then throws out his arms. “I’m sorry, but I don’t want to bring that Judas along just because I’m afraid of being judged by a god when I’m dead.” He glances at Nasira. “Sorry, but that seems hypocritical to me. My vote is still no.”

Nasira just smiles at him with understanding.

No one else seems to know what to say.

Suddenly, Dan steps over to William. He speaks to him so low that none of the others can hear—not even Henrik. “Back at Sebastian’s place, you told me about his brother—what was his name?”

William glances over at Sebastian, then whispers: “Janus.”

“Right. You said he went and tried to get his girlfriend out from a grocery store, but they both died. And he called you a coward for not going with him.”

“What’s your point?”

“Would you do it now?”

“Would I do what?”

“Would you go with him into that store if you had another chance to do it?”

William looks at Dan for the longest time. Then, finally, he nods.

“So you regret you didn’t try and help him?”

Dan asks the question with no judgement, and William takes no offense, simply nods again.

“There you go,” Dan whispers. “We all make mistakes when we’re scared.”

William looks down. Then back up at Dan. “I knew I shouldn’t have picked you up. I knew you’d be nothing but trouble.”

Dan smiles. “Sorry.”

William smiles back. “No, you’re not.” He turns to Henrik and says: “I change my vote.” Then he looks over at Eli. “But if you do anything like that again, I promise you, I’ll personally kick you off the damn helicopter.”

FORTY-TWO

“Everybody, please gather around!”

William waves the group closer together in front of the helicopter.

Dan looks back over at the road as he hears a car passing. Luckily, though, it just speeds right by.

William’s car is still parked by the roadside. He decided to leave it with the keys still in the ignition, donating it to whoever might come by and need it.

Sebastian’s car, on the other hand, has been driven onto the moor and is parked behind a couple of trees, so that it’s not immediately visible from the road.

Sebastian decided to hide it on the off chance he’ll come back here and need it. Not that he thought it likely, he added.

Dan can’t see why they would want to return. In fact, he’s itching to get out of here.

The green SUV is also still parked by the roadside. Inside it is the guy, who has regained consciousness and, judging from the way the car is swaying, is trying to get free from his restrains.

William found a packet of shells for the rifle when they put the guy in the back of the SUV. They decided to take along both the rifle and the ammo.

“Had this been in the US,” William had remarked with a wry smile, “we’d all be carrying a semiautomatic and a couple of hand grenades. Instead, we’ve only got a sorry hunting rifle.”

Now, as they huddle together, William looks at Sebastian, who’s wearing the pilot’s helmet.

“Our pilot has got some instructions before we take off.”

Sebastian clears his throat. “Yes. I’ll show everyone their place in a moment. We don’t have enough seats for all of us, so we’ll need to be creative. Once we get airborne, it’s important you don’t unbuckle unless I tell you to. Don’t stand up. Don’t touch anything. There will be a fair bit of noise, and we’ve only got two headsets, so if you want to tell me anything you think is important, tap whoever’s got the headset on the shoulder, and we’ll pass it on.” He puts his hand on the helicopter. “Besides that, everything looks fine with our flight. She’s got an almost full tank, which is very lucky. All that’s left is to decide where to go.”

“How far will a full tank get us?” Henrik asks.

“Five hundred miles if the wind is good.”

“What’s the wind got to do with it?” William asks. “It’s not exactly a sailboat.”

“No, but the weather still makes a big difference in how much fuel we use.” He reaches inside, pulls out an old-school paper map, unfolds it and holds it so everyone can see. “We’re right here.” He points to a spot at the lower part of Denmark, then draws a circle around it with his fingers. “And this is approximately how far we can go. Basically, we don’t have that many options. We can head south and reach some of the mainland countries; Germany, Poland or the Netherlands. Or, we can go north and reach Sweden or Norway. We could also go west and head for England, but that’s a risky move, as it’s just on the edge of how far we can go, and we might end up in the ocean.”

“Okay,” William says thoughtfully. “That narrows it down. Three choices. Up, down or left. Left being the most risky one, but maybe also the most attractive one.”

“How’s that?” Henrik asks.

“Well, I mean, England is an island, first of all, which means the zombies probably haven’t reached it yet. So we’ll have time to find a way to get farther away, and they have big airports over there with connections all around the world. Maybe, we could even catch a flight to the States or Canada. That would put us halfway around the world, and out of any danger in case the Americans decides to make Europe into a radioactive parking lot.”

“What are you talking about?” Josefine asks, frowning.

“You didn’t get a chance to check Facebook?” William asks.

She shakes her head. “My phone broke when we crashed.”

“We don’t know anything yet,” Henrik interjects before William can say anymore. “But there’re rumors going about.”

“Rumors?”

“Well, some politicians are calling for the UN to consider certain … emergency protocols if the authorities can’t get the contagion under control.”

A moment of silence passes through the group.

Sebastian clears his throat. “I think there’s also a fair chance the English airports have been shut down by the time we get there. If we get there. I personally don’t think it’s worth the risk.”

“All right,” William says. “England’s out of the picture for now. Let’s talk south, then.” He points to the map. “I say that’s the least attractive choice. We’ll be moving away from the oceans and farther inland. We’ll also place ourselves among all the big cities of Germany, France and Poland. Not to mention—once again—that the whole of central Europe might soon become a war zone.”

“We could make a short stop for gas somewhere in Germany,” Josefine suggests. “Then head on south. Head for Spain, or maybe even Africa.”

“Most of northern Africa is desert,” Sebastian remarks. “Which means tough climate and not many natural resources. And the cities there are packed with people. If the infection reaches that continent, it would be a bad place to be.”

“I also think Germany will be overrun by zombies and fugitives within a day or two,” William adds.

“How about east?” Henrik says, pointing to Russia on the map. “Why did we disqualify that right away? I mean, most of Eurasia is empty wastelands, but the climate is decent. We could head out into the middle of nowhere and wait out the situation.”

“I like that,” William says. “That’s a far-looking, low-risk plan.”

“I’m not sure it’s doable, though,” Sebastian says. “It’s simply too far away.”

“We can stop in Sweden and get more gas,” William suggests.

Sebastian shakes his head. “We’d have to make more than one stop. You’re forgetting how large Russia is. Even to get past Moscow, would take up five or six full tanks. By that time, the helicopter will need a service check. And we’d be running low on food and water. And how far into the wasteland could we go before we run out of places to stop for fuel?” He shrugs. “I think we’d end up stranded.”

Another moment of silence.

“Okay, then north is the last option,” William concludes. “Norway or Sweden?”

“It would make little difference which one we choose,” Henrik says. “They’re basically the same peninsula.”

“Then what’s the long-term plan?” Josefine asks. “Do we just find a cottage way up above the artic circle and try to survive the winter?”

“Hey!” William exclaims, snapping his fingers and looking at Josefine with elation. “You just said it. The arctic climate! That might be exactly what we need.”

Everyone looks at him uncomprehending.

“How so?” Sebastian asks.

“The freezing weather might stop the zombies. Don’t you see? They’ve got no pulse, no heartbeat or metabolism or anything; Dorte told us that. Wouldn’t that mean they’ll basically turn to ice if they venture into a climate with temperatures below thirty?”

“That … that might happen,” Henrik says.

“But we would have no way of knowing for sure,” Josefine adds. “And if they don’t, wouldn’t we be trapped if we go to the northern most part of Norway and Sweden? I mean, there would be nowhere else to go besides the Arctic Sea.”

The group falls silent once more. They all look at the map, then at each other.

“Wait, what’s that?” Dan asks, pointing to a small group of islands between Iceland and England.

“That’s the Faroe Islands,” Sebastian says.

“Why don’t we head there?”

“Uhm, because that’s well beyond five hundred miles,” William reminds him.

“Yes, but with a stopover in Norway, we could reach it—couldn’t we?”

Sebastian eyes the map, considering it. “I guess it could be done, yes. But talk about being stranded—isn’t a small island in the middle of the North Atlantic the most stranded place to be?”

“Stranded,” Henrik agrees, “or isolated?”

“I think I see where you’re going with this,” William jumps in. “The Faroe Islands are small enough to defend. There aren’t many people up there, and it’s far enough away that not many others will be able to make it there, even if they wanted to. It’s fertile enough to grow crops and civilized enough that they have all the machines and technology we’d need.” He talks faster and faster. “Looking at it long-term, I think it might be our best bet. And besides, if things turn too hot, we would still have the helicopter and we could get out of there again.”

Yet again, the group falls silent, but this time, it’s different. This time, they all look at each other with careful optimism, waiting to see if anybody comes up with an objection. Once nobody does, William claps his hands together.

“Perfect. It’s settled, then.”

FORTY-THREE

“Everyone ready?” William calls out. “Let’s get boarded. Please get to gate 6 and have your passport ready.”

They’ve spent ten minutes making the helicopter ready, pulling out Josefine’s dad and placing him next to the still-tied-up zombie mother and daughter. Josefine kissed him on the forehead, which made Dan choke up.

For the first time in several hours, he thinks of his mother. The only consolation is that she didn’t end up a zombie, didn’t get eaten alive like so many others. She ended things on her own terms.

They pulled out both gurneys and some additional stuff which only served to take up space. The inside of the helicopter feels a little less crammed now, and they’ll just be able to fit inside all nine of them. Sebastian has made improvised seat belts for all of them, using nylon straps secured to the walls.

“Wait, we’re missing someone,” Dan’s father says, just as Dan is about to climb up. “Where’s Nasira and Ali?”

Dan looks around and sees them standing off to the side. Nasira is bent over and talking to Ali, her hands placed on his shoulders, and Ali is staring up at her with wide, terrified eyes.

“Nasira!” William calls out. “It’s time to go!”

She doesn’t react to William’s call right away. Instead, she pulls her brother into a tight embrace, and Dan can see him beginning to cry against her shoulder.

Oh, no, Dan thinks with a sinking feeling in his gut. Something’s wrong …

Then, Nasira takes Ali’s hand and walks over to them.

“What was that about?” William asks, frowning. “It looked like a goodbye.”

“It was,” Nasira says. “I’m not coming with you. But Ali is.”

“Why?” Dan blurts out before William can. “Why aren’t you coming, Nasira?”

She looks at him, her dark eyes shiny with tears, but her lips still smiling at the corners. “Because of this,” she says calmly, holding up her hand and spreading out the fingers to reveal a thin cut on the inside of her ring finger. The skin is turning pink around the cut.

“Oh, shit!” William backs away a couple of steps, grabbing Dan by the shoulder. “Is that from a zombie?”

“It is,” Nasira says, still very calm.

“How did you get it?” William asks, glancing over at the two zombies. “I didn’t see you go anywhere near them?”

“I didn’t. I got it yesterday. In the car. Right before Henrik came and saved us. The girl scratched me just as I was trying to close the window.”

“Shit!” William shouts. “And you’ve had it the whole time? And you didn’t tell us? Jesus Christ!”

“What’s the problem?” Henrik asks, joining them. “Why are you shouting like that, William?”

“She’s infected!” William exclaims, pointing accusatorily at Nasira. “She’s been infected the whole damn time!”

Dan sees his father looking at Nasira, then down at her hand, then back up at her face. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he says.

“Sorry?” William says. “She’s been lying to us.”

“Please, let me explain,” Nasira says. “I know I’ve been wrongfully keeping the truth from you, and I’m sorry for that. But I always intended to tell you when the time was right.”

“The time was right the moment you got the scratch!” William shouts.

“William,” Henrik says, his voice unusually demanding. “Please, calm down. Nothing’s happened.”

“How do you know? How do you know she didn’t infect anyone else?”

“I didn’t touch anybody except my brother,” Nasira goes on. “And I was very careful so as to not scratch him. I’m the only one sick. You can believe me.”

“The hell I can,” William mutters, turning away.

Dan and his father look at Nasira and Ali crying by her side.

“You understand, don’t you?” she asks, looking at them in turn. “I just wanted to spend a little more time with my brother in this lifetime.”

Dan feels a lump form in his throat the size of an orange. He tries to say something, but can’t, so he simply nods.

“Oh, Nasira,” his father says. “I’m really very sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Nasira says. “Just promise to take care of Ali.”

“I will,” Henrik says right away. “We all will.”

“I knew you would,” she says, smiling. “He doesn’t understand, he’s too young, and he’s already lost both his parents. So please bear with him through the grief.”

“We will,” Dan’s father repeats, this time his voice is choked.

Nasira nods, smiles, then looks down at Ali and tells him something in Arabic. He begins to cry even more and clutches her.

“I told him it’s time to go,” she says to Dan and his father.

The rest of the group has joined them without Dan even noticing. Apparently, William has told them the bad news, because they’re all just staring at Nasira.

Josefine steps forward, holding out her hand at Ali. “Come with me, Ali.”

“Please, go with Josefine,” Nasira says, gently nudging Ali forward.

“Wait,” Dan hears himself say—at first, it’s not loud enough for anyone to hear, so he repeats it: “Wait!”

Nasira looks at him and smiles. “It’s okay, Dan. There’s no need to—”

“When did you say you got that scratch?”

“Yesterday.”

“Around noon?”

Nasira thinks for a moment. “Yes. But what does it matter?”

Dan shakes his head firmly. “That can’t be from a zombie, then. You wouldn’t still be alive.”

William looks over at him. “You sure about that?”

“A hundred percent. I’ve seen … I’ve seen people die from scratches that small.” The image of Jennie pops into his head, and he needs to take a deep breath in order to go on. “They didn’t even live half an hour. The fever came within ten minutes or so.” He looks at William and the rest of them. “Think about it; you’ve probably all seen people die. How long did it take? Certainly not a day and a half. Plus, Nasira isn’t even spiking a fever yet!”

They all look at Nasira.

She looks at Dan, and for once, the smile on her lips wavers. “I’m certain this scratch was made by a dead person; I felt it happen. Her nail grazed me.”

“That does look like the cut from a fingernail,” William adds.

“Well, it can’t be,” Dan persists. “It just can’t. It makes no sense.”

“Maybe it is,” his father says, looking at Nasira thoughtfully. “And maybe something else is going on here.”

“Like what?” William asks.

Henrik is silent for a moment. “Nasira believes in God,” he says. “Very much so. Maybe her faith is somehow … I don’t know, protecting her, slowing the infection down. Hell, maybe it’s even fighting it off.”

William immediately shakes his head. “That’s just silly. How would faith fight off a virus? I hate to be the buzzkill here, but I heard about a study on prayers, where they tested praying for sick people, and it made no difference.”

Dan’s father ignores William and looks instead at Dan. “You told us how this whole thing started. It wasn’t a medical experiment gone wrong or a super virus made in a laboratory … it was voodoo. Voodoo is a belief system.”

Dan nods slowly, looking at Nasira, his heart pounding away in his chest. “I think … I think my dad could be right. Dorte told us this wasn’t traceable in any way in the body. I’ve thought about that a lot. I don’t think this is a physical disease; I think it’s a spiritual one.”

“Oh, come on,” William blurts out.

“How else would you explain it?” Dan says, turning to William. “You heard what Dorte said.”

“Okay, so, spiritual or not,” William says, running a hand through his hair. “What do we do?”

“I say we bring her,” Dan says right away.

“What?”

“We need to find out what happens to her.”

“Dan’s right,” his father agrees. “Nasira might give us the answer to this. Maybe even a cure.”

“I agree this could be something important,” Sebastian chimes in. “But what if she dies while we’re in the air? It’ll take us at least six hours to reach Norway, and once we’re over open water, there’ll be nowhere to land.”

William is about to say something when someone screams behind them.

Dan whirls around and sees Eli standing by the carpet with the rolled-up zombie woman inside it. Somehow, she’s managed to squeeze out one arm and has clawed her way over to Eli. She’s now holding on to his ankle as he kicks at her frantically to get her off.

“Let go! Let go of me!” he screams.

“Goddamnit,” Dan’s father utters.

“Help me!” Eli screams as he falls on his ass and tries to crawl away backwards, only managing to drag the woman and the carpet along. “Someone please help me!”

Dan automatically steps forward, not even sure what he’s going to do to help Eli, when William comes rushing in from the side. He stops a few paces away, aims the rifle and pulls the trigger.

The head of the woman bounces off the ground, and then she lies completely still. Her hand lets go of Eli’s leg and he’s free to squirm away, panting and sobbing.

William steps over to the girl and begins reloading the rifle. From the SUV, Dan can hear the man roaring and throwing himself against the inside of the door, causing the car to sway back and forth.

“Don’t you do it! Don’t you fucking do it! You get away from her! You get away from my dau—”

The guy is cut off as William pulls the trigger again, executing the girl with a single, well-placed shot.

Inside the car, the guy’s shouting turns to inarticulate cries of anguish.

William turns to the group with a grim look on his face. “It’s better this way,” he mutters. “They won’t cause trouble for anyone else.”

No one disagrees—except for the guy in the SUV.

William hands the rifle to Dan, then walks over to Eli, who’s still sitting on the heather, breathing fast, staring at the dead woman who almost got him.

“Hey, you,” William says, stopping in front of him. “Show me your ankle.”

Eli looks up at him, squinting, his lips quivering. “Wh … what?”

“Take off your shoe. Show me your ankle. Are you hurt?”

There’s no compassion in William’s voice; he’s obviously not asking out of concern for Eli’s well-being. Eli is wearing black, worn-down Converse canvas shoes, the kind with high shafts, covering the ankles.

Eli shakes his head and wipes snot from his upper lip with the back of his hand. “She … she didn’t scratch me … nothing happened …”

“Show me your ankle,” William repeats calmly. “Or you’re not coming on that helicopter.”

“Come on,” Eli says. Then, when William doesn’t budge, he looks around at the rest of them, apparently looking for support. They all just stare back at him in silence. “Are you really going to make me do this?” Eli says, something like hurt in his voice now. “Can’t you just take my word for it?”

“Your word isn’t worth much,” William says plainly. “That shoe comes off, or you stay here.”

Eli scowls at him for a moment, the shock of being grabbed by the zombie completely gone from his face now. Then, with brisk movements, he unties the shoe and pulls it off.

“There! You see? No scratch marks.”

“Hold on,” William says, as Eli is about to put the shoe back on. “Let me see …”

Eli holds out his foot with a sigh of annoyance, and William steps closer, leaning in to study it.

“Turn it over,” he mutters.

Eli does so.

“Dan, come over here,” William says without taking his eyes off the foot. “Tell me if you see anything.”

Dan steps over and takes a look. There are no marks of any kind that he can see.

“I think it’s clean,” he says.

“Clean is the last word I’d use,” William says, wrinkling his nose. “It smells like shit. When’s the last time you showered?”

“Fuck you,” Eli mutters.

“But I don’t see any scratch marks, either,” William says, addressing the group. “I think he’s okay.”

“Great,” Eli says. “Can I put my fucking shoe back on now?”

“You can. Now, let’s get out of here before more trouble finds us.”

FORTY-FOUR

Dennis used to be a heavy sleeper before all of this happened. He would usually be gone the minute his head hit the pillow. Now, every time he lies down, it’s a struggle to even drift off.

And tonight is no different; in fact, tonight is worse. Because tonight, he doesn’t even have Mom sleeping next to him.

Instead, he’s lying on a couch in Holger’s upstairs bedroom. Like the rest of the house, this room is crammed with unusual stuff like pieces of machinery, tools, piles of books and weird posters all over the walls. There’s a slanting window showing him a rectangular cutout of the black night sky. Dennis tries to identify any constellations to get his mind off of things—but he only knows Orion and the Big Dipper, and he can’t see either of them from this angle.

His digital Spiderman watch has a nifty button that lights up the screen, and Dennis keeps checking the time every five minutes or so. The clock is getting close to midnight.

Is Mom sleeping right now?

He tries to imagine her, down in the bunker, lying on the bed. But he has a hard time picturing Mom sleeping. Instead, he sees her pacing back and forth, waiting impatiently for him to bring her what she needs.

A strand of hair.

From Silas.

Dennis has no idea how he’ll be able to get it without Silas noticing. He was planning to wait until Silas was asleep, but wouldn’t you wake up if someone pulled out one of your hairs?

Dennis’s own hair is golden and buzzcut and a lot shorter than Silas’s. He picks one out at the top of his head and gives a short, hard tug. The pain isn’t too bad. In fact, he could barely feel it.

But will Silas?

And if he does feel it, what will he do to Dennis?

Still, Dennis knows there’s no way around it. Mom needs him. He can’t fail her. He needs to try.

Dennis takes a deep breath, and at that exact moment, the television turns off downstairs. He’s been listening to the hum of it all evening, but now the house falls completely quiet.

A voice from downstairs: “Going to bed.” Silas.

Another voice replies: “Did you check the windows?” Jonas.

Dennis holds his breath and strains to hear.

“Uh-huh. You sleeping downstairs?”

“Nah, I think I’ll crash here. Hey, since you’re up, could you grab me another beer?”

“You getting hammered might not be the smartest move.”

“Fine, I’ll get it myself.”

“We’ve got a lot of work cut out for us the next couple of days.”

“Sure, Mom. You sleep tight now.”

“Asshole.”

Snorting laughter. Then, footsteps across the floor. A door opens and closes again. Silence.

Dennis just lies there for a couple of seconds, his heart throbbing in his throat.

From what he just heard, Jonas went to bed—probably in Holger’s bedroom. But Silas stayed up. He wanted another beer. And he’s going to sleep on the couch in the living room.

If Silas gets drunk, maybe he’ll sleep heavier. Maybe this is the chance Dennis needs.

He waits fifteen minutes, waiting for Silas to hopefully drift off. He tries to prepare himself. Tries to come up with an excuse in case Silas wakes up and sees him reaching for his hair.

He can’t use the bug thing again; Silas will see right through that. The more he thinks of it, the more he realizes there is no good excuse for him to be sneaking up on Silas while he sleeps and trying to pluck a hair from his head. If he does wake up, Dennis will simply have to take the trash.

Maybe Silas will beat him up. Maybe he’ll even kill him. Most likely, though, he’ll lock him up with Mom. And honestly, that would probably be the best thing to happen to him right now—even if he had to take a beating first.

Besides, that way he could bring the hair to Mom. As long as Silas doesn’t notice it, and a hair shouldn’t be difficult to hide in your hand; Dennis has already succeeded in it once.

The thought of being with Mom again gives Dennis just enough courage to get up and leave the room. Luckily, neither the door nor floorboards creak as he slips out to the stairs. He walks down one step at a time, touching the banister lightly with his fingertips and listening intently for any sounds.

Halfway down, the staircase turns, and by crouching down, Dennis can peer through the banister and get a view over the living room.

The room is dark except for a single point of light which immediately draws his eye. On the couch facing the turned-off television lies Silas, his head resting on the armrest. The light comes from his phone, which he’s browsing, the display lighting up his greasy forehead.

He reaches out one hand and, without taking his eyes off the phone, grabs a beer can from the coffee table. He chugs down several big gulps, then lets out a burb and resumes scrolling on the phone.

Dennis feels pretty safe from where he’s crouching, the banisters are mostly hiding him, and even if Silas gets up and looks over here, he’ll have time to slip back upstairs before he sees him. So, he decides to stay where he is and wait.

Turns out, he only needs to wait a few minutes.

Silas suddenly mutters: “Well, fuck you too, bitch,” then turns off his phone and throws it haphazardly onto the table.

Then he yawns and turns onto his side, facing the back of the couch, folding his arms across his chest.

Dennis’s eyes are used to the dark by now, and he can make out a lock of Silas’s thick, brown hair dangling over the armrest.

Dennis can’t believe his luck.

It’s almost like the hair is inviting him.

Dennis waits another ten minutes or so—although it feels more like ten hours. He wants to make sure Silas is sound asleep. Soon, he begins snoring.

Okay, it’s time. I can do this.

He gets up from his crouched position, his knees aching from sitting there so long, and begins slowly moving down the last steps.

He manages to reach the living room floor without making any noises, and he makes his way towards the couch, making sure not to touch any of Holger’s stuff.

The living room is completely quiet besides Silas’s snoring, and Dennis hardly dares to breathe. One step at a time, he edges closer to the couch, moving in from the side. His eyes are so focused on Silas’s hair that he doesn’t notice much else.

That’s why it’s not until he’s within reach of the couch that he sees the rifle leaning against the table, its barrel pointing up to the ceiling.

Dennis feels his gut tighten at the sight of the weapon. It’s like it reminds him just how risky this is. He has no way of knowing how Silas will react if he wakes up. Maybe he’ll simply grab the rifle and shoot Dennis dead, not even asking any questions.

Maybe I should take the rifle?

The thought almost makes him jump. It’s crazy, of course. He wouldn’t have the nerve to use it on anyone, not even Silas. He’s not a killer.

So he decides to press on as planned. He fixes his gaze back on Silas’s hair. And just as he manages to force his hand to move forward, Silas’s phone lights up on the table and sends out a deafening BLEE-BLEEP!

The sound really isn’t that loud, but Dennis reacts to it like it was a gunshot. He drops to his hands and knees just as Silas gives off a grunt and begins to move.

Dennis makes himself as small as possible, not daring to move a muscle, holding his breath, listening to Silas turn around on the couch.

Turning his head ever so slightly, Dennis can make out the coffee table and the gun resting against it out of the corner of his eye. He expects Silas to reach out a hand and take the phone, but no hand comes into view.

Instead, Silas smacks his lips, clears his throat, and then falls silent again. A few seconds later, he begins snoring again.

Dennis’s heart is pounding so hard in his chest, his vision is going blurry and he feels light-headed, as though he could faint any minute.

It’s okay. He didn’t wake up. Not really. It’s okay. He’s gone back to sleep.

He tries desperately to reassure himself, and it slowly works, his heart rate falling gradually to a steadier level. The sweat is prickling all over his back, and his hands are shaking now. He waits another couple of minutes for his body to relax a little.

Once he feels relatively okay again, he dares to look up. Silas’s hair is right in front of him, still hanging over the armrest, even though Silas is now facing the other way.

Dennis lifts up his hand and carefully touches the hair, trying to single out a strand. It’s hard because his hand is shaking, and he bites down hard in an effort to make it stop.

Surprisingly, it actually works. Dennis manages to grab a single hair and hold it tightly.

Here goes …

He holds his breath and yanks at the strand of hair.

He hears the tiny pluck as the hair comes off.

And then it’s in his hand.

There are no other sounds.

Silas doesn’t even move or pause snoring.

Dennis can hardly believe it.

I … I did it … I did it!

The initial elation is quickly subdued as he remembers the fact that he’s still only ten inches away from Silas and that he could wake up any moment.

Dennis turns his head and looks back over at the staircase. It seems awfully far away. Also, it’s no good going back upstairs, Dennis realizes with a sinking feeling, as he finally sees the glaring hole in his plan: he needs to bring the hair to Mom right away. She told him it needed to be fresh. He can’t hold on to it until tomorrow and then find a way to get it to her; that would be too late, and all the trouble he has just gone through will be for nothing.

The trouble is, Mom is locked in the bunker, and Silas has the key.

The thought of the key makes Dennis instinctively look to the coffee table. And there, between the beer cans, is the large keychain he saw Silas use to lock the door to Mom’s room.

Suddenly, plucking a hair off Silas’s head seems like an easy task compared to picking up a rattling keychain lying on a table right in front of Silas’s face.

But Dennis knows there’s no other way. He’s in it now, and he needs to push on.

He shifts the strand of hair carefully to his left hand, freeing up his right. Then he makes a crab-like step sideways, moving closer to the table without getting up from his kneeling position.

It’s enough to get him within reaching distance of the keys.

It also places him in plain view of Silas’s face. He glances sideways and sees Silas sleeping with an open mouth, one hand resting under his chin like a toddler. Dennis is close enough to smell the beer on his breath.

It’s okay, he’s deep asleep. Just do it.

Dennis focuses on the keys and reaches out his hand, moving over the beer cans and stopping for a moment to hover over the keychain.

Then, like a crane, he lowers it ever so slowly. His fingertips touch the metal, and he curls them around the ring. He then pulls it back up just as slowly. As the keys lift off the table, they come together and give off a low clinging rattle.

Dennis pauses for half a heartbeat, not daring to turn his head around and look at Silas. But once he hears him continue snoring, Dennis is able to move again, pulling back his arm. He doesn’t dare put the keys in his pocket, so he simply holds them out like a grenade with the pin removed as he clumsily gets to his feet. He moves carefully backwards a few steps, then turns around and begins walking away, when—

Suddenly, a noise cuts through the silence. It’s a weird sound, bumpy and scratchy at the same time, and it comes from behind Dennis, so at first, he takes it to be Silas falling to the floor for some reason. But as he spins around, he sees Silas still lying on the couch.

The noise comes again, and this time, Dennis can tell it’s coming from the other end of the living room—from outside the window. Now there’s the sound of nails whining against glass and a guttural groan, too, and the pieces fall into place in Dennis’s mind.

It’s a dead person outside. They’re trying to—

His thoughts are cut off as Silas jumps to his feet with surprising speed, grabbing the rifle and aiming it wildly in the direction of the noise.

“Oh, fuck me,” he mutters, as he realizes there’s no immediate danger, and he lowers the rifle again while turning around. “What a way to wake up …”

He doesn’t see Dennis right away, but when he does, he freezes. For a couple of seconds, they just stare at each other, Silas’s eyes scanning up and down Dennis, stopping at the keychain hanging from his hand. His expression turns dark with comprehension.

“Where the fuck are you going?”

FORTY-FIVE

Dennis tries to speak, but only manages a croaking groan.

“Huh?” Silas asks, moving closer. “I didn’t catch that?”

The rifle in his hand is pointed down at an angle, aimed at Dennis’s knees. He instinctively moves backwards, bumps into a chair and knocks over a pile of books which goes crashing to the floor.

Silas doesn’t even flinch; he just stares at Dennis and keeps moving closer.

“I asked you a question, Dennis. Where are you going with my keys?”

Dennis can’t speak. He gapes and shakes his head, trying to force out the words, but nothing comes. He wants to turn and run, but he can’t. Instead, he stumbles over the books and bumps into the wall.

Silas stops a few paces away, places the rifle at his shoulder and aims at Dennis’s chest. “Start talking, Dennis.”

“No, no, no, don’t shoot! Please don’t shoot! I’m sorry!” Dennis blurts out, dropping the keys and holding his hands up in front of him, as though they could stop the bullet. “I’m sorry, Silas! I didn’t mean to steal the keys!”

“Then why did you?” Silas asks calmly, not lowering the rifle.

“Please don’t shoot,” Dennis pleads, as his lower lip begins trembling and his eyes fill up with tears. Silas is going to kill him now, he knows that, and he can’t help the tears from coming. “I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry!”

“Aw, stop crying,” Silas sneers. “That’s fucking pathetic, you big pussy.”

Dennis tries to stop, but that only makes it worse. He loses control over his bladder, and warm urine starts spilling down his shorts and runs down his leg.

“What the fuck?” Silas exclaims as he sees the pee. “Are you fucking pissing yourself? Jesus Christ, how old are you, man? Three?”

“I’m sorry,” Dennis sobs. “Please don’t kill me.”

“Then tell me why you stole my fucking keys!” Silas shouts, stepping forward and jabbing the barrel into Dennis’s collarbone, forcing him up against the wall. “What were you planning, you fucking little thief? Huh? You were gonna make a run for it while we slept? Run away like a big cry baby, huh?”

“N-no!” Dennis sobs. “I just … I just … g-got scared, and … I … I wa-wanted to see my m-mom …”

“You wa-wanted to see your m-mom?” Silas mocks him, disgust in his voice. “And you took it upon yourself to make it happen, did you?”

Light comes into the room as the bedroom door is opened. Dennis turns his head to see Jonas standing there, only wearing boxers.

“The fuck is going on?” he asks, looking from Silas and Dennis to the window where the dead person is still scraping the glass.

“Please don’t let him k-kill me, Jonas!” Dennis blurts out.

“We had a couple of nightcrawlers,” Silas tells his brother, ignoring Dennis. “The one outside and this one here. He snuck down here and took my keys. Says he wanted to go see his mama.”

“I … I got scared when I heard that thing outside,” Dennis pleads, looking from Jonas to Silas. “Please don’t shoot me!”

Jonas moans and rubs his eye. “Put the fucking rifle away, will you? He’s scared shitless.”

“I know he is, because he just pissed himself, that disgusting little fucktard!”

Jonas comes closer. “Let him go, Silas. He’s not right in the head, don’t you get that? He’s, like, a retard or something. You can’t treat him like that.”

“Oh, but he can fuck around with me? Steal my keys and whatnot?” Silas finally moves the rifle to turn on his brother.

“You’re drunk,” Jonas says, sounding very tired. “It’s been a long fucking couple of days. Can’t we just get some goddamn sleep?”

“Don’t you think that’s what I was doing before this prick came snooping around? You think we should just go to sleep and let him do whatever the hell he wants just because he’s a retard?”

Jonas looks briefly at Dennis. “Let him go sleep with his mom. Just lock them in there together. I don’t get why you didn’t do that in the first place.”

Silas grinds his teeth and glances at Dennis. “I don’t like them being together. I think they’ll get up to something if they get the chance.”

“What are they going to do? Build a lasso out of the bedsheets and strangle us the next time we come down there? Get a grip, man.”

Silas doesn’t answer; he just keeps eyeing Dennis. Dennis is trembling all over, following the conversation closely. He’s starting to feel a faint hope that Jonas might actually talk Silas out of killing him. But the way Silas is staring at him right now makes him second-guess that possibility; there’s rage in Silas’s eyes.

“Besides, we’ve got a bigger problem,” Jonas goes on, gesturing towards the window. “Those things out there might draw others’ attention. We should get rid of them.”

Silas doesn’t answer, he just keeps staring at Dennis, his lips moving almost imperceptibly.

“Silas?”

“What?”

“Are you going to kill that thing outside, or you want me to do it?”

Silas suddenly turns on his heel and marches to the window. He pulls aside the curtains, reveals a fat lady squeezing against the glass. Before anybody has time to react, Silas has unlocked the window, grabbed the handle and swung it open. The bars still stop the dead lady, put she immediately reaches her thick fingers through.

“Silas!” Jonas begins, but he’s cut off as Silas aims the rifle right between the lady’s eyes and pulls the trigger.

Dennis closes his eyes a second too late, and he sees the lady’s head flip backwards as she falls to the ground and disappears out of sight.

Silas closes and locks the window. “There,” he says, looking at Jonas. “You happy?”

“That wasn’t exactly what I meant,” Jonas mutters. “But I guess it’ll do. Can I go back to bed now?”

“Sure.”

“What about him?” He nods towards Dennis.

“I’ll take him downstairs,” Silas says, suddenly sounding reasonable. “He’ll stay with his mom from now on.”

“Good,” Jonas says and yawns. “See you in the morning.” He goes back inside the bedroom and closes the door.

As soon as Dennis is alone with Silas, he feels the atmosphere change. But Silas doesn’t even look at him; he just picks up the keys and strides towards the kitchen.

“You comin’?” he calls over his shoulder.

FORTY-SIX

They’ve been flying less than twenty minutes, but to Eli, time is no longer important. For all he knows, he could have been in the helicopter for hours or even days, listening to the deep whooping and feeling the pleasant rumbling from the floor and wall.

He’s sitting all the way in the back, legs crossed, leaning against the wall, secured in place by a strap around his waist. A vacant smile is resting on his face, his eyelids keep closing halfway, then opening again.

In front of him is the Arabic girl and her brother, both of them sleeping, leaning against each other. Farther off sits Dan and his father, and next to Eli is William and his dog—

What was its name again? Cooper? Izzy? No, it was some other Rockstar …

Eli’s memory isn’t working. He’s very tired, exhausted really; he hasn’t slept for over twenty-four hours, and he’s sure he will drift off any minute. But part of him doesn’t want to go just yet. That part wants to keep enjoying the effect of the drug coursing through his body.

He managed to grab the bottle as they boarded the helicopter without anybody noticing. It had fallen to the floor, so he simply needed to bend down and scoop it up, covering the gesture by pretending to check his shoelaces—which was a pretty fucking stupid misdirection, now that he thinks of it, something you’d do to trick a child.

Oh, well, no matter. It worked.

He got the bottle. Percocet, the label read. Eli had tried them before. They killed not only physical pain, but the emotional kind, too.

How many did I take?

He has no idea. The bottle is more than halfway empty, so he probably shouldn’t take anymore.

Which is fine. He’s gotten what he needed. Relief. Sweet, blissful relief. And The Demon Voice is completely gone.

Eli leans his head back and breathes deeply, resting his attention on the simmering sensation in his arms and legs.

How could he ever have believed it was possible to live without this feeling? This is obviously the greatest thing a human being could experience; the absolute peak state, free from even the slightest discomfort, where nothing existed but peace and pleasure. Come to think of it, Eli suspects it could be the meaning of life itself.

He rubs his legs absentmindedly, enjoying the feel of his palms against his bare shins. Funny how one of them feels a little thicker than the other. Also, there’s a faint throbbing in one of them.

Eli looks down dreamily. The skin on his left leg is weirdly reddish, the coloring growing more prominent towards the shoe. It’s also swollen visibly.

Oh, that’s right, Eli thinks. The scratch.

He’s about to untie his shoe to look at it—more out of curiosity than concern—but then remembers he’s not alone. Some of the others might notice him doing it.

They can’t know about the scratch. William said he’d kick me off the helicopter.

Eli sniggers as a funny image drops into his mind: A cartoon helicopter flying across the sky, and a cartoon version of himself being booted out the back hatch. He’s looking at the camera with big, startled eyes and there’s an exclamation point hovering above his head.

There was nothing funny about the scratch when he got it, though. He remembers feeling terrified. Now, looking back, he doesn’t really get it, though. Why would he freak out over something like that? Sure, it means he’s going to die, but aren’t they all? This is the end of the world, after all. The Zombie Apocalypse.

“They didn’t even live half an hour. The fever came within ten minutes.”

Dan’s voice suddenly reverberates in his mind. And, now that he thinks about it, he actually does have a fever; he feels warm, and sweat is trickling down his back and forehead. He hardly feels it, though. The Percocet has made sure of that. Also, the way his leg is looking, Eli is sure it would hurt like hell had he not been medicated out of his mind right now.

Eli realizes he’s actually worried. The fear is trying to come creeping back. He automatically reaches for his pocket and takes out the pill bottle. He pops it open discretely and takes three more, swallowing them in one gulp.

There. I’ll feel better in a minute, he assures himself and closes his eyes.

His mind drifts back to when he had just gotten the scratch, back to when the zombie woman had caught his foot. He still can’t believe he got away with it. That William actually fell for the trick. In the moment, Eli had thought it would never fly. But he did it anyway, hoping against hope.

It was so simple.

Elegant, really.

When William demanded he show them his foot, Eli had simply showed him the right one. Not the left one, which of course was the one the woman had grabbed.

William probably hadn’t had time to notice, it all went by so fast. And none of the others protested, either.

Eli smiles, feeling satisfied with himself. The effect of the three additional pills feels like it’s kicking in already. He’s drifting off further into the pleasant mist of peace deep inside his mind, where he’ll be beyond any intruding thoughts.

Eli decides he’s fought it off long enough and simply lets go.

It feels like sinking into black water, or rather, like the black water rises up and engulfs him very gently, drowning out everything else.

But Eli doesn’t stop there.

He drifts off farther down than he’s ever gone, down below the normal drug-induced slumber, sinking even past deep unconsciousness, reaching a coma-like state, and still he’s drifting, on and on, deeper and deeper, headed for the deepest level, approaching the depth you don’t ascend from ever again.

Eli stops breathing. It happens very quietly. No one else in the helicopter notices.

For about sixty seconds, nothing happens.

Eli isn’t there. He’s gone. Obliterated. The idea of Eli has been erased completely.

Then, there’s something.

It’s like the Big Bang, defying all logic, breaking all the natural laws as something appears out of nothing.

A spark in the darkness.

And then, Eli is suddenly there again. Except it’s not him, not really, not all of him, at least. And the thing that once was part of Eli begins slowly to rise up from where nothing is supposed to return …

FORTY-SEVEN

Dennis has got a bad feeling. Something tells him Silas is still furious, even though he doesn’t show it anymore.

But he has no other choice than follow Silas down to the bunker.

As they walk through the tunnel, Silas doesn’t look back or even speak once. He uses the key to unlock the metal door, and they enter the lit-up bunker.

Silas goes to unlock the door to the bathroom. But just as he puts in the key, he stops. He steps back and waves the rifle at Dennis. “You open it.”

Dennis hesitates for a moment, then walks to the door and turns the key. He opens the door.

Mom is sitting on the bunk, wearing her white gown, her hands folded in her lap. It looks like she was just sleeping. She smiles briefly as she sees him. “Hello, Dennis.”

“Mom,” he croaks, almost beginning to cry again. “I’m sorry, Mom … I messed it up …”

“Don’t start crying again,” Silas warns him from behind. “I can’t take any more of that. Just get in there.”

Dennis walks to Mom and embraces her clumsily. She holds him and places a kiss on his temple.

“It’s okay, Dennis. Say, why are you wet?”

“I … I, uhm …”

“He pissed himself,” Silas says from the doorway. “Some brave boy you raised, lady.”

Dennis looks back at Silas, who’s scowling at them from the doorway. Then he notices Mom’s face. Her expression is like ice, as she says in a low tone: “He’s done things you can’t even imagine.”

“Oh, really? Like what? Tie his own shoelaces? No, that’s probably too difficult for him.”

Mom doesn’t answer; she just strokes Dennis’s hair. Dennis looks at Silas, waiting for what comes next. To his relief, it looks like he’s lost interest in the conversation, and for a second, he actually seems about to slam the door.

Then it’s like he notices something with Mom. He squints. “The fuck are you doing? Are you knitting a doll?”

Dennis notices the knitted doll lying next to Mom on the bed. There’s a ball of yarn, too, and the knitting needles are still attached to the almost-finished legs.

Mom doesn’t reply, just looks at Silas.

“What’s that you’re wearing, anyway?” Silas goes on. “A nightgown? Who the fuck wears a nightgown nowadays? Whaddya think this is, the eighteen hundreds?”

Silas snorts a brief laughter. Mom still doesn’t answer.

“You know,” Silas goes on, eyeing Mom intently now. “It actually suits you. Makes you look almost attractive, some might say.”

Still, Mom doesn’t say anything.

Dennis is puzzled at the weird change in Silas’s demeanor. He’s trying hard to figure out why he’s suddenly talking like that.

Then Silas does something which for some reason terrifies Dennis to his core: he licks his lips.

“You know, Dennis,” he says, waving the rifle again. “I think I’d like a moment alone with your mom. We need to hash something out between us. You know, boring grown-up stuff.”

“No,” Dennis says, shaking his head. “No, I don’t want to leave.”

“It wasn’t really a request,” Silas says, aiming the barrel at his face. “Get out of here. Now. It’ll only be a couple minutes.”

Dennis shakes his head again, embracing Mom tightly, squeezing her. For some reason, he’s scared out of his mind to let Silas alone with Mom.

“It’s okay, Dennis,” Mom says, her voice still surprisingly calm.

“No, Mom! He’ll just hurt you!”

“Nah, I wouldn’t hurt a pretty lady like your mom,” Silas says, sounding almost playful now, which only scares Dennis even more. “Now, get the fuck out of here, Dennis, before I hurt you instead.”

“No!” Dennis cries out, shaking his head again.

“It’s okay, Dennis,” Mom says again, freeing herself of his grip and catching his eye. “Look at me, Dennis. It’s perfectly fine. I’ll be just fine. We’re just going to talk, like Silas says.”

“Yeah, just talk,” Silas repeats. There’s something slurry in his voice now, like he’s got too much saliva.

“I don’t want to leave you, Mom,” Dennis says, the tears spilling over again. “I don’t want you to be alone with him.” Then, before Mom can say anything, it just spills right out of him in a sobbing whisper: “I had it, Mom. I had the hair. But I lost it again. I’m so sorry. I messed it up. I’m so sorry, Mom.”

“Ssssh,” Mom says, placing a finger on his chin, gently closing his mouth. And when she speaks again, her voice is as warm as Dennis has ever heard it be. “Trust me now, Dennis. It’ll be fine.”

And she smiles at him.

And Dennis almost believes her.

“Last time, Dennis,” Silas says. “Get out of here. And stop crying, that’s such a fucking turn-off.”

Dennis hardly hears him; he keeps looking into Mom’s eyes as he gets up and backs out of the bathroom. Mom keeps smiling at him, even when Silas grabs Dennis by the shoulder and shoves him aside, stepping into the bathroom instead.

And just before Silas slams the door, Dennis gets one last glimpse of Mom, and she’s still smiling at him.

Then, she’s gone.

And Silas locks the door from the inside.

And Dennis is alone in the bunker.

He walks around restlessly for what feels like most of the night. In reality, though, only six minutes pass; he can tell so from the digital clock on the wall.

He listens for sounds from the bathroom, but he hears none.

Then, finally, the door is unlocked and swings open.

Silas comes out, carrying the rifle in one hand and tucking his shirt into his pants with the other, as though he had just changed it. But it’s the same he wore when he got into the room, Dennis remembers.

What has changed is the demeanor on Silas’s face; he’s looking far less playful or mean. Rather, there’s something relaxed and almost tired over him. His hair is also different, and sweat is beading on his forehead. He avoids Dennis’s eyes as he waves the rifle.

“Right, you get in there now.”

Dennis doesn’t need a second invitation; he slips past Silas and into the bathroom. He notices the air in the room being hotter and moister than before. There’s also a salty smell.

Mom is sitting almost exactly like before, her hands folded across her lap. But her dress sits differently on her, and she somehow seems smaller. She doesn’t look at Dennis right away.

Dennis knows something bad has happened to Mom, that Silas did something very mean to her. He can sense it, even though he’s not sure what. She has no visible cuts or bruises, so he probably didn’t beat her up.

“Sleep tight,” Silas says, closing the door and locking it.

Dennis just stands there, staring at Mom. “What … what happened, Mom?”

“Nothing,” Mom says, still avoiding his eyes. Her gaze is distant, and so is her voice.

“Mom?” Dennis says, his voice beginning to shake again. “Please tell me what he did to you.”

Mom shakes her head slowly. At first, Dennis takes it to mean no, she’s not going to tell him, but then she finally meets his eyes, and Dennis is taken aback at how completely changed his mom’s eyes are. All the loving warmth is gone. Left is only icy rage.

“He did nothing to me compared to what I’m going to do to him,” she whispers, the words snaking out over her lips like snakes.

Then she seems to notice how scared Dennis looks, because she tries to smile. “It’s okay now. I’ve got it. You hear me? I got what I need.”

Dennis frowns. “What … what do you mean, Mom?”

She holds up her thumb and forefinger with the tips pinched together. Dennis sees the strand of brown hair glistening between Mom’s fingers.

Dennis stares at his mom as comprehension dawns on him. Mom must have plucked the hair from Silas while he was doing whatever he was doing to her—and he must have been too busy to even notice.

“We’re getting out of here, Dennis—tonight.”

Dennis shakes his head. “But how? I don’t … I don’t get it, Mom … how can a strand of hair get us out of here?”

Mom smiles, and the smile is even more scary than the one Dennis saw on Silas’s face, because it’s completely devoid of anything Dennis relates to his mother.

“Trust me, Dennis,” she says. “Just trust me.”

FORTY-EIGHT

Knut parks the car in the slot closest to the water. At this time of the evening, there are no other cars taking up the harbor, which is just perfect; it means no disturbances.

Knut whistles as he gets out and puts on his beanie, covering his bald head, the binoculars already hanging from around his neck.

Even at eighty-nine, Knut is very active, and bird watching has recently become his biggest passion. Last night, walking along the harbor, he’s almost certain he spotted a ferruginous duck, which is very rare to this part of Sweden. He didn’t have his binoculars, so he couldn’t confirm it, which is why he’s come back, hoping to see it again.

He breathes in the chill summer night, taking in the smell of salt from the calm ocean in front of him and the hum of Göteborg behind him.

Amazing that the duck would come this close to a big city, but that will only make it that much more of a sensation if he sees it again; he might even make it to the local news.

The thought makes him pull up the binoculars and begin scanning the beach head, then the water. The lights from the city reflect in the low waves, creating a mesmerizing flowing pattern.

A few seagulls are circling around a fair distance out, and a couple of crows are rummaging through some garbage thrown on the beach. But no sign of the rare duck.

Knut is intent on spending most of the night here, if that’s what it takes to spot the shy duck. He’s about to walk farther down the harbor, when he suddenly sees it.

Bopping away calmly on the water only fifty feet from the shore is the ferruginous duck, beautiful with its brown colors.

“My, oh my,” Knut whispers, his breath almost fogging up the lenses. “Got you, buddy.”

He can’t believe his luck.

And there’s another one! It emerges from the water only a few yards farther out, probably after a dive for food.

“So, you brought a mate,” Knut smiles, focusing on the second duck. “Can’t wait to meet—”

He freezes as he catches the second duck in clear view—and realizes it’s not a duck at all. The first duck realizes the same and immediately takes flight.

“Oh, no,” Knut mutters. “Don’t scare it away!”

But it’s too late. He groans and focuses again on the newcomer. It’s a person’s head. A girl, judging from the hair clinging to her face.

Someone decided to go for a late-night swim, Knut thinks with disappointment. Typical teenagers. She’s probably been out drinking, too.

He scans the beach again, expecting to find other young people fooling around, but finding nothing. The girl is apparently alone, which strikes him as odd.

He puts down the binoculars and looks out with his naked eye. Despite his age, Knut’s eyesight has remained fine, and he can tell the girl is making her way towards the beach—and that she’s wearing regular clothes instead of a bathing outfit.

What the heck?

She’s already close to the shore, most of her upper body showing now, and the way she walks makes Knut frown. What he at first took to be the uncertain waddling of a drunk person looks more like someone in distress.

Her right arm looks hurt.

“Goodness,” Knut mutters to himself. “Better make sure she’s okay …”

He leaves the parking lot and makes his way across the sand, his boots sinking in slightly as he jogs towards the girl.

“Hello!” he calls out and waves, as the girl apparently doesn’t see him—she’s headed at an angle away from him.

As he calls out, she hesitates, turns her head, looks in his direction, then changes her course.

“Are you okay?” Knut asks her. “What were you doing out there?”

The girl doesn’t answer, but she reaches out her arms and gives off a low moan, a gesture Knut interprets as a plea for help. And he instinctively responds by opening his own arms as they close the distance between them.

Just before they meet, Knut sees the girl’s wounded arm and realizes just how badly mauled it is; large chunks of flesh have been torn off and the bone is clearly showing.

His first thought is that something out at sea attacked her, even though sharks are a rare sight around here. Then, just as he embraces the girl, he gets a glimpse of her face, and a rapid train of thought flies through his mind, ending up at those horrible images he’s seen on television all day from Denmark.

The virus, Knut just has time to think before the girl bites down hard on his collarbone, sinking her teeth deep into his jacket.

He yelps and jerks back, the girl ripping part of his jacket clean off, spitting it out and lunging at him again.

Had he not been standing in sand, Knut might have been able to successfully move out of her way. But the soft ground under his boots allows him only to wobble backwards, almost losing his balance, arms flailing, as he tells the girl to get away, to get back, to not touch him.

She doesn’t listen, though, but just comes at him quicker than he’s seen her move before, and she manages to grab his wrist and pull his hand to her mouth.

“No!” Knut shouts, pulling back his arm hard enough to rip it free, but also hard enough to lose his balance.

He falls flat on his back, knocking the air from his lungs, and the girl wastes no time, throwing herself right on top of him.

Knut fights to get his breath back, fights to keep the girl’s snapping mouth from biting him and her hands from clawing him. It’s impossible, of course, and within half a minute, the girl has torn open his jacket and covered his chest and face in scratch and bite marks.

So this is how I go, Knut thinks with surprising clarity. He’s always imagined dying in his sleep or maybe one day finding a lump somewhere and getting a cancer diagnosis. Being torn apart on a beach at night never entered his imagination.

Then, just as he’s about to stop fighting, he finds some sort of hidden strength and throws the girl off with a strained groan, hard enough for her to roll around a couple of times. It buys him just enough time to get to his feet. He’s hurting all over, and his eyesight is fuzzy, and behind him he can hear the girl getting to her feet, too, and taking up pursuit.

But Knut locks in on his car, determined to not die just quite yet.

Impossibly, he actually makes it back to the Saab, opens the door and gets in with a wince of pain. Just as he slams the door, the girl reaches the car and squeezes up against the window, clawing at it, smearing it in blood, his blood.

“Not like this,” Knut mutters, barely realizing he’s talking, and turns the key.

He backs up, causing the girl to tumble forwards, then drives out of the parking lot and across the harbor, heading for the city.

“Not like this,” he repeats, his eyelids getting heavy as the lights of the city merge into a screen of floating colors.

Knut gives one last sigh and sinks up against the door, letting go of the wheel as his foot goes limp and pushes down the accelerator.

Just wanted to see the duck, is his last thought as he drifts off and the car rams into a storefront, sending glass flying everywhere, waking up everybody within three blocks.

Back down at the harbor lot, the thing that once was Mille Klitgaard has already forgotten all about Knut, who’s blood is still fresh on her lips. Her attention is instead on the thousands of living people all within walking distance, and she’s waddling slowly but determined towards Göteborg—Sweden’s second largest city.

* * *

Want to know how it all began?

Get the FREE prequel novella Day 0 at
nickclausenbooks.com/free

By joining my readers club, you’ll also be the first to know when Day 6 is out.

Sign up at nickclausenbooks.com

Thanks for reading!

Table of Contents

- CONTENT

- FREE BOOK

- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- FORTY-FIVE
- FORTY-SIX
- FORTY-SEVEN
- FORTY-EIGHT