Date: 2020-12-16 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Horror; Zombies; Apocalyptic
Description: The dead have awakened. The world is ending. This is day six. The group of survivors head for the Faroe Islands in the hopes of reaching safety. But their journey won't be easy, as the dead are following them every step of the way, and not everyone is destined to make it.The infection now covers most of mainland Europe, edging still closer to becoming a worldwide pandemic ...

Dead Meat: Day 6

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

A note on guns

THE FOLLOWING EVENTS TAKE PLACE ON
THURSDAY, JULY 31

ONE

“Don’t get sand on it!”

“I won’t, I promise.”

“Good, ’cause if you do, we’re not doing it.”

“Don’t worry, love. I’ll be careful.”

“And don’t use your teeth to open it! Don’t you know you can’t do that?”

“Why not?”

“Because you’ll just tear a hole in it. Then it won’t be much use, will it?”

Ricky sighs and hands over the condom packet to Grace. “Right, I think you better do it, then.”

“I think so too,” she says, smiling at him.

He can’t help but admire how pretty she is, lying there on the blanket in the dim afterglow of the evening, wearing nothing but her top and panties. Coming down here to the beach was her idea, but fooling around was his, and he still can’t believe she said yes—she’s usually very shy whenever they’re out in public. Luckily, he keeps a blanket in the trunk and a rubber in his wallet.

“You’re sure no one’s around?” she asks again, working the packet.

“I’m sure,” he says, darting a look down the coastline. There are no more cars, and the last of the bonfires have been put out. Out at sea, the lights from a single boat blink in the darkness. “All the old folks have gone home by now. There’s a boat out on the water, but they can’t see us up here. We’ve got it all to ourselves.”

He leans in and kisses her cheek.

“I can’t see what I’m doing,” she sniggers, pushing him away.

“Maybe we should just take the chance,” Ricky suggests, kissing her again. “You’re on the pill, aren’t you?”

“No, I’m not, and I’m not having your baby just because you can’t wait a minute. Darn it, this thing is really tough to get open …”

“I told you it was.”

“It’s because you’ve drooled all over it, innit? Made it all slippery.”

“I’m about to drool all over you,” he says playfully, spreading her legs apart.

She laughs, but this time she doesn’t push him away.

Ricky is about to lean in, when a sound cuts through the evening silence. It’s a drawn-out, crunchy sort of sound. Like something heavy being dragged across the sand.

“What was that?” Grace says, sitting up.

“Huh,” Ricky says, looking down over the beachhead. “I don’t know, I think … hey, look. The boat. It’s landed.”

Grace follows his finger as he points. The lights atop the boat are still blinking. “Oh, bugger. You think they’re coming up here then?”

“Dunno, looks like they might.”

“We can’t do it then,” she says, pulling up her trousers.

“No, wait,” Ricky protests. “Come on, love …”

“I’m not doing it with some sailors watching!” she says firmly.

Ricky sighs and pulls up his own pants. He looks down at the boat again, wishing ill on whoever is on it. Then he notices something strange.

“Hold on,” he mutters.

“Wha’?” Grace has already stood up and is putting on her shoes.

“That’s weird, innit? The way it’s tilting sideways?”

She looks down at the boat and shrugs. “No idea. I’ve never parked a boat. Or landed it. Or whatever you call it.”

“Me neither, but I sure don’t think that’s how you do it,” Ricky says, almost talking to himself him. Looking at the boat, he gets an eerie feeling that something isn’t right. It looks like it’s just been sailed straight onto the beach at full speed. It’s halfway free of the water and leaning heavily to the right. Also, judging from the foam spurting from the back, the propeller is still running.

Then he finally realizes what sparked his worry; something only his subconscious caught at first glance.

“Bloody hell,” he says. “The lights. Look at the lights. They’re blinking S-O-S!”

“Wha’?” Grace asks, looking from him to the boat. “You sure?”

“Positive,” Ricky says, jumping to his feet. “They’re in trouble, Grace. We need to help them. Call 9-9-9.”

“I can’t! I left my phone in the car.”

“Then use mine.” Ricky pulls it out and throws it at her.

“What are you going to do?” she asks, catching the cell phone clumsily.

“I dunno!” he says and runs down the beach.

He reaches the boat and stretches his neck to see in through the front windows, but he can’t make out anyone in there. Instead, he jumps up, grabs the railing and pulls himself aboard. He then walks around to the side, still glancing in through the narrow windows. He can’t see anyone, but the inside of the boat looks like there was a big scuffle; things are thrown around, and—Ricky gasps as he sees the blood staining the wall and the floor.

Oh, bollocks! Something seriously bad happened here …

“Ricky!”

He turns his head to look back and sees Grace coming this way, waving his cell phone.

“They’re coming! The police are on their way!”

“Good!” he shouts back. “But stay away, Grace!”

“Wha’?”

“Don’t come over here!”

She stops a fair distance away, looking very worried.

Ricky is just about to jump off the boat and run back to Grace when he hears something from downstairs. A bump and a groan.

What was that?

Then he hears someone crying. It sounds like a child.

“Hello?” he calls out. “Anybody in there?”

He waits for an answer. Several seconds pass by. Then, finally, a thin girl’s voice calls out from inside the boat: “Hjælp!”

Although the word isn’t in English, Ricky doesn’t need a translation to guess what it means.

“Hold on!” he calls out. “I’m coming!”

He goes to the back of the boat and climbs onto the deck. Then he opens the door to the inside. A stench of sweat and blood comes out at him immediately.

He sees the stairs leading down to the lower part of the boat. From down there he can hear the groans and the scuddling even louder.

What is that? Some kind of animal?

Ricky steps inside and closer to the stairs. He crouches down and looks through the opening in the floor.

And then he sees what’s making the noise.

Three people—two men and a woman—all of them squeezed into the corner, pushing and shoving each other, groping at a cupboard. The wooden surface is completely covered in scratches, telling Ricky that the three of them have been at it for quite some time.

Their clothes are ripped in several places, and they all have big, bloody and gaping wounds. The woman is even missing an arm; the bloody stump makes it look like the darn thing was chewed right off.

“Bloody hell,” Ricky breathes, as the pieces finally fall into place.

The horrible thing that’s spreading through Denmark. A virus, the media is calling it. Zombies, others are calling it.

Whatever it is, these folks obviously suffer from it. And something—or someone—is trapped inside that cupboard.

“Hjælp!” the voice calls again, confirming Ricky’s thought. “Vær sød at hjælpe os!”

Ricky wants to help the kid badly, but he has no idea what to do.

Then one of the men somehow manages to pry the cupboard open half an inch and squeeze his fingers through the crack.

A scream from inside the cupboard as the kid inside it pulls the door back, starting a tug-of-war with the man.

“Hey, you!” Ricky shouts—and before he even knows what he’s doing, he grabs a bottle from the floor and throws it at the back of the man. “Look here! Over here! Look at me!”

The woman is the first to turn around, followed by the other guy. Ricky lets out a gasp at the sight of their white, bulging eyeballs. Then, just as they begin coming towards him, the second guy loses his grip on the door, and the cupboard slams shut. The guy seems to realize it’s a lost cause, and he turns around and joins the others in waddling towards Ricky.

Ricky sees none of this, though, as he’s already busy getting the heck out of Dodge. He jumps to his feet and runs outside. He scuddles around to the front end of the boat and jumps down into the sand, just as the zombies come out onto the deck.

“Ricky!” Grace shouts at him. “What happened?”

“Get away!” Ricky yells, waving at her frantically. “Run, Grace! Run to the car!”

He looks back to see the woman fall into the water with a splash. She gets back up and begins making her way towards the shore. The men also waste no time walking around the boat, but simply walk right into the railing and tip over it.

Ricky is backing farther up onto the beach, not daring to take his eyes off the zombies. Luckily, they’re moving very slowly, and he’ll have no trouble outrunning them. But he needs to make sure the kid is all right first.

He puts his hands to his mouth and shouts out at the boat: “It’s fine! You can come out now!”

He realizes that the child probably won’t understand him.

But then, in the next instance, he sees a boy’s head popping up onto the deck. Followed by a girl. They’re holding each other and looking around like a couple of small, scared animals. As far as Ricky can see, though, both of them are unhurt.

What has played out on that boat while it crossed the sea from Denmark is almost too awful for Ricky to imagine. They must have brought the disease with them—perhaps unknowingly—and once it broke out, the children managed to hide in the cupboard while the grown-ups attacked each other.

Blimey … those poor kids. How long have they been trapped in that cupboard? Listening to their parents eat each other alive?

A hand on his shoulder makes Ricky scream out and whirl around, only to see Grace staring at him, her eyes wide and shocked.

“You okay, love?”

“I’m fine, nothing happened to me,” he hears himself say. “Let’s get the heck out of here.”

They run to the car. Ricky fumbles out the key, unlocks the doors and throws himself behind the wheel.

Grace takes the passenger seat and buckles up. “Hurry, love,” she tells him, breathing fast. “They’re coming.”

He jams the key into the ignition and looks out to see that she’s right; both men are waddling towards the car. The woman, however, has strayed from the path and is headed somewhere else. Ricky follows her direction and sees another car parked a little farther down the beach. An elderly couple is standing by the car.

“Oh, damn,” Ricky breathes. “Get away from there!”

He honks the horn, and the old couple apparently hear it, because they turn their heads in this direction. They do not heed the warning, though, as they begin walking towards the woman, probably because she looks very much like someone in need of help.

“Is that … children?” Grace asks, pointing towards the boat.

Ricky follows her finger and sees the boy and the girl jump onto the beach and make a run for it in the opposite direction.

“Good,” he whispers, feeling a modicum of relief. “Clever little ones. They’re making a run for it.”

One of the men—who’s dragging a little behind the other thanks to a large chunk of his calf missing—apparently senses the kids, because he stops, turns around and takes up pursuit. The kids are headed for the place where Ricky and Grace were lying on a blanket just a few minutes ago, getting ready to make love. They’re running fast—hopefully fast enough that the guy won’t catch up with them.

Ricky will never know, though, as all three of them soon disappear out of sight behind the hills.

“Ricky!” Grace’s shrill voice pulls him back.

The second guy has made it to the car and bumps into the car right beside Ricky, causing the car to sway. He groans and fumbles across the window, leaving sticky marks of blood.

Grace screams and Ricky twists the key, waking the engine with a roar and putting the car in reverse. He backs up fast enough to make sand go flying, and for a moment he’s afraid they’ll get stuck. Then the car lurches backwards, causing the zombie to fall over.

Ricky backs up, stops and puts it in drive, then guns it and heads for the road leading away from the beach.

In the rearview mirror he sees the guy getting to his feet again, now all covered in sand. And farther behind he can see the old couple’s car. The old couple is also still visible, though both of them are lying on the ground, the woman crouching over them. From here, it looks to Ricky like she’s performing CPR on them, but he knows that’s far from the truth.

“Oh God,” Grace keeps repeating, twisting in the seat. “Oh God, what just happened?”

Ricky turns onto the road, and as soon as the sand turns into asphalt, he stomps down the accelerator even further.

Two black-and-white police cars pass them, sirens blaring.

“They’re here already,” Grace says, sobbing now, but a tone of hope in her voice. “I can’t believe how fast they came. They’ll fix it, right, Ricky? They’ll stop those awful people.”

“They will,” Ricky nods, looking in the rearview mirror to see the police cars drive down to the beach. “They will,” he says again, but he’s afraid that it’s already too late. He’s afraid the police can’t stop it. Afraid that the undead have reached Great Britain.

TWO

Dennis sits on the lid of the toilet and watches in silence as Mom makes the final preparations.

Even though he’s seen her do her rituals plenty of times, they still fill him with unease. The fact that this time Mom is doing it in a bathroom, doesn’t make it any less eerie.

She has put the mattress aside, leaning it against the wall and clearing a spot on the concrete floor. Here, she has strewn ground-up clay and chalk in a meticulous pattern forming a circle with spikes. At the point of every spike stands a white candle burning. Black feathers line the circle as well.

Mom has turned off the lights, so the flames from the candles are the only things illuminating the crammed room; the air smells of smoke, and Dennis does his best not to cough.

Mom has also drawn lines on her face with blood from a tiny puncture wound on her finger that she made with a needle. It reminds Dennis of Indian warpaint.

In the middle of the circle is the doll Mom has spent all day yesterday knitting. To Dennis, it looks like something a kid would play with, except for the fact that it has no face or clothes.

Mom is sitting cross-legged on the floor, eyes closed, the book open on her lap, and she’s reciting the verses in a quiet murmur. Dennis only understands a few phrases here and there, the rest is just gibberish.

This part of the ritual—the citing from the book—is always the longest and most drawn-out, and Dennis keeps finding himself nodding off.

Then, suddenly, he hears tiny crackling sounds as the flames of the candles begin flickering. He sits up. This means the ritual is coming to an end.

Mom puts aside the book and carefully picks up something from the floor. Dennis can’t see what it is, but he knows: it’s the string of hair Mom plucked from Silas’s head without him noticing.

She holds it between two fingers and slowly puts the end of it into one of the candles. A brief flare-up as the tip of the hair melts away. All the other candles react as well, their flames growing taller, reaching for the ceiling, then shrinking back down again.

Mom picks up the doll and places it against her forehead, then her chin, then her lips, as she whispers softly. Dennis picks up some of the words, and they give him goosebumps.

“… we call on thee, oh spirits of the beyond and the ever dark, call on thee to let thy force serve this totem of good and ill, call on thee to close the bond tightly, tightly enough that it shall never be untied but for thy will …”

She places the melted end of the hair on the chest of the doll, squeezing it with her thumb. Then, pursing her lips, she turns the doll over, breathes deeply and exhales onto the back of the doll’s head.

It’s not like she’s blowing hard, simply letting her breath out. But the room reacts as though a storm sweeps through it. The candles flicker and go out one after another, the powder on the floor is blown in every direction, the feathers go flying, and Dennis can even feel the air getting sucked out of his lungs.

Then, as the last candle gives in, it’s over.

Everything falls very quiet. The darkness is thick as tar. Dennis reaches automatically for the light switch, flicking it. The spots in the ceiling reveals the room.

Mom is sitting there with her eyes closed, hugging the doll, a feather coming to rest on her shoulder.

Dennis holds his breath, his heart pumping away in his throat.

Mom blinks her eyes open, as though awakening from a deep sleep. She looks around like she can’t quite remember what’s been going on. She holds out the doll in front of her, turning it over slowly, eyeing it closely, like she’s trying to make out some miniscule detail on it that no one else can see.

Finally, a smile comes to her lips. “It worked,” she says, looking over at Dennis. “It worked.”

“Great,” Dennis says, forcing a smile. “So, now what, Mom?”

Mom holds Dennis’s gaze. The smile is still on her face, but it’s turned into something a lot less joyful, something more like a grimace, the dark red lines of blood on her face suddenly looking evil.

“Now?” she whispers. “Now we’re getting out of here.”

THREE

Nasira isn’t exactly sleeping, but she isn’t exactly awake either. She’s somewhere in between, resting in a peaceful state of non-thinking.

The low hum of the helicopter and the vibrations going through her back and legs are very soothing. Ali is leaning against her, sleeping and breathing deeply. Once in a while, he’ll jerk and lift his head, as though having a bad dream.

Nasira suspects he’ll have a lot of bad dreams in the years to come. Her heart mourns for him and the losses he’s suffered at such a young age. And at the same time, she trusts that he will be okay.

She checks on her finger now and then, examining it closely, bending it carefully. It still only hurts a little bit, but the red color is slowly making its way up her palm. The virus—or whatever it is—is definitely advancing, and it will eventually kill her; Nasira bears no illusions about that fact. She isn’t secretly wishing for it to reverse or for a cure to suddenly come by. Her calmness doesn’t stem from a vain hope of rescue; it stems from complete acceptance. Dying, it turns out, is surprisingly easy once you’re okay with it.

A movement to her left causes her to turn her head. And what she sees doesn’t make sense to her at first.

Eli, who’s been sitting at the far end, slumped over in a deep sleep, has pulled off his improvised safety belt and is crawling ahead on all fours, making his way with clumsy movements, like a toddler.

He’s headed right for her, and when he lifts his head and reveals his face, Nasira sees his eyes and immediately realizes that Eli is dead.

She doesn’t scream out right away, though a sharp bolt of shock shoots through her body. Instead, she reacts by reaching out her arms and grabbing him by the shoulders. She has seen enough of the dead people to know that he’s drawn towards the nearest prey, which happens to be her, and that he will be going straight for her throat or whatever else part of her he can sink his teeth into. Her intention is to push him away, but Eli—to her surprise—doesn’t push back. Instead, he moves sideways a little, getting out of her reach. It’s almost like he tries to get past her instead of attacking her.

Nasira glares at him in stunned wonder for a couple of seconds, as Eli simply crawls past her, meticulously making his way around. Then, with sudden speed, he lunges at Ali.

“No!” Nasira cries out.

She grabs Eli by the shoulders again and tries to force him back, but he’s coming on surprisingly strong, reaching out his arms and clawing and biting at Ali. He still shows no interest whatsoever in Nasira—it’s like her arms are more like branches of a tree to him, mere obstacles, not something to eat.

Ali wakes up and screams at the sight of Eli trying to get at him, Nasira holding him back and just out of reach.

“Someone, help!” she shouts, as Eli twists and almost slips free of her grip. She clutches his shirt and feels the fabric begin to tear. “Wake up!”

FOUR

Dennis sits up abruptly as he hears a gunshot coming from somewhere upstairs. Another one follows. Then a third, and a fourth.

He looks at Mom, who’s sitting calmly on the bed, the doll resting in her lap. “Why are they shooting?”

“I think their guests are coming,” Mom says, looking up into the ceiling as though she has X-ray vision. “They probably need to clear the courtyard of dead people, so their guests can enter the house.”

A few more gunshots, then silence.

“Who are the guests, Mom?”

“Their family, I guess.”

A minute or so passes by. Dennis waits anxiously. Then he hears the faint sound of the metal door to the bunker opening and closing. Steps approach the bathroom. There’s a rattling of keys. The person outside whistles merrily as he unlocks the door.

It swings open and Silas stands there, wearing the same clothes from yesterday, his hair all messy, a steaming cup of coffee in his hand.

He smiles in at them, showing his crooked teeth. “Morning. I see you’re up already. Good. We’ve got company and I want you to come meet them.”

Dennis just stands there, saying nothing, glancing at Mom.

She gets to her feet slowly and deliberately, making no effort to hide the things on the floor or the doll in her hand.

“What the hell?” Silas says, seeing the orange powder and the candles and the feathers. “Did you guys have a party in here or what?” He glares at Mom. “What the fuck did you do to your face? Holy shit, I knew you were loco, but this is just …”

Silas stops talking as he notices the doll in Mom’s hand. He looks at it for several seconds. Then his eyes narrow.

“Is that … a fucking voodoo doll?” He looks up at Mom, grinning. “Are you fucking kidding me? Did you spend all night making that thing? Who is it supposed to be—me?” He breaks into laughter. “Goddamnit, lady. You’re out of your fucking mind! Don’t tell me you really believe in that kind of shit?”

Mom doesn’t answer him. Instead, she raises the doll, grabs its left arm and pulls it down with a snap.

Dennis stares at Silas.

For two or three long seconds, nothing happens.

Silas just stands there, his eyes gleaming with amusement, the stupid grin growing wider on his face. “Hate to burst your bubble,” he says. “But I think—”

Then, suddenly, his left arm—the one holding the cup of coffee—flings itself towards the floor. The cup flies from his hand and explodes into a million pieces as it hits the concrete. The movement is violent enough to thrust Silas sideways, and he bangs into the doorframe.

He grabs it, clutching it like a drunk and barely manages to stay on his feet. He glares at his left hand like he’s never seen it before. “What the fuck?” he breathes. Then he looks up at Mom. And his face turns into a mask of shock, disbelief and rage. “You fucking bitch …”

He steps forward, but Mom is ready. She stabs a finger hard into the solar plexus of the doll. Silas manages to take two more steps, reaches out his arms to grab Mom by the throat, and then—

Then he’s shoved backwards with the force of a small car hitting him, sending him flying backwards out of the bathroom, a loud, strained “huuuaaaaaah!” escaping him as the air is punched from his lungs. He lands on the floor and tumbles several times over before coming to rest against one leg of the dinner table in the middle of the room. He immediately scrambles to get back up, but he only manages to fall over again, tipping over a chair with a bang. He dry-heaves and gasps for air, clutching his chest.

Mom steps out from the bathroom with the calm of a priest approaching the altar. She looks to the side and picks up the rifle which Silas has placed leaning up against the wall as he unlocked the door. She hands it over to Dennis, saying in a stern voice: “Take this. Don’t use it.”

Dennis takes the rifle with trembling hands, pointing the barrel to the floor and being careful not to touch the trigger.

Silas tries again to stand, but only gets to his hands and knees. He looks up at them, his eyes bulging from their sockets, a vain throbbing across his forehead.

“You’d better calm down,” Mom tells him. “Or you’ll faint. Breathe through your nose.”

Silas closes his mouth and heaves in air through his nostrils. He slumps forward with relief, his breath slowly returning to normal.

“You … you goddamn … bitch,” he croaks hoarsely. “What the … hell … did you …”

“Save your breath,” Mom tells him calmly. “You’ll need it for climbing the stairs. Now, get to your feet.”

Silas shakes his head, his greasy hair waving back and forth. “No way,” he hisses through gritted teeth. “I’m not doing anything you tell me, you goddamn psy—”

Mom places two fingers gently on each side of the doll’s head, then pulls it upwards. This time, it’s not a sudden jerk, but a slow movement.

Half a heartbeat later, Silas’s head begins lifting towards the ceiling. At first, it looks like he’s simply stretching his neck. But the expression on his face reveals right away that he’s not doing it on his own.

“Wait! Stop that! You stop—aaaargh!”

He clasps both hands to his head, like he’s trying to stop it from drifting away. It doesn’t work, however. To Dennis, it looks like an invisible rope has been tied around Silas’s neck and is now hoisting him upwards.

Silas has no choice but to follow along, scrambling to his feet, lifting his chin as his head keeps rising until he’s standing on his tiptoes.

“Stop it! Stop it!” he croaks. “Okay! All right! I’ll fucking do it!”

Mom lets go of the doll’s head, and Silas immediately sinks back down onto his heels, groping his neck.

“Fuck me … you almost tore my goddamn skull off,” he sneers, panting from the pain.

“Next time, there will be no ‘almost,’” Mom tells him coolly, nodding towards the door to the tunnel. “Now: upstairs.”

FIVE

Dan is jerked awake by a scream cutting through the noise of the helicopter.

He sits up, registering a sharp pain from his neck caused by the awkward position he’s been sleeping in, but pays no heed to it. He looks around and immediately sees where the scream came from.

Eli is leaning over Nasira, trying to get at Ali, and Nasira is doing her best to keep him back, but there’s only so much she can do as she’s still wearing her safety belt, holding her tight to the wall. Eli, on the other hand, is completely free, and the way he’s thrashing, it’s a matter of seconds before he’ll wriggle past Nasira and reach Ali. Ali is screaming and trying to get his belt open, but it doesn’t work.

Dan instinctively reaches for his own belt.

“Oh, shit!” William exclaims from the other side of Dan. “What the hell’s he doing?”

“He’s dead!” Dan hears himself shout, tearing at the buckle, which proves difficult to open. “We’ve got to help her!”

“What’s going on back there?” someone in front shouts—it sounds like Sebastian.

Josefine—who’s seated opposite Dan—is also awake now, shouting pointlessly at Eli to stop.

There’s no time, Dan thinks desperately, staring at Ali who’s given up trying to get free and is instead pushing blindly against the belt, reaching out his arms for anyone to help him.

Nasira is shouting in Arabic, pushing back Eli, but his shirt is tearing open across his chest, revealing his pale skin with blue bloodlines, enabling him to lunge at Ali.

Dan prepares himself to watch the boy getting eaten alive.

Then, there’s a sharp metallic click from where William is seated, followed by a command: “Get him!”

Something brown and black flies by Dan’s head as Ozzy throws himself at Eli, catching his arm in midair and pulling him back violently.

Eli is thrown onto his back, his legs sprawling as the German shepherd lands atop him, still clamped down on his upper arm, growling furiously. Eli is surprisingly oblivious to the dog tearing his arm to shreds; he simply tries to get back up, using his free arm.

Ozzy thrashes and pulls at his arm. Instead of dragging Eli back, though, the result is that a large chunk of muscle is torn loose. Eli hardly notices; instead, he uses the opportunity to once again lunge himself at Ali before Ozzy has time to let go of the bloody chunk and bite down on him again.

Dan looks down and realizes his belt is open—his hands must have continued working the buckle while he was staring at Ozzy fighting with Eli.

He jumps to his feet and is about to go for Eli, when someone grabs him by the back of his shirt.

“No, Dan!” William shouts. “What are you doing? You’ll get yourself bitten!”

Dan tries to tear loose, but William holds on firmly. Dan sees Ozzy bite down on Eli’s leg and tug him back. But Eli once again escapes as Ozzy simply manages to tear off most of Eli’s calf muscle. Eli throws himself at Ali, the only thing stopping him now is Nasira’s arms, desperately shielding her brother. But Eli isn’t intent on being cheated out of his meal this time, and he begins to fight past Nasira with eager movements.

“Let go of me!” Dan hears himself shout, swatting at William’s hand. “I’ve got to help him!”

“Get back!” his father’s voice hisses in his ear as he rushes past Dan, shoving him aside.

Dan stumbles and leans against the wall to avoid falling over. He wants to scream out, but he can only watch in stunned horror as his dad joins the fight at the back of the helicopter.

What plays out is both terrifying and fascinating. Dan has never seen his father like this, his movements swift and confident, his expression stern. He’s brought a jacket which he throws over Eli’s head, blinding him. He then moves around him, using the few seconds before Eli can get the jacket off to reach around him and pin his arms to his body in a tight embrace. He then lifts the boy off the ground, causing his legs to kick comically in the air, reminding Dan of Fred Flintstone’s feet as he drives his non-motoric car.

Ozzy—who’s been attacking Eli several times by now, leaving nasty bite wounds all over his legs and arms—immediately jumps up and clams down on Eli’s knee.

“William!” Dan’s father roars. “Get him off! Call him back!”

“Ozzy, release!” William shouts. “Release!”

Ozzy only very reluctantly opens his jaw and lets go of Eli’s leg. Eli writhes and thrashes under the jacket, throwing his head back and clipping Dan’s father on the chin, sending him stumbling up against the wall.

Dan steps forward instinctively—noticing that William has let go of him—but his father sees him and, regaining his balance, roars at him to stay back.

Dan stops, torn between obeying his dad and stepping in to help him.

“Josefine!” his dad shouts, nodding towards the sliding door. “Get it open!”

Josefine has already unbuckled and is getting to her feet.

“What are you doing?” Sebastian shouts over the roar of the engine, twisting in his seat to look back. “No, don’t do that! Don’t open! It’s too dangerous!”

“Open it!” Dan’s father demands, looking at Josefine. “But be careful. Stay out of the way!”

Josefine nods once, grabs the handle and pulls aside the door. As soon as it opens, Dan feels a hard tug pulling him against the door. The cool night air comes rushing into the helicopter, pressing against Dan’s eardrums, filling everything with the salty smell of the sea. Dan sees the black water below them, stretching out like a wavy blanket in all directions.

“Step back!” his dad shouts at Josefine—unnecessarily so, as she’s already moved out of the way.

He pushes himself off the wall and staggers a couple of steps towards the opening, his hair flapping in the wind. Eli is thrashing like an alligator in Dan’s father’s arms, looking like he might slip out of the jacket at any moment.

Dan’s dad loses his balance for half a second, leaning dangerously close to the open door before pulling himself back and regaining balance. He seems to consider the situation for a moment, standing there, holding onto Eli tightly as the dead boy slips down another couple of inches, his arms getting a little more free and immediately begins to claw at his dad’s waistline.

He can’t get close enough to drop him, Dan realizes with a sinking feeling. Not without falling out himself.

Then, his father makes a decision. Instead of stepping closer to the opening, he pulls Eli back and simply throws him at the open door.

It would have probably worked, if Eli hadn’t at the exact same moment slipped free of the jacket. Instead of plunging to the sea below, he lands on the floor right in front of the open door, grabbing hold of the frame, only one of his chewed-up legs actually makes it outside, and he’s able to fight the wind and pull it back in, beginning to haul himself back up to his feet.

“Shit!” Dan hears his father exclaim, hesitating in front of Eli, not wanting to step any closer, and now he has nothing to fight Eli with, as the jacket has zipped out of the open door. He looks around but finds nothing within reach he can use.

Then, just as Eli manages to get back up and is about to lunge at Dan’s father, William steps in from the side, holding onto the frame of the door and swinging his leg soccer-style, landing his foot squarely under Eli’s chin.

Eli is thrown backwards out of the door and disappears.

William leans forward and bellows out into the night: “Told you I’d kick you off the fucking helicopter, asshole!”

SIX

Dennis follows Mom who’s following Silas who’s walking slowly through the tunnel, rubbing his neck.

As he reaches the ladder, he stops and glances back. “What now?”

“Now you wait here. Step aside. Farther.”

Silas backs up against the wall.

“Dennis,” Mom says, not taking her eyes off Silas. “You climb upstairs. Make sure Jonas isn’t in the bedroom.”

“O… okay,” Dennis says.

“And if you try anything,” Mom goes on, addressing Silas as she holds out the doll and gently places two fingers on its head. “I’ll twist this all the way around.”

Silas doesn’t say anything, he just stares at Mom and breathes through his nose, obviously suppressing his anger.

“Go now, Dennis.”

Dennis slips past her, placing the rifle over his arm like he’s seen Silas carry it. Then he scales the ladder and pushes open the hatch. Daylight comes streaming down at him as he pokes his head up into the bedroom and looks around. Jonas is nowhere to be seen.

“He’s not here, Mom.”

“Good. Climb up all the way. Stand in the corner and aim the rifle at the hatch. Silas will come up in a second. If he tries to make a run for it, you shoot him.”

Dennis feels his already tense body tighten up even more. He tries to swallow, but his throat is clenched up. He climbs up into the bedroom and scuddles to the farthest corner. Then he loads the rifle—just like Silas taught him—places it at his shoulder and aims it at the opening in the floor. Listening intently, he can hear voices coming from somewhere in the house. At least three. He’s afraid that someone will step into the room at any moment.

“You ready, Dennis?” Mom calls from below.

“Yes, Mom.”

“You climb up now,” Mom tells Silas.

“Look,” Silas says, his voice changed now. It’s lower, less hostile, solemn even. “I get that you’re upset about us being here and … treating you like we did. But this isn’t going to work. You’re a smart woman, you know I’m right.”

“I do?” Mom asks calmly.

“Sure. Even if you use that thing to kill me, who’s going to protect you from my brother? Dennis? That boy couldn’t even kill a zombie. Jonas will kill both of you in an instant if it comes to that. Then what have you gained?”

“Climb the ladder.”

“I’m serious, lady. You need to think this through.”

“And you need to climb upstairs. Now.”

A moment of silence. Then Dennis hears Silas scaling the ladder. He appears, looks around and sees Dennis, sending him a sneer as Dennis points the shaky barrel at his chest.

“You wouldn’t kill me, Dennis—would you?”

“Stay back,” Dennis croaks.

“Get away from the opening,” Mom says from downstairs.

Silas hesitates for a couple of seconds, looking at Dennis like he’s trying to calculate his chances. Dennis’s finger is curled around the trigger, both his arms are trembling, sweat running down his back.

Then Silas decides to obey Mom, and he steps back.

Mom comes up through the hatch. She nods towards the door. “You go in there and call to your brother. Ask him to come.”

Silas walks to the door and opens it casually. “Hey, Jonas!”

A moment later, apparently coming from the kitchen: “Yeah?”

“Could you come in here, pleeease?”

Silas draws out the last word in a mock manner, making it sound like he’s being sarcastic. He looks over at Mom as he does it, smirking.

Mom looks back at him betraying no emotion. She doesn’t say anything, either. She simply holds up the doll in front of her and wraps her finger gently around the neck of the doll.

“What is it?” Jonas calls from the kitchen. “I’m about to help get Dad upstairs.”

Silas looks from Mom’s face to the doll, his smirk withering away. Then he barks: “Just come in here, damnit!”

Dennis can hear Jonas sigh, then tell someone: “Wait here a minute.” Footsteps approach through the living room. Jonas appears in the doorway and throws out his arms. “What is it? Seriously, dude, we need to …” As he notices his brother’s face, Jonas stops talking. “What? What is it? Why are you just standing there?”

Before Silas can answer, Jonas turns his head and looks at Dennis.

“What the fuck?” He glares back at Silas. “How did he get the rifle, you moron?”

Mom has been standing off to side, hidden behind the door, but now she steps to the side, revealing herself by closing the door behind Jonas.

Jonas looks from Mom to Silas to the doll in Mom’s hands. He shakes his head. “What the hell is going on here?”

Mom doesn’t take her eyes off Jonas as she addresses Silas: “Tell your brother what I have here.”

“It’s a voodoo doll,” Silas says in a sour tone. “I know it sounds fucking insane, but it works, believe me.”

“A … voodoo doll?” Jonas repeats, looking like he can’t decide whether to laugh or get angry. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“No, I’m not. Don’t make her use it. She could kill me with it.”

Jonas glares at his brother. “Did she threaten you to say that?”

Silas shakes his head. “I wish.”

“You don’t honestly expect me to believe this shit?” Jonas exclaims, and this time he really does laugh shrilly. “Did she outsmart you using a fucking doll?”

“Step back a little, Jonas,” Mom says before Silas can answer.

Jonas looks at her, then back at Silas.

“Do it,” Silas tells him gravely.

Jonas takes two steps away from his brother.

Mom places her hand under the doll, its feet resting on her palm. Then, grasping the doll carefully around the waist with her other hand, she lifts the doll up a couple of inches.

A second later, Silas starts swaying and puts out his arms as though fighting to keep his balance. Then, to Dennis’s amazement, an invisible force lifts Silas up from off the floor and hovers him a foot above ground.

“Holy fuck!” he groans, flailing his arms. “Okay, all right, put me down!”

Mom holds the doll a moment longer, staring at Jonas. “Do we understand each other?”

Jonas makes a visible effort to pry his eyes off of his levitating brother and looks at Mom. Dennis can see his lips move before the words finally come out in a whisper: “Yeah … sure, we understand each other.”

SEVEN

William slides the door shut and makes sure it’s locked. The roaring wind is cut off right away, leaving only the less intrusive hum of the engine, which doesn’t hurt his ears nearly as much.

“Shit,” he mutters, wiping sweat from his upper lip. “Everybody okay?”

Ozzy whimpers and licks his hand, and William crouches down to check on him. He finds nothing except blood in his mouth—but that all came from Eli.

Eli, that fucking asshole …

The mere thought of him makes William clench his teeth. He turns around to check on the others.

Josefine is standing by Nasira, who’s still sitting with Ali, now holding him in a tight embrace, comforting him as he cries into her shirt.

William sees the scratch marks on Nasira’s arms left by Eli as he tried to claw his way past her.

“Oh, crap,” he mutters, low enough that no one else hears him. “At least now we know for sure she’s infected.”

Then, something comes to mind, and he steps over there.

“Hey, maybe you shouldn’t touch him.”

Nasira looks up at him. She’s still out of breath, and even though her usual expression of peace and calm is somewhat gone, she doesn’t exactly look like someone who just fought off a dead person, either.

“It’s just …” William says, pointing to her arms. “You don’t want to infect him.”

Nasira looks at the fresh wounds and then gently pulls free of Ali. When he tries to resist, tries to hold onto her, she tells him something softly in Arabic.

The boy looks up at her through tears, comprehension dawning in his dark eyes.

Holy shit, that poor kid, William thinks. Lost both his parents, and now he can’t even hug his soon-to-be-dead sister …

Josefine begins to dab at Nasira’s arms with a piece of cotton soaked in Chlorhexidine.

The boy’s face is too painful to look at, so William turns around and sees Dan hugging his father instead.

“That was really brave of you, Dad.”

Henrik runs a hand through his hair and lets out a long, deep breath. “Yeah. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“You saved all our asses,” William says, smiling. “Well done.”

Henrik smiles back tiredly. “You and Ozzy did most of the work, really.”

“Good boy,” Dan says, crouching down and hugging Ozzy.

To William’s surprise, Ozzy doesn’t mind. He’s usually not fond of strangers petting him. But apparently, he has a soft spot for Dan. Which isn’t really that odd, since William has one for him, too.

“Everybody all right back there?” Sebastian shouts.

“We’re good!” William calls back. “Just needed to deal with a passenger who was flying without a passport. Goddamn piece of shit. He was infected after all.”

“He might not have known about it,” Dan remarks.

“I bet you he did. He showed me the wrong foot.”

Dan and Henrik both look at him in surprise.

William throws out his arms. “I thought about it just now. It’s the only thing that makes sense. I should have asked him to pull off both shoes, but I didn’t. That lying little scumbag.”

“Well, at least now he’s gone,” Henrik says, then taking a step sideways to keep his balance as the helicopter dips a little.

“You sure you’re all right, Dad?” Dan asks. “You came really close to him.”

“I’m telling you, I’m fine,” Henrik says, holding out his hands and rolling up his sleeves. “See?”

“Better check all over,” William says. “All it takes is one little wound.”

“Look, he didn’t bite me; I think I would have felt it.”

Still, Henrik pulls out his collar and lets Dan check his throat and chest. Then he examines his arms, even checking under his wrist watch. Then, finally, Henrik pulls up his shirt and—

William’s heart drops.

Dan gasps.

“Oh, no,” a voice from behind them—Josefine—says.

“What?” Henrik asks, looking down at himself, still holding up his shirt. When he sees the four long, shining red lines running across his navel, he simply says: “Oh.”

“He … he got you, Dad …” Dan whispers, and the pain in his voice is simply too much for William. He covers his face in his hands and turns away.

EIGHT

“So what’s going to happen?” Jonas asks as they all move into the living room.

The brothers are keeping a fair distance from Mom, and Dennis is standing close to her, the rifle now pointed to the floor once more.

“What do you think is going to happen?” Silas sneers at him. “She’ll fucking kill me using that nasty doll, that’s what.”

“I’m not going to kill you,” Mom says. “I just want you to leave. Stand there, both of you.” She points to the middle of the room. “Dennis, you come over here.”

Dennis positions himself next to Mom in the corner, just as someone steps into the living room. It’s a guy a little older than Mom. He’s almost bald, a greasy band of hair still resting above his ears, and his cheeks are red and shiny. He’s not really fat, but sports a heavy gut and jowl.

“What’s the holdup?” he asks, lighting a cigarette. He takes a deep drag and lets out the smoke through his nose. “I thought we were taking your dad upstairs. Why you just standing there?”

“Otto, for Christ’s sake!” a shrill female voice exclaims. “Put out the fucking cigarette, will you? No smoking inside!”

“Get used to it, Sussi!” the guy shouts back. “I can’t very well go outside anymore, can I? Or you want me to get fucking eaten? Jesus Christ …”

“At least don’t smoke when your brother’s here!”

“Aaw, he already got lung cancer,” the guy sneers. “Can’t give him something he already got, can I?”

“Otto,” Silas says.

The guy turns his head and looks at him, taking another drag at the cigarette. “Yeah?”

“Shut the fuck up. We’ve got trouble.”

“What trouble?”

Jonas points over his shoulder.

Otto steps sideways and looks. As he sees Mom and Dennis holding the rifle, his eyes grow big, then narrow. “Oh, fuck me …”

“Hello,” Mom says to the guy, as though he was a colleague she had just bumped into at the office. “You’ll be leaving again. If you make any fuss about it, we’re going to have to hurt the boys here. I assume you don’t want that to happen.”

“Who the hell is that?” the female voice says, and a big, fat lady with thin hair dressed in a tight summer dress which reveals every layer of fat underneath steps into view. She sees Mom and Dennis and shows a row of tiny teeth in a pig-like sneer. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Stop pointing that gun at my nephews!”

She’s about to march right into the living room, but the guy—Otto—grabs her by her wrist and yanks her back.

“Stay here, Sussi!” he hisses. “You wanna get us all killed?”

“Who the hell does she think she is?” the woman shouts, flinging out her free arm—the one Otto isn’t holding—causing the fat-flaps to go flailing. Her eyes, which are deep-set above the round cheeks, are shooting lightning at Mom. “Jonas and Silas give her shelter, and this is how she repays the favor!?”

“That’s not exactly what’s been going on here,” Jonas says. “And trust me, she means business. So you need to just do what she tells you.”

“Yeah, she already killed Holger with a knife,” Silas adds, darting a sour look back over his shoulder at Mom.

For a few seconds, everybody is just looking at each other. As though what Silas said needs to sink in.

Dennis is doing his best not to shake, as the rifle has grown really heavy and his arms are starting to hurt with the effort of holding it steady.

Then he hears a buzzing sound, and an electric wheelchair comes rolling into the opening to the kitchen. In it sits a guy who at first glance looks to be a hundred years old. His hair is grey, his skin is wrinkly, and he’s very thin, almost to the point where he looks shrunken. There’s a clear plastic tube running up the guy’s nose, attached to a metal tank sitting on the side of the chair, and he’s wearing white hospital clothes.

But as soon as he speaks, Dennis can tell the man isn’t that old after all. Despite him obviously being sick and his voice sounding winded and raspy, there’s something about the way he talks. Something which almost reminds Dennis of how Mom talks.

“This wasn’t exactly the welcome we were hoping for, was it, boys?”

“No, it wasn’t,” Silas says. “Sorry for messing it up, Dad. I should have been more careful.”

Hearing Silas—a grown man—talking like a boy who accidentally spilled his milk is baffling to Dennis. Until now, he’s been acting like a big bully, but now, addressing his old, sick father, there’s respect in his voice. Fear, even. Dennis should know what fear sounds like.

The man and the woman—Otto and Sussi—also look at the old guy and wait for him to go on.

“So,” the father says, tilting his head to look past the twins and over at Mom. “There’s no way we can make this work then?”

It sounds more like a statement than a question.

“The only way that’ll work,” Mom says, keeping her voice calm as ever, “is for you and your family to leave.”

The old guy chews his cracked lower lip for a couple of seconds. His teeth are so yellow they look like corn kernels to Dennis. “I hope my boys didn’t do anything to insult you or your son. I tried my best to raise them properly, but I’m sure you know boys nowadays. They can get carried away. Personally, I blame social media.”

It sounds like the man is about to say something else, but he’s interrupted by a dry coughing spell. Once it subsides, he lifts one boney, yellow-nailed hand to his face and wipes the corner of his mouth with it.

“I don’t think social media could take the blame for your boys’ behavior,” Mom says, a tone of anger in her voice.

To Dennis’s surprise, the man in the wheelchair simply nods. “I understand. Please accept my sincere apologies. If I still had the strength, I would bash some sense into them right here and now.”

Dennis notices both twins—especially Silas—shift their weight around a little uneasily at that.

“That wouldn’t be necessary,” Mom tells him. “All I need from you is to leave. Now, please.”

The words are polite, but Dennis can tell Mom’s patience is running thin. Apparently, the man picks up on it as well.

“I can tell you’ve made up your mind, ma’am. I honestly don’t blame you. These are trying times to say the least, and we all need to do what we can to survive.” Another brief coughing fit. “Well, I guess we’ll get out of your hair, then.”

“No, Dad!” Silas exclaims. “We can’t just go. I told you, this place is too perfect. It’s got everything we need to—”

“It doesn’t matter how perfect it is,” the father interrupts him, barely raising his voice. “Because you screwed it up. You were supposed to make a deal with Holger, and …”

“But Holger was dead!” Silas cries out. “Instead we find this crazy bitch, and she wouldn’t even let us in to talk, so we had to find another way. I’m telling you, Dad, she fought us every step of the way. Didn’t she, Jonas?”

Silas looks at Jonas, but Jonas just sends him a scolding look, whispering under his breath: “Don’t cut him off, you imbecile.”

“If you speak one more time while I’m speaking,” the father says to Silas, his voice still low but somehow also menacing, “I’ll get up from this stupid chair and I’ll put you down myself. You hear me, boy?”

Silas looks down at his feet.

Even though Dennis doubts the father would have the strength to do it, the threat is more than enough.

“Like I was trying to say,” he goes on. “You were supposed to make a deal with Holger or whoever else was here. But as always, you go and make fools out of yourselves, acting like goddamn kids. It’s despicable. And it’s no wonder this lady doesn’t want us around.” He breaks into yet another round of coughing. Then he says: “Now, we’ll leave like she asks, nice and quiet.” Silas looks up and seems to be about to say something, when the father beats him to it: “And if I hear another word out of any of you, you know what’ll happen.”

Silas doesn’t say anything.

Instead, Otto steps forward and looks at Mom. “Are you … are you sure we can’t make a deal here, ma’am? I think we could all benefit from each other.”

“Don’t insult her intelligence, Otto,” the father bites. “She’s not a moron. She knows she can’t trust my boys—they made sure of that.”

Otto still looks at Mom expectantly. She shakes her head once, putting out the last hope in the guy’s eyes.

“You’ll leave first,” Mom says, nodding towards the newcomers. “Take the car you came in. Then, once you’re out of the driveway, these two will follow you in their own truck.”

Otto and Sussi look at each other, then at the man in the wheelchair, and they begin to move back out into the kitchen.

“There’s one more thing before you go,” Mom says, addressing the father.

He looks at her, lifting his bushy eyebrows slightly.

“Your boys took something of mine. Something very valuable. Could you please tell them to hand it over?”

The father turns his palm upwards. “Sure. Whaddiya take, boys?”

Jonas glances at Silas.

Silas clears his throat. “I took her knife. The one she used to kill Holger with.”

“All right. And where is this knife?”

“It’s in my jacket. Out in the hall.”

“Go get it then.”

Silas is about to move, when Mom stops him with a single word: “Stay.” She holds up the doll, and Silas glances at it, then back at his father.

“What the hell is that?” Sussi blurts out, squinting. “Is that … a doll?”

“It’s a voodoo doll,” Jonas says. “And it works. So don’t do anything stupid, or she’ll hurt Silas.”

A couple of seconds of stunned silence pass over the living room. Otto is the first one to break it.

He scoffs. “That’s a fucking joke, right?”

“No joke,” Jonas says grimly.

“I mean, it has to be,” Otto goes on. “That shit ain’t real. It’s only in the movies.”

“She already showed us,” Silas growls. “Trust me, it’s real.”

Otto and Sussi exchange looks of disbelief and bemusement and confusion.

“Well,” the father says, coughing a little. “With dead folks walking around everywhere, I don’t suppose a voodoo doll is that hard to believe.” He turns his head. “Otto, can you go get the knife and hand it to the woman?”

Otto nods.

The father looks at Mom. “Will that work for you, ma’am?”

Mom nods.

Otto turns around and walks out of sight. Dennis can hear him go to the hall. Half a minute passes by. Everybody is watching each other, saying nothing.

Otto comes back into view, holding the dagger in one hand, turning it over carefully. “I suppose this is the one?”

“It is,” Mom says. “Please give it to me.”

Otto hesitates for a moment, eyes the dagger, his eyebrows raised. “This really is a slick knife. It’s like, medieval or some shit.”

“Eighteenth century,” Mom corrects him, holding out her hand.

Otto looks at her, then at the knife one last time, before he trudges across the room, passing Silas and Jonas and stopping a few steps away from Mom. Dennis notices they’re the same height, although Otto is obviously a lot heavier.

He holds out the dagger, offering Mom the butt end, saying in a light tone, almost smiling: “Here you go, ma’am.”

Mom takes a step forward and reaches for the knife.

And that’s when a lot of things happen in very fast succession, almost too fast for Dennis to take it all in.

Just as Mom’s fingers touch the knife, Otto pulls it back, turns it around and swings it at her. He’s aiming high, most likely for her face or neck, but Mom pulls her head back just in time, the blade missing her by inches. Sussi screams. Otto steps forward and swings the dagger back the other way. This time, Mom hasn’t got time to pull back, so she raises her hand holding the doll, and the dagger cuts her wrist open. Mom screams and the doll falls to the floor.

“No!” Silas bellows. “Careful, Otto!”

Jonas steps forward, as though wanting to interfere, as Otto takes another swing at Mom. This time, Mom seems better prepared, and instead of stepping back, she ducks down and comes up from below, catching Otto’s wrist with both hands. She twists it back at a painful-looking angle, and Otto gives a grunt of pain.

Then, just as Jonas reaches Otto and grabs him on the shoulder, something else happens behind him, causing him to turn around.

Silas is suddenly flung to the floor. It doesn’t look like he falls, more like some invisible giant grabbed him and threw him down. He crashes against the floorboards, all wind audibly knocked from his lungs, and he curls up in a fetal position.

“Holy shit!” Otto exclaims, then immediately turns his attention back to Mom, but the second-long distraction is all Mom needed.

She twists the dagger from his hand, draws it back and plunges it deep into his blubbery neck. Sussi screams again. Jonas roars and pulls Otto back. Dennis sees the dagger slide back out, the blade now glistening with blood. More blood begins spurting from the slit in Otto’s neck, and he gives off what sounds like a mix between a cough and a retch, a pink mist of bloody spittle spraying from his lips as he falls backwards, Jonas being the only thing stopping him from plummeting to the floor like Silas just did, as Jonas catches him and lies him down gently.

Mom picks up the doll and steps back, her eyes darting briefly to Dennis, checking if he’s all right, then back at the scene unfolding in front of them.

Sussi throws herself down next to Jonas, who’s crouching over Otto, trying to stop the bleeding, but the blood is pumping way too fast, making its way out between his fingers, quickly forming a pool on the floorboards. Otto is staring up at the ceiling, grunting and rattling, oblivious to Sussi repeating his name over and over.

Silas is still huddled on the floor next to him, holding his chest while moaning.

The old guy—the father—is the only one who hasn’t moved. He’s sitting in his wheelchair, watching everything with a calmness which to Dennis is both surprising and disturbing.

NINE

They’re still flying. It’s been half an hour since they kicked Eli off the helicopter.

William is surprised at how well Dan handles it. Henrik, too, for that matter; knowing you’ll be dead within an hour can’t be easy.

Yet both of them are sitting calmly next to each other. Henrik has his arm around Dan’s shoulders, and Dan is leaning against his father, crying softly.

William doesn’t want to witness any of it. He’s sick of watching good people die. But at the same time, he feels like he owes it to Dan to be there. Soon, Dan won’t have his father anymore, and even though William can never replace a dad, he’s determined to do his best in helping Dan.

Henrik’s face is beginning to turn a little red, but otherwise, he still looks relatively okay. His free hand—the one not holding Dan—is resting gently on his navel area, holding the bandage that Josefine put on. It’s already soaked through with fresh blood.

They came together after the incident, huddled at the front end of the helicopter, talking for the first time like a real group; William didn’t need to act as spokesperson, didn’t need to ask anybody to gather round, it just happened. And everybody spoke their minds, one at a time.

Sebastian told them they were too far out over open water to turn back now. It would be safer to keep flying.

Josefine said she would take care of Henrik’s and Nasira’s wounds, clean them up and bandage them.

Nasira told them that if she began to feel seriously ill, she would jump out.

Henrik told them the same thing.

They all agreed to keep flying.

So that’s what they did.

And now they can do nothing but wait.

There are still hours till they reach the place in Norway they’re headed for, the place where Sebastian knows they can get more fuel, and the day is still just dawning outside. It’ll be a long day.

Which one of them will go first? William wonders. Nasira or Henrik?

Looking at Nasira, she looks exactly the same, except for the tiny bandages covering her arms, which are wrapped around Ali, who’s sleeping against her chest. Her eyes are open, glancing up at something only she can see, and that look of deep peace has once again settled on her face.

William finds himself studying her, and he’s surprised he hasn’t noticed until now just how beautiful she is; she looks like that princess from Aladdin.

The thought of the virus raging through her, slowly killing her, and the image of what will become of her when it finally finishes her, makes William’s stomach curl up. How can something this beautiful turn into something so horrible? William doesn’t consider himself a romantic person, but he can’t help but think of a lovely flower rotting and becoming compost.

Will they really do it?

The thought pops into his head unbidden. He considers for a moment what they’ll do if either Henrik or Nasira has a change of heart and refuses to jump off the helicopter once their time runs out.

And he feels ashamed of himself. He’s certain it won’t come to that. To his astonishment, he realizes he trusts them both. These two people he’s only known for days.

“It’s not fair,” he hears Dan whisper between the sobs. “It’s not fair, Dad. First Jennie. Then Mom. And now you. It’s just not fair.”

“I know,” Henrik says, his eyes closed, rocking Dan gently back and forth. “I know it isn’t fair.”

“I wish we’d never gone into that house. I wish someone else had stumbled upon that old lady. If we’d just stayed home that day, Jennie would still be alive, and so would Mom.”

“I know,” Henrik just repeats softly.

“It’s all my fault.”

William feels his throat close up as Dan begins crying deeper.

“Oh, no, no,” Henrik says, still rocking him, his eyes still closed. “None of it is your fault, Dan. You don’t decide who lives and who dies. None of us do.”

“I can’t … I can’t go on without you, Dad …”

“Sure you can. You’re the strongest person in the world.”

William nods in agreement, even though none of them notice. The way Dan has dealt with losing both his sister and his mom within a few days from each other, and still he’s kept on fighting, trying to help people, trying to survive—William’s not sure he could have done the same.

It’s funny how that first impression Dan gives off—the shy, timid teenager with those big, blue, serious eyes—it tells you nothing of the strength of his character.

Maybe Dan hasn’t always been like this, maybe the events over the past week have shaped him in record time. But still, it must have always been there, on the inside. Isn’t there some saying about hard times showing you who you really are?

TEN

It takes Otto less than a minute to die. But to Dennis, that minute feels more like an hour.

Otto doesn’t close his eyes when it happens, but simply stops groaning.

Jonas—whose hands are covered in blood all the way to the elbows—leans back with a trembling sigh, announcing: “He’s dead …”

“No!” Sussi cries, leaning over Otto. “No, no, no!”

Silas has managed to sit up, but he’s still clutching his side, obviously in pain.

Sussi jumps to her feet and glares at Mom, who has drawn back farther, holding out both the doll and the bloody dagger. Sussi’s face is a mask of rage and tears as she spits: “You killed him!”

“He tried to kill me,” Mom says, but Sussi doesn’t hear her.

“You killed him!” she screams and lunges at Mom.

Mom doesn’t move, but readies herself to use the dagger once more.

If Jonas hadn’t jumped up and caught Sussi in that instant, Mom would likely have killed her as well. But Jonas grabs her around the waist and drags her back.

“Get her outside,” the father tells Jonas, barely looking at him. His eyes are resting on Mom, his expression betraying no emotions. “And you,” he says, addressing Silas, still without taking his eyes from Mom. “You pick yourself up and go help your brother.”

Silas gets to his feet, slowly and methodically, groaning. “Fuck, I think I broke a couple of ribs …”

The sound of the crying woman grows more distant. Dennis can hear Jonas take her outside and slam the front door behind him.

Silas looks down at Otto. The blood has stopped gushing from the wound and, judging from the color of Otto’s face, there’s no more blood left inside him.

“You fucking killed him,” Silas whispers.

“If anybody killed Otto, it was Otto,” the father says coolly. “That was a stupid thing he attempted.”

Silas rounds on him, flinging out his arms. “So, you’re just gonna let her get away with it?”

“Go help your brother.”

“Otto was your fucking brother!”

“You don’t talk to me like that.” The father barely raises his voice, yet Dennis immediately feels the threat of violence behind the words. “Now, go help your brother.”

“What about Otto?” Silas says, pointing at the corpse. “Do we just leave him like that?”

“What use is he to us now? He’s dead.”

Silas bites down hard, apparently choking back words. Instead of saying anything to his father, though, he turns around and stares at Mom, and then, to Dennis’s surprise, he notices tears forming in Silas’s eyes. “He was my uncle. I grew up knowing him. And you killed him like a fucking pig.”

“Silas,” the father says, his tone lower now. Warningly.

Silas ignores him, taking a step towards Mom. Mom raises the dagger again.

“You think you can just keep getting away with killing folks, but you’re wrong, lady. This time, you fucked with the wrong people.”

“Silas!”

Silas stares at Mom a moment longer, then turns around and marches out of the living room.

The father’s eyes follow him, then drift back to Mom.

Dennis expects him to say something, but he doesn’t. They just stare at each other for the longest time. Instead, it’s Mom who breaks the silence.

“Like I said. You and the woman take the van. Your sons will follow you in their own car.”

“I got that,” the father says. He glances down briefly at Otto. “Will you bury my brother? He wasn’t the brightest, but he deserves that much at least.”

Mom seems to consider for a moment. Then she nods once.

“Thank you,” the father says, breaking into another coughing fit.

Jonas reappears in the opening to the kitchen. He looks from Mom to his father. “We’re ready, Dad.”

“All right. We’ll be going, then.”

He turns the wheelchair around, then remembers something.

“Oh, by the way …” He nods towards the doll in Mom’s hand. “That thing. What are you going to do with that?”

“I’ll destroy it,” Mom says. “As soon as you’re out of here.”

“And that won’t hurt Silas?”

“I’ll remove the charm first.”

“Good.” The father thinks for a moment, then adds: “You know, he’s a good boy. I realize he doesn’t always act like it, but he’s my son and I love him with all my heart. If anything were to happen to him …” The words hang in the air for a moment.

“Are you threatening me?” Mom asks, a hint of cold in her voice.

The old man shrugs. “I’m only saying, self-defense is one thing. Killing someone who isn’t trying to kill you, that’s something else.”

Mom doesn’t answer.

“Right then,” the father says. “We’ll get out of your hair.”

He rolls along, and Jonas follows him through the kitchen.

Dennis looks to Mom, and she gestures for him to stay put as she goes to the kitchen. She looks out the window, and Dennis can hear the sound of the cars starting.

“They’re leaving,” Mom says, and Dennis takes it to mean he can join her.

They both watch from the kitchen window as the cars drive out from the courtyard. First the van, then Silas and Jonas in the truck.

Silas is driving. Just before they leave, he turns the car around so that he can see the windows.

He stares at Mom, showing his teeth in what Dennis first takes to be a smile, but then he realizes it’s a hateful sneer, as Silas slides his finger across his throat very slowly.

Then he speeds up, making the gravel go flying, and the truck roars out of the courtyard.

Dennis glances up at Mom. “What did that mean, Mom? That thing he did with his finger?”

Dennis isn’t the smartest kid, he knows that, but he isn’t so thick that he didn’t understand the meaning of Silas’s gesture. He just wants to know if Mom understands too.

“It was nothing,” Mom says, but her eyes are suddenly distant. “Go upstairs for a minute, Dennis.”

“Why?”

“Just do it, please.”

Dennis can’t help but notice the strange tone in Mom’s voice. When she asks him to do something, she usually never says “please.” And the way she’s just staring out the window … something about it gives Dennis a bad feeling.

Yet he senses Mom is in no mood for further questions, so he hurries out of the kitchen and runs up the stairs. He stops at the top of the steps, unsure where to go. Then he heads into the room from which he can see the driveway and the road beyond.

Looking out and squinting his eyes, he can still make out the two cars driving in the distance, the midday sun gleaming in the metal.

He watches them grow even smaller, and he feels relieved at the thought of Silas not being here anymore. But surprisingly, he feels a little sad, too.

It’s very strange, but even though Silas was mean to him and did something bad to Mom last night, there was also something else about him. Like the way he taught Dennis to shoot the rifle. Despite how uncomfortable Dennis had been, afterwards, he felt something he never really felt before. It was pride. Silas had even praised him.

“That wasn’t half bad for a first try.”

Dennis remembers the words vividly. Not the greatest compliment in the world, but still more than even Mom had ever given him.

And why had Silas wanted to teach him how to shoot in the first place? Because he wanted to use him as a bodyguard? Not likely. He did it, Dennis felt sure, just as much to help Dennis.

“Grow a pair and do it soon,” Silas had told him. “Just friendly advice.”

Dennis hardly ever got any advice from anybody, mostly just looks of disgust or mean comments which he had learned a long time ago to ignore. Dennis had no friends, and that was okay.

But for a moment yesterday, he had felt like Silas was his friend. No, more than that. He had felt like he was his big brother. Someone besides Mom who would look after him if it became necessary.

Maybe Dennis is reading too much into it, but that was how it felt. And as Dennis is standing there, feeling an ounce of unlikely gratitude towards the guy who held them hostage, the truck with Silas and Jonas in it suddenly turns sharply to the side, crashes into the ditch and goes flying into the air, completing three or four somersaults before finally coming to rest several yards from the road.

Dennis gasps.

He stares at the car, which has landed upside-down. It’s too far away for him to see any details, but it doesn’t look good.

The other car, the one with Sussi and the father, stops, backs up and stops again. A person—must be Sussi—comes out and runs to the crashed car.

Dennis turns away from the window and runs downstairs.

“Mom! Mom!” he shouts, running to the kitchen, but Mom isn’t there.

“What is it?” Her voice comes from the living room.

Dennis runs back in there and sees her sitting on the couch, her hands resting on her knees, almost like she’s about to begin one of her prayers.

“The car!” he croaks. “Silas and Jonas … they … they crashed, Mom!”

Mom just looks at him, no discernable surprise on her face. “Oh.”

“Just up the road,” Dennis goes on, pointing. “Not even, like, two miles from here.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Mom says, her voice cool as ever. “They should be more careful.”

“But … shouldn’t we … help them? Maybe they’re hurt!”

Mom’s eyes grow narrow. “Why on earth would you help them?”

“Well, because … I don’t know … maybe they’re hurt!” he repeats, as he can’t find any other good reason.

“They were bad people, Dennis,” she tells him, shaking her head. “Whatever happens to them, they deserve it.”

“But, Mom—”

“And even if we wanted to help them, we couldn’t leave this house; it’s too dangerous.”

“But—”

“No more ‘buts,’ Dennis.” Her tone is final, her eyes digging into his. “They’re gone now. It’s over.”

Dennis can only blink for several seconds. His heart is pounding away. He senses something Mom isn’t telling him, something he should be able to figure out.

But failing to do so, he just keeps standing there, blinking.

“Go and get some rest, Dennis,” Mom tells him, her voice very soft now. “We both need it.”

Dennis hesitates for a moment. He wants to ask something, but is unsure what. So, finally, he turns and walks back over to the stairs. Just before he goes upstairs, though, he glances back at Mom. She’s sitting in the exact same way, her eyes closed now, her lips moving soundlessly.

And then he sees it.

The doll.

It’s lying on the couch next to Mom.

Its head is turned all the way around.

ELEVEN

Dan is resting his head against his father, feeling the warmth coming off his body.

He knows it’s the fever.

It’s all still unreal.

He gets it—intellectually at least.

His father is infected.

His father will be gone in a few minutes.

Gone forever.

Dead.

Irrevocably.

It’s fairly simple, really. As simple as anything. You’re either there or you’re not. It shouldn’t be hard to understand.

And yet it hasn’t dawned on Dan. He hasn’t understood any of it.

A part of him still hasn’t caught up with the fact that Mom is gone. Or Jennie, even though he watched her die.

Emotionally, they still feel alive to him. They’re still very much present in his memory. He can see their faces clearly, hear their voices. How can they no longer be in the world when they’re so vividly there right inside his mind?

Apparently, that part of him is a very slow learner. It’ll likely take years before it really catches on. Maybe it never will. Maybe that part of him will keep thinking that Mom and Jennie are alive somewhere.

And now, to make everything all the more unreal, his father will be going away too. In a short time, he’ll only exist within Dan’s memories too.

What kind of world does this to anybody? What kind of awful crimes has Dan committed against anybody to make fate feel like he deserves this?

And what about Mom and Jennie? What did they do to deserve to die? What could possibly be the reason for the world to decide they no longer belonged here? How could it discard them so easily?

None of it is real.

None of it makes sense.

None of it is fair.

He feels his father move slightly.

“Dan? You awake?”

No, Dan thinks.

“Yes,” Dan says.

“It’s time. I can feel it.”

No, Dan thinks.

“All right,” Dan says.

“You ready to say goodbye?”

Never, Dan thinks.

“I guess so,” Dan says.

Dad pulls him in tighter, placing both arms around him, hugging him like he hasn’t done since Dan was very little.

And Dan takes it in like a little kid who has had a fall and needs to be comforted. He squeezes Dad, breathes in the smell of him, feels the realness of him.

“I love you, Dan.”

“I love you too, Dad.”

The hug seems to go on forever, and in a way it does. In a way, time doesn’t exist in that hug.

And yet it ends.

After a long, long time, Dad slips out of Dan’s arms, leaving them to slump down into Dan’s own lap, and Dan doesn’t move them, can’t move them. He can’t open his eyes either. He hears William’s voice, and Josefine’s, both speaking softly to Dad.

“Come on, now.”

“Here, take my hand.”

Then there’s only the sound of the helicopter, and Dan lets that sound fill up everything, floats away into it, and somewhere nearby and very, very far away, a door opens and then closes again a moment later, and then there’s nothing.

Nothing at all.

TWELVE

Iver must have been sleeping, because he’s suddenly jerked awake as the lifeboat comes to a sudden halt. The soothing sound of the waves caressing the outside of the hull is for a moment drowned out by a harsh scraping of sand.

“Damnit,” Chris growls from the front end of the boat, where he’s operating the controls. “I told you to give me a heads-up before we got too close to the shore!”

Charlotte is standing at the other end of the boat atop the three-step ladder which allows her to look out the rear window. “It’s not exactly easy to see how deep the water is,” she bites back at him. “Besides, nothing happened.”

Iver feels his buttocks ache from sleeping sitting upright. The toddler is resting on his lap, wrapped in a blanket, his thumb securely lodged between his lips.

“We could have easily capsized,” Chris grumbles and gets up.

“But we didn’t, did we? Let’s get out of here.” She looks to Iver. “Good, you’re up. Bring the kid.”

“Where … where are we?” Iver says, straightening his back. “Frederikshavn?”

“Frederikshavn?” Charlotte shows her teeth in a sneer. “Are you crazy? Why would we go back there? That place is overrun by now.”

“Okay, well, where are we then?” It’s not until now that Iver notices the sunlight streaming in from the window above. “Wait, is it morning?”

“That’s what you call it when the sun rises, yeah,” Chris says and opens the door, letting in more of the light.

“How long did we sail for?” Iver asks, getting to his feet, careful to place the toddler against his chest.

“Almost seven hours,” Charlotte tells him with a grin. “Welcome to Anholt.”

“Anholt?” Iver has heard the name before—it’s a small Danish island—but he couldn’t place it on a map. “Where’s that?”

“Well, where are islands normally located?” Chris asks, right before he jumps out of the boat, audibly landing in water.

Charlotte flashes her phone in front of his face for a second. On the screen is a map of the Kattegat, the sea between Denmark and Sweden. Right in the middle is a red arrow pointing to a tiny dot.

“We couldn’t go to Denmark, and we couldn’t go to Sweden, either,” she says, putting her phone away with a shrug. “We were headed for Sweden at first, actually, but then we heard over the radio that the infection had reach them, too, so we changed course.”

“Okay, but … why Anholt?”

She shrugs again. “Seemed like the obvious choice, really. Little over a hundred residents. Twenty-five miles of water all around. We can ride out the shitstorm here.”

“But … but what about … I mean, our families? My mom is in Oslo, I can’t just stay out here until—”

“Look, you’re welcome to take the boat and go wherever you please!” Charlotte says, throwing out her arms. “Just expect to meet dead people trying to eat you, because they’re all over the place! Denmark, Sweden, Germany … they’ll be in Norway by this afternoon, I promise you that. If you want to survive, I strongly recommend you come with us.”

She leaves the boat before Iver has time to reply. The toddler moves in his arms, and Iver looks down to see him yawning.

“You waking up?”

The boy looks up at him, blinking sleepily. To Iver’s surprise, he doesn’t start crying right away. Instead, he smiles tentatively at him.

Before they went to sleep, Iver and the boy shared a pack of crackers and a bottle of water. There are still crumbs at the side of the boy’s mouth, and Iver brushes them away before he steps out of the boat.

The sunlight is blinding, shining down from the vast blue sky overhead. It’s probably only nine o’clock, yet the air is already warm.

Iver squints and looks around. The boat has landed on a beach very close to the sand. A few miles down the coastline, he can make out a lighthouse, and in the other direction there seems to be a harbor in the distance.

Chris has already made his way onto the beach, carrying a big bag over his shoulder. He’s holding a lit cigarette between his lips.

Charlotte is standing in the water, bending over to wash her face.

Iver steps down the ladder and into the water, immediately soaking through his shoes and socks. It’s lukewarm, so he doesn’t mind. He carries the boy to land. As they pass by Charlotte, she remarks: “We decided not to land at the harbor.”

“Why not?”

“We didn’t want to risk the people living here deciding they didn’t want any newcomers.”

“Why wouldn’t they want that?”

Chris takes a deep drag, then answers: “They might have already taken precautions to defend the island. That’s what I’d be doing if I lived out here and the world was turning to shit all around me.”

To Iver, that sounds like something soldiers in an American movie would do, not regular old Danish people living on a peaceful island. But he doesn’t say anything.

The toddler begins whimpering.

“What’s up with him?” Charlotte asks.

“I think he might be hungry,” Iver says.

“Here, I brought some food,” she says, reaching into her bag and pulling out a packet of beef jerky.

Iver looks at it. “Uhm, thanks, but … I’m not sure he can eat that.”

“Why not?”

“He hasn’t got too many teeth.”

“Oh. How about a banana, then?”

“I’ll give it a try. Thanks, Charlotte.”

Iver takes the banana and begins peeling it. As soon as the toddler sees it, he reaches for it and takes a big bite.

“Huh,” Iver says and can’t help but smile as the toddler wolfs down another bite, hardly wasting any time chewing. “Guess bananas are a hit with toddlers.”

THIRTEEN

They’ve only walked inland for twenty minutes when Iver sees the blue coastline in the horizon, past the green meadow.

“Wait, is that …?” He stops and looks back towards the beach. Between the dunes he can also see water. “Is that the other side of the island?”

“It is,” Charlotte nods, passing him.

“But you can literally see from coast to coast,” Iver says, pointing.

“Of course you can,” Chris says, glancing back. “I told you, it’s a very small island. Only a couple of miles wide.”

“Huh,” Iver says, wiping the sweat from his forehead. The day is already getting hotter. The toddler is resting against his chest, wrapped in Iver’s shirt, which he has turned into a makeshift carrier. The little guy has been quiet until now, looking out over the landscape.

Iver’s back is beginning to ache, and he hopes they won’t have to walk much longer. Neither Charlotte nor Chris have said anything about where they’re going, and Iver is weary of asking, as everything he says is met with a snarky remark.

So, he just keeps on walking.

As they pass the next one of the small hills covering the open fields, a gravel road appears in front of them. A few hundred yards up road is a house. A small car is parked in front of it.

“Looks like they’re home,” Charlotte says, taking a swig out of her water bottle. “Do we go talk to them?”

“We have no choice,” Chris says, patting his backpack. “We need to make friends with the locals, or we’ll run out of food by tomorrow.”

Plus, we have a baby to look after, and we can’t do that on our own, Iver thinks to himself. Both Charlotte and Chris have obviously written the toddler off as Iver’s responsibility. Which is fine with him—he wouldn’t trust the little guy to either of them anyway.

They walk onto the road and begin heading for the house. Farther down the road Iver can see more houses, and it looks like they turn into a village.

A rumble of an engine comes from behind, and Iver turns to see a few cars coming. “Look out,” he tells Chris and Charlotte—unnecessarily so, as they have also heard the cars. They step to the side of the road.

The cars pass them by, slowing down only enough for the people inside to glare at them with no attempt of hiding their interest. Iver sees an old guy, two old women, a younger man with a beard, two little boys and a teenage girl. It looks almost like a big family road trip.

“Well, now the locals know we’re here,” Chris says as the dust settles and they walk on. “I bet you they could tell right away we were outsiders.”

“They didn’t look very welcoming,” Charlotte remarks. “And they didn’t stop and ask if they could help us, either. You think they already know about what’s going on?”

“About the ferry?” Chris shrugs. “Maybe. But they definitely know what’s going on in mainland Denmark. And they probably figured out it’s only a matter of time before outsiders will try to come here for refuge.”

The toddler starts moving against Iver’s chest, whimpering.

“You thirsty?” he asks, offering him a sip of his bottle. But the toddler turns his head away. “No, you’re probably hungry. Sorry, but I’ve got no more bananas.”

He walks on as the toddler keeps whimpering, catching up with Charlotte and Chris as they reach the house.

Just as they step into the driveway, the front door opens, and an old guy—around Iver’s grandpa’s age—comes out. He’s holding a shotgun.

“Whaddya want?” he asks, not raising the weapon, but squinting at them suspiciously. “Why are you here?”

“We’re survivors of a shipwreck,” Chris says, holding up his arms. “We only want help and—”

“What shipwreck?” the guy says, his eyes growing even smaller. “We didn’t hear of any shipwreck. You were on the ferry, weren’t you? And I bet you’re all infected too!”

“No,” Charlotte says, stepping forward. “Please, sir, we’re not infected. We have a baby with us, and he really needs—”

“I don’t care about your baby!” the guy snarls, raising the shotgun, causing Charlotte to stop dead in her tracks. “Get the hell away from my house! And get off my island!”

A car comes rolling up and stops right beside them. The window rolls down and an old lady pops her head out. “What in God’s name is going on here?”

For a moment, Iver is sure the woman is about to yell at them too. But she looks at the old guy scornfully.

“Why are you pointing that thing at these kids, Fred?”

“They’re carrying that nasty disease!” the old guy cries out. “They’ve come here to take over my house! It’s just like they said at the meeting they would!”

“That’s not what they said at all! Were you even listening?”

The old guy bares his teeth—or what’s left of them—in an angry snarl. “Don’t you get smart with me, Agnete! I know what these punks are after! They’re nothing but trouble, and they’re not welcome on my island!”

“It’s not your island, Fred,” the woman says, and then she looks at Iver. “Oh, goodness! You have a baby.”

Iver nods. “I think he’s hungry. I tried giving him something to eat, but—”

“You get the hell off my property!” the old guy bellows, stabbing at them with the shotgun like a prodding rod used on cattle. “I’m not telling you one more time!”

They move out of the driveway and closer to the woman’s car. She uses her hand to shield her eyes as she looks at them one at a time. “Where are you from? The ferry?”

“No, we—” Chris begins.

“Yes,” Iver says. “We were aboard the ferry.”

Chris sends him a burning look.

“But we got off in time,” Iver goes on, ignoring him. “And none of us are infected. We would have been long dead by now if we were.”

“Don’t you believe them, Agnete!” the old guy shouts from his doorway. “You’ll regret it if you do! They’re only after your food and your house! You won’t be able to feed four mouths for long!”

“Go inside, Fred!” Agnete calls to him.

Fred mutters something, then slams the door.

“I see you’ve met my neighbor,” Agnete says, raising her eyebrows. “Don’t let him bother you; we’re all a little on edge now, with what’s happening across the water.”

The toddler gives off a whimper, and Agnete looks at him.

“Poor boy! We need to get him out of the sun. Hop in!”

She rolls the window back up with no further questions. Chris and Charlotte and Iver exchange looks of surprise.

“Did she … did she mean all of us?” Charlotte asks.

When they hesitate, the old woman waves at them impatiently.

“I guess so,” Chris says, shrugging.

Iver opens the back door, unties the toddler and gets in. Charlotte gets in next to him and Chris takes the front seat. The inside of the car is perfectly clean, not a trace of dust or dirt, and it smells of lavender. An old folk song is playing softly on the radio, and the air conditioner makes for a pleasant, cool atmosphere.

Agnete puts the car in motion and looks around at them. “You’ll have to excuse old Fred. He’s not been in a particularly friendly mood lately. His wife died just a few months ago. Took a real toll on him. And now this.”

“Oh,” Charlotte mutters, apparently not knowing what else to says.

“Thank you for helping us,” Iver says.

“Don’t mention it,” Agnete says, sending him a brief smile. “We all need to help each other in times like these. I suppose a lot more people will be coming soon.” Then, before anyone can reply to that, she looks at Iver in the mirror. “Is he yours?”

“Oh, no,” Iver says, shaking his head. “No, I’m only eighteen,” he adds, as though that explains anything.

“Well, I was only seventeen when I had my first son,” the woman smiles at him. “Whose is he then?”

“He’s … uhm … his mother …” Iver looks at the toddler, then back up at Agnete. “She didn’t make it.”

“Oh, poor thing,” the old woman says, and Iver can’t tell if she means the mother or the toddler. “Well, we’ll take good care of him now.”

Iver feels a deep gratitude and sense of relief.

They reach the next house, surrounded by trees and located right at the edge of the village, and the woman pulls into the driveway and parks the car.

“Okay, here we are. You mind helping me bring in the bags from the trunk? I just came back from the meeting in the town hall, and they dealt out supplies. I took as much as I could carry.”

“What meeting?” Chris asks.

“They called us in this morning,” Agnete says, unbuckling. “They’re going to try their best to organize things so we can all get through this together.”

“They?” Chris asks. “Who are ‘they’?”

“The police, the firefighters and the chairman of the civic association. Come on now, we can talk once we get inside.”

FOURTEEN

Iver isn’t particularly surprised to find that Agnete’s house is just as neat and tidy as her car.

There are a ton of trinkets everywhere, and nothing is out of place. No trace of any mess, neither in the kitchen nor the living room. Even the shoes in the scullery are lined up in a perfect row.

Those supplies in the trunk, which according to Agnete was “as much as she could carry,” turns out to be four large shopping bags stuffed with groceries and household items. Chris and Charlotte take two each and bring them into the kitchen.

As soon as she’s placed the car keys neatly on the shelf next to the fridge, Agnete takes the toddler from Iver.

“Oh, hello there, you pretty thing. You look hungry. Here, let me fix you something.” She opens the fridge, and says to Iver: “Could you grab me a bottle in the top cupboard over there?”

Iver—rather confused—opens the cupboard and sees four baby bottles lined up. He takes one and hands it to Agnete, who’s opening a carton of full fat milk, which she pours into the bottle.

“You’re probably used to baby formula, but wait until you try this, little buddy. This is how we fed you in the old days, and I promise you, it’s even better!”

Iver watches in silent awe as the old lady prepares the bottle by unscrewing the top, filling it with milk, screwing the top back on and heating it in the microwave, all of which she does one-handed while holding the toddler on her hip with the other. The boy seems to have taken to her right away, probably because he can feel she’s a natural at dealing with babies. While the microwave is running, Agnete speaks to the toddler and caresses him.

“You’re really good at that,” Iver says, smiling.

“Well, I raised seven children of my own, so I should have picked up a thing or two along the way.”

“Seven?” Iver says.

“Uh-huh. All of them boys. Can you believe that? Me and Henning desperately wanted a girl, but no such luck.”

“Where’s your …?”

Agnete guesses the rest of the question. “Henning died ten years ago. It’s just me know.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’ve got a large family, and they often come over to visit, bringing along my grandkids.”

Explains why she has baby bottles in the cupboards, Iver thinks to himself.

“You want us to put the things away?” Charlotte offers, pointing to the bags on the counter.

“No, no, let me do that,” Agnete says. “You guys hungry? I was about to eat. There’s leftover lasagna in the fridge, you can heat it in the oven.”

At the mere thought of lasagna, Iver’s stomach gives an audible growl, and he immediately realizes just how little he’s eaten since he got on the ferry last night.

The microwave pings, and Agnete takes out the bottle. She sits down at the kitchen table, places the toddler on her arm and offers him the bottle. The guy’s obviously no stranger to the procedure, and he immediately latches on and begins gulping down the milk.

“Thank God we met you,” Iver says, sitting down across from Agnete as Charlotte takes out the lasagna and starts up the oven. “I would have no idea how to handle that little guy.”

She sends him a smile. “You know his name?”

“You know, I don’t. I didn’t even know his mother.”

“Huh. Well, we might need to give you a name, then,” she says, stroking the boy’s cheek with her finger. She looks at Iver. “I didn’t catch your names either?”

“I’m Iver. That’s Chris and Charlotte.”

“Nice to meet you all,” Agnete says.

“You too,” Charlotte says, wrenching out a smile.

Chris comes over to the table but doesn’t sit down. He looks at Iver as though he wants him to say something.

Iver clears his throat. “So … are you okay with us staying here for now?”

Agnete looks up at him. “For now? What do you mean? You plan on going anywhere else soon?”

“No, it’s just … taking in three people and a baby, it seems a little … much to ask.”

“The way I see it, an old lady living alone isn’t doing anybody much good. I figured we could both benefit from each other’s company.”

“Sure,” Iver says. “Thank you.”

The toddler stops drinking and leans back his head with a sigh, his eyes closing, opening, then closing again.

“Goodness, you really were hungry,” Agnete chuckles. “You drank the whole bottle. Here, let me tuck you in so you can take a nap.”

She gets up and shuffles to the stairs. Iver follows her and watches from the doorway as Agnete carries the toddler into what is clearly a child’s room. There’s even a crib, all made and ready, which she places the toddler in. He’s gone to sleep before she can even put the blanket over him.

She comes back over and closes the door, smiling at Iver. “He’ll probably be out for a few hours. Now, let’s go down and eat. We can talk over everything while we do.”

FIFTEEN

When Dan finally returns to what he once knew as the real world, the first thing he notices is the daylight streaming in at him.

Then he realizes that he’s still in the helicopter, but that the sound of the engine has stopped and that the surroundings are quiet.

Finally, he becomes aware of William’s face looking down at him, smiling tentatively.

“You still with us?”

Dan blinks.

“You were gone for most of the day; you didn’t even wake when we landed. We decided to let you sleep for as long as you needed. Here, lemme give you a hand.”

William pulls him upright and sits down next to him in the open door.

Dan looks out of the helicopter. It has landed on what looks like the top of a mountain range. The view over the open landscape is breathtaking under the blue sky. In the distance, Dan can make out a city, and somewhere nearby is the sound of the ocean.

The rest of the group is either standing or sitting around in the grass, eating and talking together in low voices. One by one they notice him.

They’re all there.

All except one.

Dan doesn’t want to think about it. He can’t. Not yet. It’s still too unreal.

Instead, he looks at Nasira. Her arms are covered in bandages, and where her skin is visible, Dan can tell it’s turning red. But other than that, she looks fine. Obviously still no fever.

Ozzy comes over and licks Dan’s hand. Dan strokes his head for a moment.

“What time is it?” he asks William.

“Almost six. You hungry?”

Dan checks in on his stomach, but finds nothing much. “Not really.”

William hands him what looks like a gas station sandwich. “You should probably eat something anyway.”

“All right.” Dan takes it, unwraps it and begins eating methodically. His head feels as empty as the rest of him.

The others have gone back to eating and talking.

“I think I had a dream,” Dan says.

William looks puzzled for a moment, like that was the last thing he expected to hear. “Oh?”

“I was back at the house.”

“Your house?”

“No. The one where it all started.”

“Oh,” William says again. “Well … I can’t imagine that was a pleasant dream.”

“It wasn’t a nightmare.”

“No?”

“No. I was just … there.”

William looks at him curiously, clearly unsure about what to say.

“I stood in the basement,” Dan goes on, speaking very slowly and deliberately. For some reason, he feels it’s important to get the words just right, to express exactly what the dream had shown him. “It was the same room. The room that Jennie died in. Everything looked like I remember. Nothing happened in the dream. I didn’t feel anything, either. I just … stood there. Looking around.”

As Dan stops talking, William shrugs and smiles. “Sounds like a pretty boring dream to me.”

“It was very … significant.”

“How so?”

Dan shakes his head slowly. “I don’t know.”

William looks at him for a moment, waiting to see if Dan is going to say anything else. When he doesn’t, William clears his throat and says: “Look, man, I can’t tell you how sorry I am. About you losing … well, everyone.”

Dan looks at William, still feeling nothing in particular. He takes another bite of his sandwich. It’s chicken and curry, his favorite, he notices as he chews slowly.

William has finished his sandwich and is rubbing his palms against his thighs. “You know, your dad was the one who pressed the issue the most. About bringing Eli along. I’m not saying it was his fault or anything, I’m just saying … don’t blame yourself.”

“I don’t blame anyone,” Dan says, surprising himself with the words.

Nasira gets up and comes over to them, Ali following along. She looks at Dan and smiles. “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t help hear what you’re talking about. I wanted to offer you my condolences.”

“Thank you,” Dan says, not even sure whether that’s the right answer; no one’s ever condoled him before.

“I know it’s no consolation right now,” Nasira goes on, “but I still believe we made the right choice.”

William frowns. “How can the right choice lead to Dan’s father dying?”

Nasira looks at him, her smile not faltering. “I don’t know the master plan, none of us do. But I do know that even though Henrik’s dead, his soul is unstained. That’s what doing the right thing means. That even if you die, you’ll be saved.”

“I don’t know,” William says, shaking his head, looking out over the hilly landscape. “I’m starting to think, in a world like this, where everything is turning to shit, doing the right thing may not be the right thing to do anymore.”

Nasira shrugs. “Maybe you’re right. Or maybe this is the kind of world where doing the right thing matters the most.”

She looks at Dan, and he looks back at her, and he suddenly gets why Nasira can be so peaceful even though she’s dying. Dan isn’t dying, but he’s got nothing left to lose, either, and somehow, that’s liberating. Apparently, once everything has been stripped away from you, there’s no more reason to be afraid.

Dan takes another careful bite.

“How are you holding up?” William asks Nasira.

She glances down at her arms, then shrugs. “I feel pretty much the same. Except maybe a little warmer than usual.”

“Well, we’ve got no thermometer, so …” William reaches out his hand and places his palm on Nasira’s forehead. She closes her eyes. William takes his hand away again. “Yeah, you feel a little warm. Not feverish yet, though. Amazing how slowly it goes with you.”

The thought of Nasira not getting sick at the same rate as everyone else Dan has encountered sparks something deep inside his mind, something he can’t quite reach. It reminds him of the dream he just had.

Sebastian comes over to the helicopter. It’s only now Dan notices he’s holding a pair of binoculars. “I think they’re getting ready. We should probably head down there.”

“Great,” William says, getting to his feet.

Ozzy immediately jumps up and looks at him, excited for whatever is going to happen.

“Head down where?” Dan asks, putting the last of the sandwich in his mouth.

“Oh, right, I didn’t tell you the plan,” William says, waving him along. “Come see, you’re gonna love this.”

Dan gets up, wondering for a moment if he remembers how to walk, but his legs take care of it for him, and he follows William over to the place where Sebastian was just sitting a moment ago, on a big boulder lodged in the ground.

William looks back over his shoulder, briefing him as they walk. “We heard on the radio that Norway is infected, too. The authorities are already closing down everything. So, after we got the food, we decided to head up here, away from any larger cities.”

There’s a steep drop on this side of the mountain, which Dan couldn’t see from the helicopter, and a few hundred yards below runs a road. It leads to some sort of complex surrounded by a fence. Inside lie a couple of big buildings and in the middle a large, square space with a giant H painted on it.

“Is that … an airport?” Dan asks.

“It used to be a military air base but it’s now privately owned,” Sebastian says, joining them. “I know the guy who runs it. They just use it as a midway point where they can refuel.”

Dan looks at Sebastian, then at William. “So, why are we here?”

“Because we need fuel,” William says. “And we can’t get it anywhere else, now that they’ve locked down all the regular airports.”

“So, are we going to … steal the fuel?”

“I believe it’s called heisting,” William says, smiling.

“We can’t get into the base without security noticing,” Sebastian says. “They’ve got at least two armed guards, and we don’t want to get into a gunfight. So, we’re going to take it from the fuel truck which drives from here to town several times a day. That’s how you normally fuel a helicopter, anyway.”

“It’s gonna be cool,” William says. “We’ll wait for it to come by and hold it up while Sebastian flies the helicopter down there. You know, like when they robbed that train in Breaking Bad?”

Dan shakes his head. “I didn’t watch that show.”

William looks at him, dumbfounded. “Seriously? Dude, if Netflix survives the end of the world, we’re gonna watch Breaking Bad together.”

SIXTEEN

Although Iver feels very hungry and the lasagna is delicious, he has a hard time eating.

Images keep popping into his mind of what he saw aboard the ferry. The dead people coming back to life. Open flesh wounds. Blood everywhere.

Both Chris and Charlotte seem to have an easier time getting their stomachs to cooperate, as they shovel food down their throats.

“I’m glad you like it,” Agnete remarks with a smile.

“It’s great, thank you,” Charlotte says, her mouth full.

Chris doesn’t seem to pay any attention. He swigs down half his Coke, lets out a discrete burp and looks at Agnete briefly before resuming eating: “So, what was the meeting about?”

Agnete puts down her knife and fork and dabs her mouth with her cloth. She takes a moment, apparently using her tongue to remove any bits of lasagna from her front teeth. “They told us to prepare for the worst. They said a lot of survivors from the mainland would probably arrive within the next few days. Maybe some of them would be infected, and if that was the case, they urged us to not come into contact with them.”

Charlotte looks up from her plate. “And if they weren’t infected? What were you supposed to do then?”

“Even if they weren’t infected, they still advised us not to take anybody in. They said it was a matter of securing our own survival, and that resources could begin running low if the worst happened and society didn’t recover from the pandemic any time soon.”

“Pandemic,” Chris snorts. “Like we’re talking about the fucking flu here. When will these people wake up?”

Agnete looks at him earnestly. “What is it, if not a pandemic? You guys have seen it firsthand.”

“It’s zombies,” Chris says, slashing the air with his fork. “Clean and simple. It’s dead people wanting to eat living people.”

Agnete looks to Charlotte, who nods her agreement, then to Iver, who simply shrugs.

“I’m afraid he’s right,” he mutters. “At least from what I’ve seen, it’s not just a virus. It’s something … much worse.”

“So all the talk about a vaccine?” Agnete asks. “The prime minister promised just yesterday they would find a cure within days?”

“That’s bullshit,” Chris says, eating even faster. “She’s telling people that in order to keep them from panicking. Meanwhile, she’s probably already been escorted to some military-guarded island somewhere with all the other world leaders where they’ll ride out the storm while the rest of us eat each other.”

“That’s a very bleak outlook indeed,” Agnete says.

“It’s likely the truth,” Chris says, shrugging.

Iver clears his throat. “What else did they tell you at the town hall?”

Agnete looks at him. “They told us to help each other as best we could. That we might want to barricade our houses and prepare not to go outside in case any infected made it to the island.”

“Finally, some sound advice,” Chris interjects.

“They reminded us it’s still illegal to hurt any of the infected, unless they directly attack us, but they said those of us who have firearms might want to get them ready.”

“Do you have any?” Charlotte asks, a hopeful tone in her voice.

“I still keep Henning’s old hunting rifle,” Agnete says. “But it hasn’t been fired for ten years. I’m not even sure it works anymore.”

“Sure it does,” Chris says, looking up. “It probably just needs a good cleaning. I can do that no problem; I know a lot about rifles.”

Agnete smiles, but doesn’t answer right away. “That’s nice of you to offer,” she says. “I had hoped it wouldn’t have to come to that.”

“It probably will,” Charlotte says bluntly. “Sooner or later someone will bring the infection—or whatever we call it—to this island, and we’ll have to defend ourselves.”

Agnete nods, says nothing, then resumes eating slowly.

Iver feels like he needs to say something. “So … should we make a plan for what we’re going to do?”

Chris nods as he swallows the last mouthful of lasagna. “I say we begin right away with boarding up the windows and any other ways in. That’s first priority. Once the house is secured, we’ll need to ration the food and get our weapons ready. Since we only have one firearm, we’ll need to make clubs and maybe spears. Also, we’ll need to—”

“Goodness gracious!” Agnete exclaims. “Clubs and spears? You can’t be serious?”

“I am,” Chris says grimly. “I am very serious.”

“You sound like you assume we’re going to war here.”

“No, war is very different,” Chris says immediately. “Trust me, I’ve been stationed in Syria for two years. What we’re dealing with here is a lot simpler. It’s also a lot more dangerous.”

Iver is surprised to learn that Chris is a soldier. From what he knows about him—which isn’t a lot—he took him to be the typical wannabe tough guy who doesn’t have any real friends and acts like he doesn’t need them either. He lives alone and spends him free time gaming online. Also, he looks way too scrawny to have served in the military. And Iver didn’t take him to be much older than himself. But looking at Chris now, Iver gets the feeling his plain looks might be deceiving. And quite a few things actually make sense now. Like the way he just seems to have shut off his emotions from the minute they got in the lifeboat. Or how he seems oddly prepared—even anticipating—a situation like this. Or how Charlotte went straight to him when she learned about the threat on the ferry. She probably already knew about his past in the military.

“I’m with Chris,” Charlotte says, confirming Iver’s suspicion. “We need to take every precaution we can think of. This might not be over any time soon.”

Agnete looks at them in turn, then glances over at the far end of the living room. Iver follows her gaze and sees an old piano standing there. On it sits a black-and-white wedding photo.

“All right,” Agnete says, nodding. “We’ll do it your way. I suspect it might be—”

“Sssh!” Chris suddenly hisses, looking like he’s listening for something. “What’s that?”

They all keep quiet for a moment. And they all hear a deep, faraway blaring of a horn of some sorts.

Agnete gasps. “That’s the air raid siren. They said they would sound it if any infected were spotted anywhere on the island …”

Agnete has barely finished the sentence before Chris is on his feet, pointing at them in turn. “Quick, Charlotte, go lock the front door and check for any other ways in! Iver, go upstairs and look out the windows; if you see anyone approach the house, you yell out!” Lastly, he turns to Agnete. “Where’s that gun?”

SEVENTEEN

The climb down isn’t as bad as William thought it would be, even while holding the rifle in one hand.

He looks back up to check on Josefine. She’s making her way down the hill very carefully, choosing every step with great care.

“You afraid of heights?” he calls to her.

She glances down at him, then focuses on her feet again. “Do I look like I’m afraid of heights?”

“You need me to give you a hand? I can wait for you.”

“Just go on,” she tells him, waving a hand. “I’ve got this.”

William nods, then continues the descent. Josefine is already growing on him. She’s the type of person he likes to have by his side during the apocalypse; clever, determined, no BS.

Ozzy is following close to William. He obviously has no trouble with heights, and four legs seem to be quite the advantage when scaling steep hills.

William reaches the road and looks back up. Josefine is only a few yards behind, and from the top he can see Sebastian and Dan silhouetted against the blue sky. He waves, signaling everything is okay, and they wave back.

“Right,” he says to himself, looking around. “That rose hip seems like the obvious choice.”

A large bush is growing by the side of the road, the pink flowers in full bloom. He walks closer and bends down, trying to look through the branches, but they’re way too thick.

“Perfect.”

Josefine has reached the road. She dusts off her knees and hands and looks at him. “Is that where you’ll be sitting?”

“I think so. Are you okay with your part?”

“Sure. Damsel in distress. I’ve got this.”

William is about to say something when there’s a whistle from above. He looks up, and Sebastian lifts one hand.

“Right, it’s coming,” William says, getting the rifle ready. “Ozzy, heel.”

Ozzy is already by his side, and William walks around the rose hip and crouches right on the other side. He peeks over the branches and sees Josefine walk a little down the road. She then places herself at the roadside and begins waiting.

Ozzy is panting in William’s ear. He feels the excitement rise up through his legs.

Thirty seconds later, he hears the roar of the truck’s engine. Then he sees it coming towards them and ducks down. Spotting through a tiny hole in the branches, he can just make out Josefine. She steps out onto the road and waves both arms.

The trucker sees her and lets off the gas.

“It’s happening,” William breathes. “Get ready, buddy.”

Ozzy whimpers with suppressed excitement. Holding up and robbing a truck was never part of Ozzy’s training, so he probably has no idea what’s going to happen, but he’s obviously very aware that the situation is getting highly intense, mirroring William’s excitement and getting himself ready for whatever will go down.

The truck slows down further and comes to a halt in front of Josefine. She has shifted her weight onto her right foot and has lifted the left one slightly off the ground.

“Could you please help me?” she calls out, still waving at the truck driver. “I think I’ve dislocated my ankle!”

The driver—a skinny, buzzcut guy not much older than William—leans out the window and asks in Norwegian: “What’s the problem?”

“My ankle!” Josefine says, pointing. “I went hiking and I had a fall. I need a lift to town, could you please help me?”

The driver darts a look in the mirrors, as though to check if anyone else is around. Then he looks back out at Josefine. “Are you hurt besides your ankle?”

Josefine shakes her head.

“All right, come on then. Jump in. I’ll take you to the hospital.”

Josefine begins to walk over to the truck.

No! William thinks. No, make him come out …

For a moment he’s afraid that Josefine has forgotten the plan and is about to blow it. But then she pretends like her ankle gives way and sinks to the ground with a scream of pain—a very convincing one at that. She shakes her head and looks up at the truck driver. “I can’t! I can’t walk! Please come help me!”

Yes! That’s it.

The driver seems to chew on it—quite literally, as his jaw moves—then he pulls his head back in, unbuckles and opens the door.

“Yatzy!” William whispers. “Get ready, buddy.”

The remark is quite unnecessary, as Ozzy is already shivering with readiness.

William pulls back the hammer, carefully locking it in place. He doesn’t really like the thought of pointing a loaded rifle on an innocent guy, but Sebastian told him there’s a tiny chance the guy might be packing himself, so they can’t take any chances.

As he jumps down from the truck, however, William becomes convinced the driver isn’t carrying any weapons. He’s very short and even skinnier than William took him to be, his arms and legs both wiry and sunburned. He’s wearing cargo shorts way too wide for him, and they’re strapped in tightly with a way too heavy belt. His shirt—a black tank top with a Guns N’ Roses logo—reveals his ribs and collarbone.

At least he’s got great taste in music, William thinks to himself, clutching the rifle.

Josefine reaches out her hand as the trucker comes closer, but then he suddenly stops a few paces away.

“You out here all alone?” he asks, looking down at her.

Josefine nods.

“Did you see anybody else around?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“So you haven’t heard about the train?”

“What train? Please, can you just help me? My ankle is really hurting.”

The driver takes her hand and pulls her up. He places her arm over his boney shoulders and together they walk back to the truck. He helps Josefine into the passenger seat and, just as he closes the door and is about to walk around the front of the car, Josefine leans over and presses the horn.

The driver jumps in surprise and looks up at her through the windshield. “Why’d you do that?”

William knows why. It was the signal he needed. And he’s already jumped up and is running towards the driver, the rifle swinging back and forth, Ozzy quickly gaining a lead.

William stops about twenty feet away, places the rifle against his shoulder and gives off a short, loud whistle. The sound serves both a command for Ozzy to stop—which he does—and for the driver to turn around—which he also does.

His eyes grow big and round at the sight of William and the German shepherd both staring at him. He instinctively holds up his hands.

“I’m not going to shoot you,” William tells him, straining to hold the gun level, but it’s difficult because of the adrenaline. “We just need your fuel. If you stay calm and don’t do anything stupid, you’ll be perfectly fine and we’ll be out of here fast.”

The driver swallows and nods, his eyes darting from the rifle to the dog, as though he’s not sure which to fear the most. “All right. No problem, man. Please keep the dog away from me, okay? I hate dogs.”

Ozzy growls, almost as though he understands what the guy just said, and the guy steps backwards.

“Don’t move,” William says. “Ozzy won’t do anything I haven’t told him to, so don’t worry.”

Josefine comes back out from the truck and joins them.

“Good job,” William tells her.

“You too.” She looks up the hill. “You think they heard the signal?”

Just as William is about to answer, the sound of the helicopter’s engine starts up with a series of deep whoop-whoops.

He glances at her with a smile. “I guess that’s a yes.”

The driver—still holding up his hands—looks to the sky, squinting against the sun. “Who’s … who’s up there?”

“Our friends,” William tells him. “We’ve got a helicopter. Whaddiya think we needed the fuel for? Drinking?”

The driver ignores the rhetorical question and looks at William with an expression of even greater fear. “Look, it’ll take some time to fuel a helicopter …”

“We know that. We’ve got the time.”

“But we can’t stay out here for that long! Haven’t you guys heard of the train?”

“What train?” Josefine asks.

He looks at her, then back at William. “The train from Oslo! The one with the infection!”

William glances at Josefine and she glances back. The sound of the helicopter overhead has grown so loud it’s becoming difficult to hear each other.

“We didn’t hear about that!” Josefine shouts to the driver. “Tell us about it!”

The driver moistens his pale lips with his tongue. “The virus! It came into Norway from Sweden this morning. It reached Oslo almost right away. People panicked.”

“We know about that!” William shouts, as the shadow of the helicopter passes over them. “What did you say about a train?”

“They just said it over the radio half an hour ago!” the driver goes on, now shouting at the top of his lungs. “They tried to shut down all traffic going out of the city, but someone went crazy and hijacked a train full of people. They rode north and they’ve just been spotted by someone only five miles from here!”

William feels his pulse rising even higher as the helicopter descends and the beat of the rotor begins tapping at his eardrums. “Where are they headed?” he shouts.

The driver shakes his head. “That’s the thing, they aren’t headed anywhere—the train had stopped! People were climbing out the windows, all of them infected! They said every last person on that train had likely been infected, and there were several hundreds of them!”

William’s stomach drops. He can’t help but glance around.

“The train tracks run past this hill right on the other side!” the driver goes on, pointing. “If it’s true what they said on the radio, the area could be swamped with infected people right now!”

William knows the guy isn’t lying—he noticed the tracks from the air right before they landed.

The helicopter is close enough now that the wind is throwing around dust and pebbles, pulling at their clothes and Josefine’s hair.

Then—just before it touches down—William sees the figure coming down the road. It’s a young woman with long, beautiful hair, wearing a red summer dress which has been torn open on one side, revealing a small, firm breast with pale tan lines showing where the girl’s bikini used to sit. Normally, William’s eyes would have been drawn to the girl’s chest, but he hardly notices. Instead, he stares at her face, which is mostly missing. In its place is a red, bloody mask of exposed tissue. He can make out the gristle from the nose and the white teeth and jawbone. One remaining, cloudy-white eyeball stares right back at him.

Then the helicopter cuts the girl from view as it lands on the road between her and the truck.

EIGHTEEN

Iver scales the stairs three steps at a time reaching the second floor in a matter of seconds. He surveys the landing, quickly getting an overview of the three small rooms, the toddler sleeping in the one on the right.

Iver runs to the one on the left and looks out the window. From here, he can see Fred’s house and the fields beyond it. And farther off, the coastline where they landed.

He can also see the figures coming this way.

There’s at least a dozen of them. They’re walking in an uncertain, wobbly way—one of them actually falls down, then gets back up and walks on.

Iver squints his eyes, feeling his heart rate rise as he tries to see the figures more clearly, even though he already knows who they are.

Then he notices he’s standing right next to a telescope on a tripod—probably one that Agnete uses to admire the view—and he puts his eye to the ocular and searches for the figures.

It takes him a few seconds to find them. When he does, his breath escapes him; they look even worse than he remembers.

They’re all dead, of course, all of them sporting visible bite wounds. But they’re also drenched. Not like someone who’s been out in the rain, but like corpses that have been soaking in a lake for days—which really isn’t that far from reality. Their skin is grey and green and purple and swollen up like a sponge. Their hair is hanging like dead seaweed and their clothes are still dripping. Most of them are covered in sand, too, as they all seem to have taken a fall since they waddled ashore. Iver suspects that if the sea around Denmark had had sharks or other big predatory fish, they would probably have eaten off the zombies.

He pulls away from the telescope and tries to estimate how far the undeads are out. Two miles? Maybe three.

And with their current speed, they’ll probably reach Fred’s house within ten minutes. Some of them seem to be branching off in different directions, apparently sensing other targets—at least five of them are headed this way.

Iver runs back downstairs, almost crashing into Charlotte, who’s running past the stairs in her effort to close all windows.

Agnete comes out from another room carrying a long, slim wooden suitcase. Chris rips it from her hand and puts in on the table, shoving aside the dishes.

“Like I said, it’s very old and—” Agnete begins.

She gets cut off by Chris, who’s already opened the suitcase and is pulling out the rifle: “How many rounds you’ve got?”

“Rounds? Oh, you mean bullets? Only these.” She presents a plastic bag, which Chris takes and empties out onto the table. Iver counts four cardboard boxes.

“They’re all unopened,” Chris mutters. “And they contain fifty each, giving us two hundred rounds. They’re only .243, but that’ll do.” He looks at Agnete. “You’ve got any cotton buds? And I need a clean cloth, too.”

Agnete rushes out to the kitchen as Iver begins taking the rifle apart with practiced movements.

Iver steps over to him.

“Well?” Chris says, not looking at him. “Judging from the scared shitless expression on your face I assume you saw them?”

Iver nods. “Twelve,” he mutters. “Maybe more. They’re coming this way. Fifteen minutes out, tops.”

“Direction?”

“Huh?”

“What direction are they approaching from?”

“Uhm, the same way we came from.”

“North,” he says right away. “Did you see any boats?”

“No,” Iver says, frowning. “No, I didn’t.” It’s only now he connects the dots. “They looked like they swam here. Do you think they came from …?”

“The ferry,” Chris finishes, sending him a brief glance. “They can survive under water. Now we know. And we can probably expect a shitload more of them to arrive before nightfall.”

Iver swallows dryly. An impulse shoots through him to run up to the kid’s room, grab the toddler and leave the house. But where would he go? Even if he could find a boat and leave the island, the question would still be the same: where to go?

Charlotte comes into the living room, panting. “Done. I’ve checked everywhere, both down here and upstairs.”

“Good,” Chris says, still working the rifle. “I’ll have this ready in five minutes. Until then, see if you can find anything else that’ll serve as weapons. Anything that can punch or stab or cut. Preferably something long, so we don’t need to get too close to them.”

Agnete comes back into the living room with a cloth and a glass of cotton buds. She looks at them earnestly. “I think … I think you might want to check the garage. That’s where I keep my gardening tools.”

“Perfect,” Chris says. “Do that. Hand me those.” He takes the cleaning supplies from Agnete.

“Oh, I just remembered,” Agnete says, rushing to the bookcase. On the top shelf is a radio which she turns on.

“… approaching town from the north and the northeast end of the island,” a man’s voice says gravely. “I’ll repeat that. This is Chairman Viggo Andersen, I’m speaking to everyone on Anholt. The infected have reached our island. They’re approaching town from the north and the northeast end. There are a few dozen of them, and more seem to come from the sea all the time. Like was said at the meeting earlier today, remember whatever you do, to not let any of them inside your houses. I cannot stress this enough. Do not get into direct contact with these people. They are highly contagious. If you’re not already, then get inside your house as fast as possible, no matter where you are on the island. Lock the doors, secure the windows. Don’t do anything else until we’ve got the situation under control …”

Chris scoffs. “Might take some time.” He looks at Iver and Charlotte. “What are you waiting for? Get on with it.”

“Come with me,” Charlotte says, grabbing Iver by the wrist and pulling him along.

They run down the hallway and out through a door leading to the garage. As Charlotte hits the lights, Iver immediately sees the row of tools hanging on the wall. Normally, the shovels and rakes and hoes would remind him simply of gardening. But right now, to Iver they look more like a weapon display in a war museum.

Charlotte, sending him a quick sideways look, seems to be thinking something similar. “Okay,” she says, breathing deeply. “There’s plenty we can use. We’d better take them all.”

She steps over and takes down the shovel. Iver follows her example. His first choice is the rake. He weighs it in his hands, imagining swinging it at an oncoming zombie. His stomach tightens at the mere thought of the teeth connecting with the skull.

“Hey!”

He blinks and looks at Charlotte, who’s standing with her arms full. She nods towards the remaining tools on the wall. “Are you just going to stand there? Or are you going to take the rest of them?”

NINETEEN

“Did you see her?” Josefine shouts.

William doesn’t waste any time answering; he just runs towards the helicopter, ducking down as he’s seen people do in movies to avoid the worst of the wind from the rotors.

The sliding door opens, revealing Dan.

“Close it!” William bellows, waving frantically at him. “Close the door!”

Dan gets the message—even though he looks puzzled—and shuts the door again.

William runs around to the other side of the helicopter. The girl has moved faster than he thought: she’s already reached the helicopter and begins groping the metal. Her golden hair is thrown around wildly, tufts of it sticking to her face—or, rather, what used to be her face.

“Hey!” William shouts, kneeling down without even thinking about it first, and taking aim at the girl’s head. “Hey, you!”

She doesn’t really react to his voice; maybe she can’t hear him over the still roaring rotors. But she’s making her way slowly sideways towards him, so William concentrates on his aim.

Ozzy is whimpering in his ear, perched at his side, ready to jump at the slightest command.

“Stay, Ozzy,” William mutters out the corner of his mouth, closing one eye. “I’ve got this …”

The girl takes another few steps in his direction and finally gets close enough to sense William. She turns on him, and for half a second, William is taken aback at the sight of her up close. Then she reaches out both arms and comes at him swiftly.

He pulls the trigger.

The girl’s head isn’t flung back like he expected it would. Instead, she just jumps slightly, and William is certain that he missed.

But then he sees the crater right below what’s left of her nose—it’s easy to miss in the already bloody mess. Next, the girl’s legs give way, collapsing her to the ground where she stays completely still.

“Fuck, yeah!” William shouts, punching his fist to the air. He gets to his feet, then doubles over again immediately and with no warning whatsoever pukes up the sandwich he ate just half an hour ago.

He stares in amazement at the pile on the ground. His first thought is that the sandwich was bad and disagreed with his stomach. But then he realizes he’s trembling all over and that his knees are threatening to buckle beneath him.

Apparently, his body is reacting to the shock of shooting the girl even before his mind has had time to catch up.

Maybe it shouldn’t be so surprising; he never shot anything besides clay pigeons before. And whatever the dead thing in front of him had turned into, it had not that long ago been a human being. A young girl. A pretty one, probably. Someone he might strike up a conversion with if he met her in a bar.

And now he just blew her brainstem to jam.

The thought causes him to retch again, and he has to force himself to stand up straight.

He glances sideways at Ozzy who’s looking at him with curious concern. “Guess I’m not the ruthless zombie killer I thought I was,” he mutters, wiping his mouth.

He turns around and sees Nasira, Ali and Dan standing there, looking at him.

“Well done,” Nasira says gravely.

“Thanks,” William says. “I just—wait! The truck driver!”

He begins running back around the helicopter and almost collides with Sebastian and Josefine.

The fuel truck is still there, but the driver is nowhere to be seen.

“He took off,” Sebastian says, reading the question off of William’s face. “Soon as he saw the girl coming.”

“I was afraid he would take the truck,” William says.

“Didn’t even cross his mind,” Josefine says, pointing over her shoulder. “He just ran right down the road, probably headed for the base down there.”

“Might turn out to be a clever move,” William says, glancing around. “That girl probably came from the train. Which means a lot more of them can show up any minute.”

“Let’s get moving, then,” Sebastian says, running to the helicopter. “Someone go back up the truck. I need it next to the helicopter, right side facing her.”

“I’ll do it,” Josefine says.

William eyes her with surprise. “You know how to drive that thing?”

“I worked as a bus driver not that long ago,” she tells him, then heads for the truck.

William follows Sebastian, who’s already busy prepping the helicopter for the refueling. Dan, Nasira, Ali and Lærke are watching him anxiously.

“You guys,” William says, pointing at them. “You go keep an eye in every direction. Spread out, but don’t go too far. If you see anything or anyone, shout as loudly as you can. Got that?”

They nod in unison, then walk off in different directions.

William wipes sweat from his upper lip. He can still taste the puke in his throat. “Don’t we need to shut it off before we fuel it?”

Sebastian shakes his head without looking at him. “As long as we’re careful, this will work fine.”

“How long will it take to fill the tank?”

“Six minutes, give or take.”

William darts a look around, up and down the road, up the hillside and down the valley. Then he looks down at Ozzy, who’s eyeing him intently, as though he’s thinking the same thing.

They’re sitting ducks out here.

Just waiting for a horde of predators.

And six minutes is an awful long time.

TWENTY

The first dead person appears within thirty seconds.

Dan is the one to spot him as he comes stumbling down the hillside.

It’s a heavy, bearded guy wearing a torn Hawaiian shirt. Someone chewed away one of his man boobs, revealing the ribcage underneath. His beard was once grey but now it’s red as the guy has obviously been busy eating other people.

The hill is a little too steep for someone with limited motor skills, and the guy is falling more than he’s walking. It doesn’t seem to bother him, though, as it gives him a very speedy decent.

“There’s one coming!” Dan shouts back at the others, forming a funnel around his mouth with his hands.

Both the truck and the helicopter are still running and he’s not sure either Sebastian or William hears him. Josefine is standing a little farther down road, and Nasira and Ali went in the other direction.

“I see one over here, too!” Josefine calls out. “No, wait—three of them!”

Dan looks in her direction and sees a zombie kid—not much older than ten—and two grown-ups coming down the hillside in the same tumbling fashion as the Hawaiian shirt guy.

Then Ozzy barks, and Dan turns his head to see another two dead people approach the helicopter from above.

There are too many, Dan thinks, and then William shouts something and points up the hill.

Dan looks up, shielding his eyes to see the hilltop. What he sees takes his breath away.

A literal army of zombies is streaming out over the top, like lemmings headed for the abyss, their figures silhouetted against the blue sky. There are men, woman, children, teens and seniors. They pay no attention to the steep drop, but simply roll, stumble or tumble downwards.

“Get back over here!”

William is flailing his arm and waving the rifle back and forth, his words just barely audible over the whooping of the helicopter.

Dan puts two fingers in his mouth and whistles sharply at Josefine. He didn’t need to, though, as she’s already running back this way.

Dan runs to the helicopter and sees Nasira and Ali coming from the other way. Lærke is tiptoeing next to Sebastian, who is operating the thick hose running from the truck to the helicopter’s trunk.

“What do we do?” William shouts, apparently addressing Sebastian while looking up at the dead people approaching.

“I still need three minutes!” Sebastian shouts over his shoulder. “Keep them back!”

“There are too many!” Josefine shouts as she joins them. “We need to get inside the helicopter!”

“We’ll never get off the ground!” Sebastian shouts. “You’ll draw them all right to us!”

“We already are by standing here!” William chimes in, looking close to panic now. “Look, they’re thirty seconds away! We either bolt or I start shooting!”

“Don’t!” Sebastian cries out, rounding on him. “Don’t shoot! You risk blowing us all to hell!”

“What do we do then?” Josefine shouts. “Somebody come up with something fast!”

No one seems to have any ideas. Dan realizes with a sinking feeling in his gut how unprepared they were going into this. They only had a plan for getting the fuel—not defending themselves against hundreds of zombies.

Then the first dead ones arrive at the road, falling flat on the asphalt or landing clumsily on all fours, getting to their feet and making their way to the helicopter from all angles.

Ozzy can’t seem to take the waiting any longer, and he lunges himself at the closest one—the guy in the Hawaiian shirt. Even though it’s a big guy, the German shepherd knocks him over and bites down on his shoulder.

But it’s of little use; three other zombies simply waddle right by and head on towards the helicopter.

Nasira steps forward then, letting go of Ali, who cries out in Arabic. She runs to a woman old enough to be her grandmother and shoves her hard in the chest, causing her to go tumbling. Even before she can make it back up, Nasira shoves the next one sideways, making him trip over his own feet. None of the zombies seem even remotely interested in her—it’s like she doesn’t exist to them—and she runs right up to a third one, kicking his leg hard out from under him, and he lands flat on his face.

Ozzy is as busy as Nasira, jumping each of the zombies one at a time, wrestling them to the ground, winning a few seconds with every takedown, as the zombies move cumbersomely to get back up.

“Here!”

William’s voice in his ear, as something hard is shoved into his chest.

Dan looks down at the large wrench Sebastian used just a minute ago.

“Make yourself useful!” William shouts.

For a second Dan thinks he wants him to help out Sebastian somehow, but Sebastian doesn’t seem to need any help, as the pilot is actually moving away from the helicopter, now brandishing a five-foot pole with a hook at the end—Dan saw him use it to open the hatch on the truck. He jumps forward and goes to work on the oncoming deads, catching them by their collars or necks and yanking them to the ground.

William has also joined the fight, turning over the rifle and using it as a baseball bat, swinging at the zombies. At first, he simply knocks them over, using the same strategy as the rest of the group, but within a few hits, he seems to gain confidence and starts swinging wildly, connecting with their heads and cracking open skulls.

Josefine must have been inside the helicopter briefly, because as she rushes past Dan, he sees she has armed herself with the heavy metal bar she used to knock out the guy who tried to steal the helicopter back in Denmark.

Dan stares at the scene in front of him for another second. He can’t help but marvel at the sight of the group all working together, moving in between each other, pivoting back and forth, knocking over or tripping zombies like bowling pins, everyone having each other’s backs.

Then he gets moving, jumping forward to club a boy not much older than himself who’s about to grab Josefine from behind. The wrench hits the boy’s jaw and dislocates it both audibly and visibly, sending the boy spinning halfway around before he falls over, his teeth spilling out over the road.

Dan doesn’t let himself think, but runs ahead to take a swing at the next one coming. This one is a tall, gangly guy. Dan aims high for his head but connects instead with his protruding Adam’s apple, crushing it and causing the guy to give off a strangled croak as he stumbles backwards, knocking over a woman trying to pass him, both of them falling down.

Dan spins around as he senses someone coming from behind. A guy looking like a grown-up Harry Potter thanks to his dark hair and round glasses reaches out his hands to grab him, and Dan swings the wrench blindly, hitting only the elbow of the guy. He backs up and takes another swing, but the guy is too close now, and Dan doesn’t get enough speed behind the wrench to knock him over, so the guy uses the chance and lunges at him.

Dan has time to think, even as he’s still backing up: This is it.

Right before the Harry Potter zombie can grab him, though, Ozzy comes flying from the left, jaws open wide, bloody foam spraying from his mouth, and he clamps down on the guy’s neck, knocking him over.

Dan blinks and looks around.

He feels dizzy, feels like things are moving in slow motion, like twenty minutes has passed when in reality it’s probably less than twenty seconds.

Everyone is still standing, swinging, jumping around.

But it’s getting increasingly difficult. More and more deads are joining the fight, cluttering the road, shoving each other to get ahead, slowly but steadily closing the half circle they’ve formed around the helicopter.

We can’t hold them off any longer …

Then, a shrill girl’s voice cuts through the noise: “Dad! It stopped!”

Dan turns his head and looks at Lærke, who’s standing by the hose connected to the helicopter.

Sebastian hears her, knocks over one last zombie by jabbing the rod in its eye and wrenching it to the side. He looks for the others and bellows: “We’re ready! Everyone onboard! Onboard now!”

Lærke and Ali, who are standing right next to the helicopter, both climb in through the open door as Sebastian dismantles the hose and lets it drop to the ground.

Josefine is the next closest, and she lowers her weapon and makes a run for it. So does William, calling for Ozzy as he runs. The dog is busy tearing at the neck of some poor woman, but he reluctantly lets go and heads back. Nasira, however, is far away, almost lost from sight in the crowd of dead people whom she’s still knocking over left and right.

Ali screams for her, and she hears him, looking in their direction.

“Come on!” Sebastian shouts, grabbing Dan hard by the arm as he passes him. “We need to go!”

“But Nasi—”

“It’s too late!”

Dan turns around and jumps up into the helicopter. Sebastian is the last one in, and William slides the door closed right behind him.

Unfortunately, a young guy manages to stick his hand inside right before the door can close all the way. His fingers grope eagerly at the air.

“Fuck!” William shouts, pushing hard at the sliding door. “Get him out!”

Josefine begins knocking the arm briskly with her metal bar, but that only causes it to wriggle even more.

Ozzy lunges at it, biting down on the hand, thrashing his head back and forth, and Dan sees the fingers being torn open like overcooked hot dogs bursting on the grill, one of them is even torn right off.

But the dead guy doesn’t mind—he just keeps trying to grab something and now he’s also shoving his head into the crack, as several more hands squeeze past him.

William is shouting, Josefine is shouting back, Sebastian is shouting too, and Ali is crying and calling his sister’s name.

Dan doesn’t hear the words; he’s suddenly thrown back to when he and Thomas tried to get away from Jennie by breaking through the hatch in the ceiling. He recalls how the zombie girl stuck her arm through the hole and no matter what Thomas did to it, she didn’t retract it.

“It won’t work,” he says, so low that no one hears him.

“Break it!” Sebastian shouts, making his way to the pilot’s seat.

“I’m trying!” Josefine shouts, shoving at Ozzy who’s still working the bloody hand.

“I can’t hold it!” William shouts, as the door starts slipping open farther due to the dozen hands wriggling themselves through the opening. The collected moaning choir of the zombie army now surrounding the helicopter drowns out the sound of the rotors, and Dan can feel how the machine starts swaying back and forth.

They’ll make their way inside within a minute. Or maybe they’ll tip the helicopter right over on its side.

“It won’t work!” Dan shouts.

Then he suddenly finds himself acting. He pushes Josefine aside, grabs the metal bar from her hands, steps over to William and jams the bar down hard into the slit of the door, jamming it from going either way.

“What are you doing?” William shouts. “I can’t fucking close it now!”

Dan ignores him, turning to Sebastian. “Get it off the ground! Now! Get it into the air, or we’re all dead!”

Sebastian looks at him for half a second, then sits down and starts operating the instruments with quick, certain movements.

Ten seconds later, the sound of the rotors grows more intense and Dan feels the helicopter begin to sway more violently.

“Fuck!” Sebastian shouts. “They’re all over the skids! Hold onto something, it’s going to be a wobbly takeoff!”

Everyone grabs something within reach, and Dan notices the door giving way a few more inches as the zombies apparently sense their prey trying to get away.

Then the helicopter gives a lurch and rises a few feet from the ground. Half the hands fall away instantly, the rest of them holding on desperately, digging their nails into anything they can reach.

But as the helicopter bobs and weaves and lifts farther up into the air, more and more of the zombies lose their grip and disappear.

Dan turns and looks out the window. Looking down at the sea of dead faces staring up at them, a forest of arms reaching hopelessly for the helicopter, he realizes they’re already twenty feet up.

Only two zombies are still holding on: the one whose arm is stuck in the door, and an old woman holding onto his shorts with vehement determination.

Then the guy’s belt gives way and the shorts slips off, sending the old woman sprawling down into the horde of zombies. The guy wasn’t wearing any underpants, and Dan can see his flaccid penis dangle between his pale legs as he tries desperately to grab hold of something with his free hand.

Now that the helicopter is freed from most of the dead weight, it rises faster, quickly leaving the ground and the zombie army behind. But the guy still caught in the door swings back and forth, causing the helicopter to sway dangerously.

“He’s still there!” Sebastian shouts. “I can’t fly with him hanging off the side! You need to do something!”

Dan grabs the metal bar and yanks it free. Then he pulls the door back, and the zombie falls. Dan slams the door shut.

“Holy shit!” William exclaims, looking out the window. “He landed on his fucking head! Serves him right!” He looks at Dan, grinning, then high-fives him hard. “You’re the fucking man, you know that? You just saved all our asses!”

Dan smiles vaguely, then looks over at Ali, who’s crying in the corner, Josefine holding him.

“Not all of us,” he mutters.

TWENTY-ONE

No one says anything for a few seconds, everyone in the helicopter is just looking at each other as they realize Nasira is gone.

Then, something occurs to Dan. “Wait a minute … she might not be dead.”

William and Josefine both look at him.

He throws out his arms. “I mean … the zombies aren’t interested in her.”

Ali looks up too, sniffing and eyeing Dan with what looks like a glimmer of hope.

“You just might be on to something,” William says, then shouting to Sebastian: “Can we wait up here a few minutes? Just until they all leave? We might be able to see Nasira down there!”

“Why would you want to see her?” Sebastian calls back.

“Because she might still be okay! She was already infected, so she won’t get eaten!”

Sebastian thinks for a moment, then nods. “I’ll keep her steady. But we shouldn’t waste too much fuel.”

Dan looks out the window and down at the road now more than three hundred feet below. The horde of undeads looks even more terrifying from up here. They’ve already begun to scatter, though, most of them headed down the road towards the base, but a few others are waddling off in different directions, apparently sensing some other source of fresh meat nearby.

As the crowd begins to thin out, Dan starts to notice the ones not moving; a dozen or so were killed in the fight and are lying on the asphalt.

“I don’t see her anywhere!” William calls from the other window. “Any of you guys spotted her?”

Josefine shakes her head.

Dan scans the ground carefully with his eyes. He ditched his contact lenses already back at Holger’s place, so his sight isn’t too good. But he catches a movement a little way up the hill. A figure with black hair is waving up at them. Both arms are covered in bandages.

“There she is!” he shouts and points. “On the hillside!”

“Goddamnit, you’re right!” William says. “We need to pick her up!”

Ali is too short to look out the windows, so instead he looks from Dan to William, hope beaming from his face.

“I’ll put ’er down on the top of the hill,” Sebastian says. “Nasira will have to climb up.”

As the helicopter heads for the hilltop, Dan can tell Nasira figures out the plan, because she begins scaling the hill.

They touch down almost at the same place they landed before, just as Nasira makes it to the top and runs to the helicopter.

William opens the door, and Ali almost jumps out into his sister’s arms. Josefine and William haul them both inside and William slams the door again.

“Go!” he calls out to Sebastian—needlessly, as the helicopter is already rising again.

Dan looks at Nasira hugging Ali tightly. She’s even more badly hurt now, her clothes torn and more bloody scratches covering her face and arms, most of the bandages have been ripped off. But her eyes are perfectly alive as she looks at them and says: “Thank you for waiting.”

“How are you feeling?” William asks, eyeing her wounds.

She shrugs. “A little bruised up, but not much different than before.”

William looks at Josefine, then at Dan, then back at Nasira. “I think we need to have a difficult talk here.”

She nods. “I know what you’re going to say, William. And I will be sure to let you know if anything … changes. Like, if I feel a fever coming on.”

William nods. “Good. It’s just that … maybe you’d want to … I don’t know, get off before we reach the ocean? Once we head out to sea, there’s no other way to leave the helicopter than … you know.”

Dan can tell William tries not to look at Ali while he talks, but Ali still gets the message and looks up at Nasira, horrified at the thought of her jumping into the ocean.

“I know,” Nasira says simply. “Maybe you’re right, William. Maybe I’ll get off before then.” She looks at Sebastian. “How long before we reach the ocean?”

“It’ll be at least an hour.”

She looks around at the others. “Are you all okay with me coming along until then?”

Dan nods, and so does Josefine.

She smiles. “Thank you.” Then she hugs Ali again, and he presses himself against her.

One more hour, Dan thinks to himself, feeling a lump in his throat. They have one more hour together.

TWENTY-TWO

It takes the zombies a little longer to reach the house than Iver feared. Probably because they seem to ignore the gravel road and simply trudge along the heather-covered fields, often getting their ankles entangled and toppling over.

He, Chris, Charlotte and Agnete are all gathered in the living room, where they can now see the oncomers from the windows facing the terrace and Agnete’s back garden.

Iver is both relieved that the toddler is sleeping and doesn’t need to experience any of this, but at the same time he feels anxious at the thought of the little guy sleeping alone up in his room.

The air raid siren is still going, wailing outside the house like an elephant in pain. The sound is starting to get on Iver’s nerves.

The radio is still going, but turned down very low, as per Chris’s order. He said the chairman couldn’t really tell them anything new about how to handle the zombies, but it could still be useful to hear of anyone seeing them approach from other directions. Right now, though, the chairman is just reciting the officially issued statements about how to handle the infected should you come into contact with them—which basically boils down to “run away as fast as you can.”

“I’ll have to remind you,” the chairman says. “It is still legally considered murder if you shoot one of the infected, unless of course it’s in self-defense …”

“All right,” Chris says, finishing up the rifle and placing it on the table. “We need to move a few things around. Give me a hand, Iver.”

Iver obliges as they push back the couch and lift the table closer to the windows. Agnete watches in silence, offering no objections.

“Now this one,” Chris says, pointing at the piano.

Agnete still doesn’t object, but she hurries to take the wedding photo.

Luckily, the piano has wheels, and they’re able to roll it to the east-facing side of the room, where it blocks off the windows.

“Now we only need to worry about this side,” Chris says, taking the roll of rope they brought from the garage. “Open the window, Charlotte.”

“What?” Iver exclaims.

Charlotte looks hesitantly at Chris. “Why would we open it?”

“Because I can’t shoot them through the glass now, can I?” Chris snarls. “Open it as far as the lever will go, then put it in the holder.”

The window is top-hatched and swings outward when opened. The lever can be placed in a holder, causing the window to act almost like a trap—the kind you’d use to catch a cat by luring it under a box being propped up by a stick. And that, Iver realizes, is exactly how Chris intends to use it.

As Charlotte opens the window, Chris ties the end of the rope to the lever. Then he hands the other end of the rope to Iver.

Iver just looks at it.

“Take it,” Chris says. “This’ll be your job. Your only job.”

“What … what exactly do I do?” Iver asks, taking the rope reluctantly.

“Nothing until I say so,” Chris says, picking up the rifle. “You just stand over there. You hold the rope, you keep your mouth shut and you stay ready. As soon as you hear me shout ‘close,’ you pull the rope. Got that?”

Iver nods and takes up position at the place Chris appointed.

“What do you need me to do?” Charlotte asks, reminding Iver of an eager cadet addressing the sarge—he almost expects her to smack her heels together and do a salute.

“You take the rake,” Chris says, nodding toward the arsenal of gardening tools propped up against the wall. “If any of them should make it close enough to actually reach inside, you shove them back out. I doubt it’ll come to that, but we’re covering all bases here.” He turns to Agnete. “And you, when I shout ‘ammo,’ you bring me the next box of bullets—okay?”

Agnete takes a deep breath and nods.

“Good.” Chris looks around at them. “Everyone clear on their tasks?”

They all exchange looks, nodding.

“Now, you all need to be prepared for the noise,” Chris goes on. “Once I fire this thing, you won’t hear much else than a ringing to begin with. But you’ll get used to it.”

“Here they come,” Charlotte says.

Iver looks out and sees the first zombie cross the hedge separating Agnete’s garden from the outside. It’s only waist high, so the dead guy simply walks right through it and begins to cross the lawn.

Iver clutches the rope, feeling his palms go sweaty and his pulse throb in his throat.

Just focus on what Chris said, he tells himself. Listen for that word. Whatever happens, just listen for that word.

Iver can’t help but feel grateful that Chris is here, despite how he’s been acting so far. He’s probably the last person on earth Iver would hang out with voluntarily, but in a situation like this, he’s exactly the kind of guy you want around. Someone who knows what to do. To take control of things.

Chris leans over the table, taking his time getting his posture right and positioning the rifle. He closes one eye and looks out the window through the rifle’s scope.

Then, unexpectedly, a bang rings out.

For a second, Iver is sure Chris fired the rifle right away, but then he realizes the sound wasn’t loud enough. And besides, it came from the outside.

“Sounds like old Fred just started the party,” Chris mutters.

Iver looks out, but he can’t see Fred’s house from here.

“Oh, jeez,” Agnete whispers. “Poor Fred, all alone over there. I hope he’ll be okay.”

“I’m sure he can handle himself,” Chris says as a second shot rings out.

The dead guy is approaching the terrace, and another one—an older lady—is crossing the hedge, closely followed by a teenager still wearing his backpack, like he’s a regular tourist who just came to visit the island.

“Right, here we go,” Chris says. He takes aim, cocks the rifle and says loudly: “Opening fire!”

Then he pulls the trigger.

The shot rings through the room for several seconds, bouncing between the walls and slamming against Iver’s eardrums. He thought he had prepared himself, but the noise is still a lot louder than he anticipated. It leaves him, just like Chris said, with a shrill ringing.

The guy outside the window is stopped dead in his tracks and collapses on the edge of the terrace.

Chris reloads the rifle and takes aim at the old lady who’s coming up next.

Another roaring bang, and she goes down right next to the first one.

Chris reloads swiftly.

The teenager has picked up speed, and just as Chris fires a third time, the boy trips over his own feet and lands face-first on the grass.

“Damnit,” Iver can hear Chris growl through the piercing dial tone in his ears as he reloads again, the empty cartridges rolling around the table.

The teenager is getting back up, and Iver just has time to notice whisks of grass stuck between his teeth before another movement catches his eye.

From the other side of the terrace, the one only visible to Iver due to his position next to the opposite window, a figure suddenly comes into view. It’s a bearded guy with most of the skin on his scalp missing. He comes in from the side and is headed straight for the window.

Iver looks at Chris, but he’s busy aiming at the teenager, and from where he’s sitting, he can’t see the bearded guy who’s now mere inches away from the open window.

TWENTY-THREE

Dan is back there again. At that cursed house where it all began. He’s standing in the basement. Looking around. He’s alone. It’s dark, but he can still see everything.

The flayed animals nailed to chairs.

The blood pools on the concrete floor.

The remains of the ritual which took place here.

He looks down and sees something right between his feet. It’s just lying there. A tiny brown leather pouch on a string. Like some kind of weird necklace.

It looks insignificant.

But it’s not.

It’s very important.

Dan can somehow sense it.

Then, as he’s still staring at the pouch, the view changes around it. Everything except for the pouch morphs into something else.

Now, while Dan is still seeing the pouch, it’s no longer resting on the concrete floor, but against the chest of a guy his own age.

The boy is standing in a window, looking down at Dan with big, frightened eyes. And Dan realizes he’s now at Holger’s place.

He’s back in the moment right before they had to leave the safe house. The boy has just tipped Holger’s dead body out of the window.

And now he’s just standing there, frozen in time, as Dan stares at the strange leather pouch hanging from his neck.

Then, gently, the dream begins to fade and break up. It drifts back into obscurity. Reality comes creeping back in.

Dan blinks and opens his eyes. This time, he wasn’t sleeping, not really, only nodding off.

He looks around and sees the others resting too. William is sitting with Ozzy between his feet, petting his head while staring at the floor. Josefine seems to be sleeping, leaning against the wall. And Ali is sitting on Nasira’s lap; both of them have their eyes closed.

Dan unbuckles and gets up to look out the window. They’re still over land, a band of desolate mountains passing below. In the horizon is the blue sea.

Dan has this weird feeling that’s left over from the daydream. It’s like something big has shifted inside him. Something which has been there all along but has now finally dropped into place. If he could only recall it, but it’s already slipped back down deep into his unconscious. He sits down next to William.

William looks at him, smiling tiredly. “What’s up?”

Dan leans close enough for him to hear: “Do you … do you believe in fate?”

William raises his eyebrows. “Not really, no. Why? Do you?”

“I didn’t use to, but … with everything that’s happened, it’s hard not to.”

“Guess you’re right.”

They sit in silence for a little while. Dan tries to hone in on the feeling in his gut. Tries to shine a light on it, to see it clearly, to remember. But whatever it was, he’s lost it.

Then Sebastian calls out: “Okay, we’re getting close to the coast now. I’ll find a place to put her down.”

Nasira opens her eyes, revealing that she wasn’t sleeping, and as her eyes meet Dan’s, she sends him a reassuring smile.

Then Ali sits up and they begin speaking in Arabic together.

Dan feels the helicopter begin to descend, and a few minutes later they touch ground once more.

Sebastian turns in his seat, looking back at them. “I don’t mean to be insensitive, but I think we should make it fast. I didn’t see any dead ones from the air, but we never know. I’ll keep the engine going.”

Nasira nods. She unbuckles and goes to open the door, Ali following her. As she climbs out, he comes with her, clutching her hand.

“Is it okay if I step out for a minute?” Dan asks Sebastian.

He nods. “Sure. Just don’t lose the helicopter from sight.”

Dan jumps out.

Nasira and Ali have walked a few yards out onto the grassy hilltop. Right on the other side of the hill is the ocean, gleaming green under the setting sun, a couple of seagulls soaring through the air.

Dan can’t bring himself to watch as Nasira kneels down and hugs Ali, telling him goodbye. Instead, he goes to look out over the ocean. He can smell the salt as he sits down in the grass and stares into the waves softly crashing against the shore.

He looks away and sees William and Josefine both coming out of the helicopter. Sebastian joins them as well, stretching his back, Lærke close by his side.

Then, suddenly and without any obvious preamble, the feeling comes rushing back in—or rather, the memory. It’s like a déjà vu, only much stronger.

An image.

The leather pouch.

The boy.

And then Dan finally gets it.

TWENTY-FOUR

“Chris!” Iver shouts, his own voice sounding like it’s far away. “Look out! From the right!”

Chris notices the guy the second he steps into view, and he swings the riffle thirty degrees to the right, almost pulling the trigger, as the guy presses his face up against the glass.

Charlotte screams.

Chris hesitates.

“Shoot him!” Iver yells.

“I can’t!” Chris shouts, keeping the barrel aimed at the guy’s head. “I’ll break the window!”

The guy ducks down as he realizes he can’t push through the glass and leans inside. Chris shoots, and the guy’s skull caves in as he collapses over the windowsill, blood spilling from his open head wound and onto the floor.

“Oh, dear God, dear God,” Iver can hear Agnete chant somewhere behind him.

“Get him out, Charlotte!” Chris roars. “Use the rake, for fuck’s sake!”

Charlotte just stands there, staring at the bloated, bleeding corpse reaching in through the window.

“Charlotte!” Chris roars. “There are more of them coming! Get him out of my line of fire! I can’t take them out!”

Iver looks out and sees four or five zombies crossing the garden.

Charlotte is still just standing there.

Iver—hardly realizing what he’s doing—runs over to Charlotte, grabs the rake from her and jabs at the guy with it. But he’s too heavy. Out the corner of his eye he notices two figures come onto the terrace. He ignores it and focuses on getting the dead guy out of the window. He places the rope between his teeth, enabling him to use both hands on the rake. With the added leverage, he’s able to shove the guy’s torso back out the window.

The moment he drops, Chris fires three times in rapid succession, only pausing a few seconds in between to reload.

The empty cartridges topple onto the floor, and the zombies collapse out on the terrace.

“Shut the window!” Chris shouts. “There are too many of them!”

Iver looks down at his hands, wondering for half a second where the rope went, then realizes it’s still in his mouth. He takes it out and yanks it hard, pulling away the lever and causing the window to drop shut. He jumps over, twists the handle and backs away just as the next dead person reaches the window and begins fondling the glass.

Iver looks at the zombie—a middle-aged, balding guy with tattoos all over his arms—and then at the others.

Agnete is at the far end of the room, both hands pressed over her mouth, as though to keep back screams.

Charlotte is still standing in the same spot, staring wide-eyed at the window.

Chris gets to his feet and places the rifle over his shoulder. “Goddamnit, you moron,” he growls at Charlotte. “You had one job!”

Charlotte doesn’t seem to hear him. Her lips move, but no words come out.

“Apparently, this won’t work,” Chris says. “There’s a blind angle I hadn’t considered.”

“So, what do we do?” Iver asks, noticing his hearing returning slowly to normal. “About those outside, I mean?”

Four zombies are already crowding the terrace, and more are crossing the lawn.

“Nothing for now,” Chris says grimly. “Except maybe pray the glass will hold.”

Charlotte makes a weird noise. Her shoulders begin bobbing and her mouth quivers.

“She’s in shock,” Chris says, sounding more annoyed than anything. “I thought she would do better under pressure.”

Iver instinctively goes to Charlotte and takes her by the shoulders. She collapses into him and begins sobbing and shaking. He helps her down onto the couch.

Then another sound reaches him: the sound of the toddler crying from upstairs.

Iver looks to Agnete. “Could you … help her? I’ll go see to the baby.”

Agnete looks like she pulls herself together, then she nods and comes over to hold Charlotte, who’s bawling like a baby now.

Iver rushes past Chris, and he hears him sigh and mutter under his breath: “Trapped with an old lady, a baby, a crying girl and a faggot. Just my fucking luck.”

TWENTY-FIVE

“Is he coming or what?” Sebastian asks.

William can see Dan sitting down cross-legged. Nasira and Ali are still hugging and saying goodbye.

“Give him a minute,” Josefine says. “He just lost his father. He probably needs a minute.”

“I know,” Sebastian says. “I just don’t want to hang around here. It’s not safe.”

“I’ll go get him,” William says. He walks over to Dan with Ozzy at his heel and sits down beside him. Dan doesn’t seem to notice; he’s just staring out over the water.

“That’s quite the view,” William says.

Dan looks at him, blinking. “I think I get it now.”

“Get what?”

“What the universe is trying to tell me.”

“Oh. And what is that?”

“We need to go back there.”

William frowns. “Back where? To Denmark?”

“Back to the house where it began.”

“And … why would we do that? That’s ground zero. That’s exactly the place we’re trying to get away from.”

“I know. And I think that’s what we’re doing wrong.”

William is about to answer when Sebastian cuts in: “What are we doing wrong again?”

William turns to see Sebastian, Lærke and Josefine have joined them.

Dan looks up at Sebastian, shrugging. “We’re running away.”

“Of course we are,” William says, smiling and throwing out his arms. “That’s the only sane thing to do.”

Dan shakes his head slowly. “We can’t run from this. It’ll go on to destroy the world if we do.”

William and Sebastian exchange a look.

“Maybe the authorities will get it under control,” Sebastian suggests.

“Of course they won’t,” Josefine says in a tired voice. “They’ll try all the wrong things with all the right intentions, and they’ll only kill themselves trying. And when that fails, they’ll turn to bombing the living hell out of everything. Even if they should succeed in stopping this thing, they’ll destroy the planet in the process.”

“Maybe it won’t come to that,” Sebastian begins. “Maybe—"

“She’s right,” Dan says softly. “They can’t stop it. Because they don’t know how. But we do. I do. I was there. I saw how it began. That’s also how it needs to end.”

Sebastian squints his eyes. “I’m sorry, but I’m not following you, Dan.”

“Are you … talking about voodoo?” William guesses.

Dan nods, looking out over the ocean again. “This is not a virus. It’s not even a disease. It’s a curse. Black magic. Something affecting the soul. No vaccine will ever cure that. No weapon will stop it.”

A moment of quiet.

“So …” Sebastian goes on. “We need to find, what—a counter-curse?”

Dan says, still not looking at them: “First we need to find the person who started it.”

“But she’s dead,” William interjects. “You said so yourself. It was the woman in the house, right?”

“Someone else was there, too,” Dan says. “Someone we’ve already met.”

“Who?” William asks.

“The boy.”

“What boy?”

“The one at Holger’s place.”

They’re all eyeing him intently now, even Nasira has picked up on the conversation and is coming back to listen, Ali holding her hand, sniffing and wiping his eyes.

“You mean the boy and his psycho-mom?” William asks. “The one who killed Holger?”

“Yes. I saw his pouch—he had this little, weird leather bag thing around his neck—I saw that in the house. I only just remembered. He must have been there before whatever happened there went down, and also he must have been back later to get the pouch.”

Sebastian and William and Josefine and Nasira look at each other in turn. Then all of them look back at Dan.

“You sure it was the same pouch?” Josefine asks.

“Positive,” Dan says. “It’s very unique.”

“Sorry, buddy,” William says, “but don’t you think that’s a little … I don’t know, thin? I mean, so what if that guy was there? You think he can do anything to stop this?”

“I think his mother can,” Dan says. “I bet you she’s into voodoo just like the woman who lived in the house. She may have even helped do the ritual on the little girl.”

They all still look at him with skeptical faces, and then he finally turns his head, and William is surprised to see Dan’s eyes are blazing as he looks at them one at a time.

“Look, I get this sounds like a stretch, I really do. But I feel it in my gut. I was there. So were my sister and her boyfriend. They both died at that place. So no one else can verify what I saw. But what if I’m right? What if this woman was in on it? What if she knows how it got started?”

“All right, let’s say you’re right,” Sebastian says calmly. “I still don’t see why that’s any reason you want to go back?”

“Because she might know how to stop it.”

“If she knew that, don’t you think she would have done it?” William says. “I mean, she’s obviously a cold-blooded psycho, but why would she create a zombie and just unleash it on the world?”

“She wouldn’t,” Dan says, breathing deeply. “It was an accident, obviously. That ritual was meant to heal the girl—she must have had some sort of accident, and she was probably already dead when they did it. But it went off the rails and she turned into a zombie and killed her grandmother—the old woman who lived there. Maybe the other woman and her son were still there when it happened, maybe they’d already left and didn’t realize it until it was too late. Either way, they didn’t mean for this to happen.” Dan breathes through his nose. “I’m telling you, we need to go back there and talk with that woman.”

No one says anything for a moment.

“It makes sense how you put it,” William concedes. “But what do you hope will happen if we go back there? That she agrees to try and—what, uncurse all the zombies?”

“I don’t know,” Dan admits. “I just know that’s what we need to do—go back there and talk with her.”

“If voodoo really has some sort of power to stop the pandemic,” Josefine says, “then why don’t we find some priest who knows all about it?”

Dan seems to consider for a moment, then he shakes his head. “He would have no way of knowing what exactly went down. It didn’t go according to plan, remember? If anybody without full knowledge begins messing around with it, they could make it worse.”

“Worse than the world ending by zombies?” William says, then regretting the comment right away as no one else smiles. He clears his throat. “Okay, look, if you really want to talk with that woman, I think there’s a way of reaching her without going back there.”

Dan looks at him. “How?”

William takes out his phone and shows it to him. “We call her up.”

Josefine frowns. “You have her number?”

“Nope,” William says, “but I have the number for the satellite phone in Holger’s bunker.”

TWENTY-SIX

William turns on his phone, finds the number and hands it over to Dan.

Dan looks at the screen, biting his lip, feeling suddenly hesitant. “What do I … what do I say?”

“I don’t know,” William tells him. “You’re the one who wants to speak with her.”

Dan glances around at the others; all of them are watching him, none of them have any answers.

Dan realizes it’s on him.

This is his hunch.

This is his job.

He closes his eyes for a moment, steadying himself inside. For no discernable reason, Thomas appears in his inner vision. Thomas was determined. He was tough. He knew what to do. Even when he was facing death, it didn’t stop him from doing what needed to be done.

Dan must cultivate some of that strength himself now—heaven knows he needs it.

So he breathes deeply and makes the call, placing the phone to his ear.

“It might take a while before it starts ringing,” William says.

And it does—for almost twenty seconds, Dan doesn’t hear anything. Then there’s a faint static noise. And finally, the phone starts ringing.

After the third ring, the static stops as the call is apparently answered.

For a moment, there’s only silence.

Dan imagines the woman standing there, holding the phone to her ear, waiting suspiciously without saying anything.

Then, completely unexpectedly, a meek boy’s voice says: “Hello?”

In a flash, Dan sees the boy in the window again. And he searches his memory.

What was his name? I know I heard the woman call it out. What was it?

Then it comes to him.

“Is this Dennis?”

A brief pause. Then, timidly: “Uhm, yes. Who’s this?”

There’s something about the boy’s voice which triggers another tiny piece in Dan’s memory. Mille, telling him over the phone, “I think he’s intellectually disabled or something …”

“Hi Dennis. My name is Dan. I need to talk with—”

Dan cuts himself short. He was just about to ask to speak with the boy’s mom. But something made him stop.

“It’s the kid?” William whispers, looking at Dan.

Dan nods, just as Dennis says in his other ear: “Uhm, I didn’t catch that last part? Hello?”

Dan doesn’t answer right away.

“Ask him to put her on the line,” William suggests, growing impatient. He’s obviously interpreting Dan’s hesitation as a lack of courage.

But Dan is actually hesitating because he’s internally changing his approach. He had prepared himself to speak with a very clever and calculated woman. He had been racking his brain for some way to persuade that woman to meet with him, even though she would have absolutely no reason to do so and would probably be very suspicious of him even asking. He was facing a near impossible task.

Instead, he’s got a young boy with some sort of mental disability. He must be at least Dan’s age, but from how he talks, he sounds more like Ali’s age. And that might be exactly the advantage Dan needs. What was it Mille told him? Something about the boy being like a slave to his mother …

“Hello?” the boy asks. “You still there?”

“Yes,” Dan says. “Sorry about that, Dennis. What I was saying is, I need to talk with you.”

William eyes him, mouthing: “What?”

“Uhm, okay,” Dennis says. “About what?”

“About something very important. You can’t hang up the phone until you’ve heard what I have to say. Will you promise me that?”

This time, there’s a longer pause. Long enough that Dan begins to wonder if Dennis will answer him or simply end the call. He might have blown it. He might have asked for too much. Might have made Dennis suspicious.

But then Dennis says: “Sure, I guess.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

Dennis is sitting by the table in Holger’s bunker, doing a drawing with the marker he found.

Dennis has always enjoyed drawing. He’s even pretty good at it; one of the only things he’s good at. And it calms him down whenever he’s worried or has too much stuff on his mind.

Like he does now.

Mom is upstairs in the house somewhere. Dennis didn’t feel like being with her. Which is a strange, new feeling to Dennis.

So he went down here to be by himself and draw. It helps him not to think about Silas. Or what Mom did to the doll.

Suddenly, there’s a loud ringing, causing Dennis to jump and drop the marker. He looks around and expects to see some kind of alarm. Instead, his eyes fall on a big, weird telephone sitting in a station on the wall.

Dennis gets up and goes over there as the phone chimes a second time.

Very hesitantly, like he’s about to touch a sleeping snake, Dennis puts his hand on the handset.

It rings a third time.

Dennis picks it up out of the dock.

It’s big and clumsy compared to a regular phone, and it even has a short antenna. A number is shown on the narrow display. Dennis doesn’t know it. He hesitates a moment longer.

Then he holds the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

A moment of static silence. Then a voice comes through. “Is this Dennis?”

Dennis—surprised to hear his own name—blinks. He must know the person on the other end, since the person knows him, but he can’t place the voice. Then he says: “Uhm, yes. Who’s this?”

A brief pause.

“Hi Dennis. My name is Dan. I need to talk with—”

It sounds like the voice is cut short, and for a moment, Dennis thinks the connection might be lost. But he can still hear a faint static crackle.

“Uhm, I didn’t catch that last part?” he says. “Hello?”

No answer, only more static noise. Dennis looks at the phone. There’s still light in the display. He feels a little nervous at this strange call. He feels almost like he shouldn’t be taking it. That if Mom had been here, she would have ripped the phone from him and slammed it down. Whoever was calling probably wasn’t someone he ought to be speaking with.

But he can tell the voice on the other end belongs to a boy his own age, and the boy sounds friendly. Besides, Dennis is very curious.

He puts the phone back to his ear. “Hello? You still there?”

“Yes,” the voice answers. “Sorry about that, Dennis. What I was saying is, I need to talk with you.”

Dennis feels a jolt of excitement.

“Uhm, okay,” Dennis says, placing his weight back and forth on his feet, trying hard not to sound too interested. “About what?”

Another brief pause.

“About something very important. You can’t hang up the phone until you’ve heard what I have to say. Will you promise me that?”

Dennis bites his lip. Both the anxiety and the excitement rise in his chest. He feels even stronger now that this is not a conversation he should be having without Mom knowing. And he’s about to tell the boy on the other end just that, when for some strange reason, Dennis suddenly hears Silas’s voice: “Grow a pair, and do it soon. Just friendly advice.”

Dennis straightens his back a little, then says, mustering as much confidence as he can: “Okay, I guess.”

Pause.

“Thank you, Dennis. Are you still in Holger’s house?”

“Uhm, yes.”

“And your mother? Is she there with you?”

“She’s upstairs right now. I’m down in the bunker. Do you want me to go get her?” The thought of handing the weird call over to Mom is both a relief and a bit disappointing to Dennis, and he can’t really tell what answer he’s hoping for.

“No, that’s all right. Actually, I need to talk with you about your mother.”

Dennis blinks. “Oh. Okay.”

“Your mother practices voodoo, right?”

Suddenly, Dennis feels suspicious. How can the boy on the other end know where he is? How does he know about the bunker? How did he even know Dennis’s name?

“Listen, I … do I know you?”

“You don’t,” Dan says. “But we’ve seen each other, very briefly. I’ll explain it in a moment, okay?”

“I think it’s very weird that you know my name and all … Are you … are you a friend of Silas and Jonas?”

“No. I don’t know those people.”

“Are you sure? Because if you’re trying to trick me …” Dennis can’t finish the sentence, his heart is throbbing so hard in his throat, he’s almost out of breath.

“Listen, Dennis, you can trust me, okay? I’m not trying to trick you, I promise. I just need to speak with you for a couple of moments, that’s all.”

Dan is talking in a calming manner, but Dennis feels very tense now. Suddenly, he regrets even picking up the weird phone. “I … I don’t know if I should be talking with you. I think I’ll go get my Mom now.”

“Please wait, Dennis. Like I said, this is very important. The future of the world might depend on it.”

That last part makes Dennis hesitate again. “How so?” he asks tentatively.

This time, the pause is a little longer. Like the guy on the other end is contemplating how to put things. Dennis clutches the phone. When Dan finally speaks, his tone is very intimate.

“I know how it all began. I know you and your mother were somehow involved. It’s okay, I’m not blaming you. I’m just saying, I know you saw how it all went down—didn’t you?”

Dennis’s mouth is suddenly drained of any saliva. He gapes like a fish on land. A new, strong impulse to disconnect the call, and it’s all he can do not to. Something in the guy’s voice makes Dennis stay on the line.

“You don’t need to answer,” the guy goes on. “The reason I’m calling is because I need your help, Dennis. I want to stop this thing. And I can only do that if you help me reach your mom.”

“Okay, I can go get her right—”

“Not by putting her on the phone, no. If you do that, she’ll just hang up on me. She won’t trust me.”

Thinking about it, Dennis realizes the guy is most likely right. And maybe Mom would be right not to do so—Dennis still isn’t sure.

“Instead, I need you to let me in. I’m coming back to Holger’s house. I’ll be there tomorrow. You need to unluck the hatch that you and your mom came in through. Can you do that?”

“I … I … can’t,” Dennis says, shaking his head. “Mom would kill me.”

“That’s why you need to do it without your mom noticing. I know this is a lot to ask, but—”

Dennis shakes his head even more violently. “No! No, I’d never do that. I’d never trick Mom like that!”

Dan keeps his voice calm. “I understand, Dennis. But you need to trust me. The reason I ask you to do this, is because your mom won’t let me in no matter what I tell her. Only you can let me in. Once I’m in, I can make your mom understand why I need her help. I believe she might be the only person in the world who can find a way to stop what’s happening before it’s too late. I give you my word that I won’t hurt you or your mom. I swear to that. Do you believe me, Dennis?”

Oddly, Dennis finds that he does.

And then, suddenly, finally, it falls into place.

“You … you are … it was you … in the car! I saw you from the upstairs window. You and your friends were the ones who stayed here before me and Mom came!”

He expects Dan to deny it or at least sound guilty, but he simply says: “You’re right, Dennis.”

Dennis frowns. “So how do I know you aren’t just coming to take the place back from us? Maybe … maybe you and your friends are making some sort of clever plan to throw me and Mom out of here!”

“We have no intention of doing that. You need to trust me.”

“How can I trust you when I don’t even know you?”

A longer pause again. Dennis is about to ask if the guy is still on the line, when he finally speaks.

“I will be the only one coming into the house. And I won’t bring any weapons. I’ll let your mom decide what to do with me. If she wants to kill me and throw me out the window like she did with Holger, then I won’t be able to stop her.” Dennis can hear the guy take a breath before he goes on: “That’s how you know we aren’t coming to take the house back. That’s how you know you can trust me, Dennis.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

Iver sits on the chair in the corner and watches the toddler play. He can’t help but smile.

The little guy is exploring the room, investigating every piece of toy in turn, now and then looking up at Iver and smiling tentatively, as though to ask: “I can play with this one too?”

There really are a lot of toys; Agnete had him drag out a veritable suitcase from a closet in her bedroom, which turned out to contain everything from teddy bears to race cars.

They’re in the upstairs bedroom, and Iver is thankful for the second floor; up here, the they can’t hear the zombies working the downstairs windows. Which means with a little luck, they’ll actually be able to sleep.

The thought makes Iver yawn, and he checks his watch. It’s eight o’clock. The sun is beginning to move towards the horizon, sending that last blaze of orange light in through the windows.

If Iver only looks at the little guy shuffling around playing with the toys, he can almost fool himself into believing the world is a safe place.

He called his mom earlier, when he finally was able to get reception. She had been worried sick for him ever since she heard about the ferry. He assured her he was fine. She was too, in fact; on her way to Finland on a bus with Aunt Ada. The Finnish government were setting up safe camps up north, where they would be able to house several thousand people and where the infection shouldn’t be able to get in.

Iver hopes very much that will hold true.

He can still taste the dinner that Agnete made for them. He feels tired enough that he could lie down right now and sleep.

“You’re not tired at all?” he asks.

The boy looks over at him with a questioning look.

“When do you usually go to bed?”

The toddler holds up a play phone, smiling, as though saying: “I think it’s for you.”

Iver holds out his hand, and the toddler comes waddling over, placing the phone in his palm.

Iver pretends to dial a number. “So, who should we call? Your mommy?” The word slips out before he can think, and he can feel the blood drain from his face. The boy doesn’t seem to notice, though; he just looks up at Iver with anticipation, waiting to see what will happen.

Iver clears his throat and holds the phone to his ear. “Hello? Yes, this is Iver. What’s that? Oh, okay.” He hands the phone to the boy. “They want to speak with you.”

The toddler smiles widely and takes the phone without taking his eyes off of Iver’s face. Iver can tell from looking into his eyes how he’s trying hard to figure out what he’s supposed to do. Then he places it against his ear.

Iver smiles and nods. “That’s right. That’s how you do it.”

“’ello?” the boy says, surprising Iver in how accurately he mimics the word. “’ello?”

“You’re so clever,” Iver says, feeling a lump form in his throat. Before he can help himself, he reaches out a hand to stroke the little guy’s golden hair.

“’ello?” the boy says again, turning to waddle back over to the toys, the phone still held against his ear.

Iver watches him and forces back tears pressing behind his eyes. The thought of the little guy never getting to see his mom again is too much to bear.

“What are you going to call him?”

Iver snaps his head around to see Agnete standing in the doorway. The old lady has come up the stairs very quietly. She’s looking at the toddler, smiling, holding a bottle of milk.

“I … I don’t know,” Iver says, discretely wiping his eyes in his sleeve. “He already has a name. I can’t just … rename him.”

“Well, we’ll have to call him something.” Agnete comes into the room. “Hold on, I just got an idea.” She hands Iver the bottle, then goes to the toddler and kneels down. She checks the inside of his shirt collar at the back of his neck, pulling out the little white flap with the wash instructions. “There you go. Adam.”

Iver can see the name written in black marker on the flap. “Why … why would they write his name there?”

“It’s something you often do when they begin in day care. So the childminder can tell the clothes apart if she needs to change it.”

“Oh. So his name is Adam?”

The boy looks over at him.

“Adam?” Iver repeats. “You know that name?”

“Adum,” the boy mimics.

Agnete chuckles. “Well, Adam, it’s time for bed now.” She takes the bottle from Iver, then places a hand on his shoulder. “Chris wants to have a word with you downstairs.”

“He does? Oh, okay. Well, what about …?”

“I’ll tuck him in. You just tell him good night.”

Iver gets up, and Adam looks at him. “Well, good night, little guy. I mean, Adam. Good night, Adam.”

He turns and leaves, closing the door softly behind him, then walks downstairs.

As soon as he reaches the living room, the sound of the hands groping the windows become audible.

Chris is sitting on a chair, his elbows resting on his knees. The rifle lies on the table next to him.

“You done playing with the baby?” he asks, not looking at Iver.

Iver ignores the snarky tone. “What do you want to talk about?”

Chris leans back and sighs. “Sorry. It’s been a long fucking day.”

Iver nods and comes closer. “I know. Where’s Charlotte?”

“Sleeping. She’ll be taking the first shift.”

“I see.”

Chris is quiet for a while. Iver waits for him to say something.

“It’s a shame we didn’t have time to find anything to block the rest of the windows with,” Chris says.

“I know.”

Another pause.

“Look, I get it,” Chris begins. “About the boy. Why you want to protect him. He’s the future and all that. I was dating this chick, and she had a kid too. A one-year-old. I really grew to like the little guy.” Chris throws out his hand. “Hell, I guess I’m technically still dating her. I just assume she didn’t make it. I tried calling her from the lifeboat, but … she didn’t pick up.”

“Oh.” Iver is too surprised to say much else. “Was she … aboard the ferry?”

“Nah, she lives in Copenhagen.”

Iver heard the news about Copenhagen being overrun already the day before yesterday.

“I’m … I’m sorry,” he says.

“Yeah, me too.” Chris sighs again, then glances over at Iver. “You think I’m an asshole.”

It’s a statement, not a question.

“Well, I wouldn’t—”

“It’s okay. I don’t mind. We had this saying in my unit: Assholes outlive everyone else. I think that’s true. Especially in situations like this.” He nods towards the windows. The drapes are pulled shut, but Iver can still make out the contours of the deads outside. There seems to be more of them than when Iver left.

“How many are out there now?” he asks.

“Too many,” Chris says. “And I think more will be coming throughout the night.”

He gets to his feet, takes the rifle and places it on the floor. “Give me a hand, will you?”

Iver follows his lead as they tip over the table, putting in on its side. Chris then picks up a screwdriver Iver didn’t notice until now and begins dismantling one of the legs.

“What are you doing?” Iver asks.

“Pull the curtain aside on the left-hand window,” Chris says. “You’ll see.”

Iver frowns. Then he goes to the window. The figures outside begin to crowd around him and move more eagerly, as though they can sense him coming closer.

He glances over at Chris, who’s busy unscrewing the legs from the table. Then he takes hold of the curtain and pulls it aside just a few inches.

It’s all he can do to ignore the blind, dead faces staring in at him, growling and biting at the glass, staining it with drool and blood.

Then he notices something even more terrifying: the starshaped crack in the glass. As the undead press up against the window, it produces a harrowing whine, as though threatening to break any second.

Iver lets go of the curtain with a gasp and steps back. He glares at Chris. “They … they broke the window!”

“They sure did. I think one of them tripped and banged his fucking head against it. I think that’s how it happened.”

“But … but we need to do something!”

“Whaddaya think I need this for?” He pads the now legless table. “Help be lift it.”

Iver grabs hold of the table and they lift it over to the window, placing it on the sill.

“Now,” Chris says, putting his hand in his pocket and producing a bunch of screws. “As soon as we pull the curtain aside, they’ll begin flipping out. So we need to be quick. Let me just get these ready.” He drives a screw halfway into each of the top corners of the table. Then he nods at Iver. “Right. I’m ready when you are.”

Iver looks at the curtain, feeling his heart pump away in his chest. Then he grabs it, counts out loud to three and yanks it aside all the way.

There are even more out there on the terrace than he thought. At least twenty that he can see. They’re standing in rows, pressing and shoving to get in front of the others, to get to the broken window.

Then Chris cuts the view as he pushes the table up against the window, holds it with his shoulder and drills the screws into the frame, fastening the table against the glass.

“There,” he says, stepping back. “Will take them a little longer before they can make their way through that.”

Iver looks over at the next windows—the table is only covering one and a half of the four windows. “What about those?”

“Those will probably crack sooner or later, too,” Chris says, picking up the table legs. “And I’m afraid we don’t have enough tables to cover the whole house.”

“And when they do?” Iver insists. “What happens when one of the windows breaks?”

“Then we’ll have a real fucking problem on our hands. Unless we start shooting the fuckers before that.”

“Okay, so why don’t we?” Iver asks, flinging out his arms. “Why haven’t we already?”

“Because there’s too many of them and too few bullets,” Chris says plainly. “Killing them off as a precautionary measure is a luxury we can’t afford. If we did that, then we’d have no ammo left for when we really need it.”

Iver stares at Chris as he picks up the rifle, then sits back down, casually placing the weapon across his lap.

“I feel like there’s something you want to tell me,” Iver says, squinting.

“You’re not as dumb as I thought.”

“Fuck you.”

Chris smiles. “Take a seat.”

TWENTY-NINE

Soon as he disconnects, Dan turns around to look at the others. They’re all staring back at him. For a long moment, no one says anything.

Then William clears his throat. “Were you serious just now? About you going back there?”

Dan shrugs. “I have to, yeah. It’s the only way. I know it. I can’t explain why, I just do.”

Talking with Dennis has only confirmed the feeling in his gut. Dan never really believed in anything. Not in God, not in fate, not in karma.

But these last days have drastically challenged his perception of the world and what operates behind the scene.

Losing your entire family in a matter of days is bound to change how you view things. It’s like he can see things more clearly now. Like there’s suddenly nothing in the way of him receiving the message something has been trying desperately to send him ever since he stepped into that last house on the paper route.

Of course, there’s a chance Dan is making all this up; he’s well aware of that. It could be simply his grief. He could be losing his mind. Hell, he might have already lost it.

But it doesn’t feel like it.

And besides, what has he got left to lose? His life? That strangely doesn’t seem all that important any longer. It’s such a fickle thing anyway, life; one second it’s there, and the next it can be going, slipping away from between your fingers like smoke, revealing the fact that you never had any real say in the matter to begin with.

“Dan, look,” Sebastian says, sighing. “I’m sorry, but we can’t do that. We’ve got a good chance to get away here. It would be madness to turn around.”

The others nod in silent agreement, watching Dan for his response. And he realizes just how much of a say he really has over the group. He’s never known that feeling before. He’s always been one of the quiet guys at the back. But here he’s the one who’s lost the most, who’s been fighting for the longest, who’s got the most experience.

And that gives his words weight.

That makes the others care for what he has to say, even if might sound crazy.

Dan is keenly aware of this strange new feeling of being taken very seriously, and the last thing he wants is to abuse his power. So he says: “I understand. I would never ask any of you to risk your lives for me. If any of you want to come with me, I’d appreciate it. If not, I’m totally fine with it. Really.”

The rest of the group exchange looks.

Sebastian looks back at Dan, places both hands on Lærke’s shoulders and shakes his head. “I’m sorry, buddy. I couldn’t go even if I wanted to.”

Dan nods.

Nasira steps forward and holds out both palms. Dan hesitates for a moment, then he takes her hands. She bends forward and kisses his knuckles, then whispers under her breath: “God is speaking to you. You’re right to listen.” She looks up at him, and for the first time, Dan sees tears in her eyes: “May He be with you and protect you. May His light guide you and help you see.”

“Thanks, Nasira,” Dan says.

She lets go of his hands and steps back over to Ali.

Josefine throws out her arms. “I’ve seen too much death. I’m sorry, I just can’t go back there.”

“I understand, Josefine,” Dan says.

Farthest to the right is William. As Dan turns his head to look at him, he sees William staring at him with lips pressed firmly together. “You’re really going, aren’t you?”

Dan nods.

“And I can’t say anything to change your mind, can I?”

“No. I’m sorry, William.”

“Fuck your sorry,” William says, a sudden sneer in his voice. “You’re out of your goddamn mind. What do you think this is? A fucking movie? You think you’re Frodo? Going to save the world all on your own?”

“I don’t think—”

“You’ll get yourself killed!” William shouts, pointing south. “We just barely got out of there! The whole stinking country is crawling with zombies by now! There’s no way in hell you’ll even make it across the border before they eat you alive!”

William’s lips are quivering. His eyes are turning moist. Dan wants to look away, but he can’t.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, his own voice trembling now.

“You will be,” William says, nodding fiercely. “You will be sorry when you get yourself killed. And I’m not coming with you. You hear me? I’m not sacrificing myself because you suddenly got some stupid divine inspiration and want to die as a martyr.”

“I understand,” Dan says, feeling suddenly like he too is on the verge of tears. And he realizes then that he had hope, secretly, that William would come with him. After what they’ve been through together, he thought there was at least a small chance that William would understand what Dan was feeling, that he could somehow pick it up on an emotional level even if he couldn’t grasp it intellectually.

But of course William doesn’t share Dan’s insight. How could he? From William’s point of view, there are no good reasons to do what Dan is suggesting.

Dan takes a deep breath. The thought of going alone is almost too scary to handle. And yet it doesn’t change his decision, not for a second.

William turns away, probably wanting to hide his tears, and Dan lowers his head.

Ozzy comes over to him then and begins licking his hand, whimpering uneasily. Like he’s saying goodbye.

“Ozzy,” William says, glancing over his shoulder. “Come on, buddy. We’re leaving.”

He begins to walk back to the helicopter, but to Dan’s surprise, Ozzy doesn’t follow right away. It’s the first time he’s seen the dog not obey William. He just keeps licking Dan’s hand.

William stops and looks back: “Ozzy!”

Ozzy turns around and slinks over to William, ears low.

Dan looks at the rest of the group and holds out his hands. “I guess this is goodbye.”

They nod sporadically, apparently not knowing what to say or where to look.

Josefine steps forward with a backpack and the metal rod she used as a weapon earlier, putting both of them on the ground in front of him. “Here. It’s your share of the rations, plus a little extra of mine. There’s food for four or five days.”

“Thank you,” Dan says.

“Good luck,” Sebastian says.

“You too,” Dan says.

And that seems to be it.

They all turn around one at a time and go back to the helicopter where William and Ozzy are already waiting. Except Nasira, who kisses Ali, then begins walking towards the ocean. Ali makes one last weak objection before Josefine takes his hand and leads him along with the rest of them.

Dan watches Nasira disappear from sight without looking back.

He then picks up the backpack and puts it on. He takes a deep, shaky breath, filling his chest and feeling the gnawing sense of dread grow more intense as he turns south and looks over the landscape.

In front of him is at least fifty miles to travel. Then there’s the Skagerrak, the strait separating Norway from Denmark. And beyond that is another sixty miles to Holger’s house.

How Dan will get there, how he will overcome that immense challenge of travelling by foot through land filled with living deads, much less crossing the water, he has no idea. All he knows is he has got to try.

So he begins walking.

THIRTY

Iver sits down on a chair across from Chris. Without the table between them, it feels weird. He crosses his arms.

“I’ve got a mission for you,” Chris says, pulling out his pack of cigarettes. He takes his time lighting up one. Then he inhales deeply and lets the smoke seep out through his nostrils.

“I’m not sure Agnete is happy with you smoking in here,” Iver remarks.

“Consider it the price of protection,” Chris says, taking another drag. “Now, listen. If we’re going to make it, we need at least one of three things. If we can get all three, then we’re golden. If we only get one, we might just make it anyway.”

“And what are those three?”

Chris holds up his fingers and counts it out. “More shooters. More guns. More ammo.”

“What about food?”

“Fuck food. There’s plenty of that on this island, and most of it is in cans and the like, so it won’t spoil anytime soon. But without weapons, we can’t get to all that food.”

“So you want to leave the house?” Iver asks, raising his eyebrows. “And what—go rob the neighbors?”

“At some point, we’ll have to leave the house,” Chris says. “Our supplies won’t last forever, and I’m afraid Just Eat will go belly up pretty soon. I’m not saying we go rob anyone, though. I don’t think it’ll have to come to that. I think most of the people on this island will be dead within a week or so, because they slip up somehow and the zombies will get to them. And once they’re dead, it’s not really stealing, is it?”

“That’s a fairly grim outlook,” Iver says.

“It’s also very realistic. Most of the folks around here are seniors. Judging from the amount of gunshots I’ve heard since we came here, not many of them are armed, either. They won’t be able to fight off the zombies for long.”

“You just said we needed more shooters and more guns.”

“Exactly. And since both are scarce, we better act fast to find them.”

Chris takes a break from talking and inhales deeply on the cigarette.

“So, you need me to go out and scout for anyone with a gun?” Iver asks.

“No, that would be suicide. The island is crawling with zombies by now. I’m sure they’re standing around pretty much all the houses. But there is one guy we know off who can handle a gun. And he’s probably still alive, because I heard him fire a shot just twenty minutes ago.”

Iver heard the gunshot too, while he was upstairs with Adam. “You’re talking about Fred?”

“Bingo.”

“So what, I go over there? Convince him to come stay with us?”

“That would be the ideal. If he won’t, then at least find out if he has any spare weapons.”

“If he has, he probably won’t give them away.”

“So you’ll have to steal them. And take as much ammo as you can carry. Just make sure it’s a fit for the weapons, or it would be a waste of time.”

Iver shakes his head slowly. “If I go over there and steal his weapons and his ammo—even if I could—that would leave him in a pretty bad situation.”

Chris shrugs. “He will probably die anyway.”

“You don’t know that. And even if he does, I’ll still be speeding it up by stealing from him.”

“Which brings us back to what I said at the beginning.” Chris leans forward. He hasn’t looked directly at Iver since they sat down, but now he pins him down with his piercing grey eyes. “The boy. I get why you want to defend him. And if you really do, then you can’t just sit around and wait for a miracle.” Chris raises his hand and points in the direction of Fred’s house without taking his eyes off of Iver. “There’s one old guy over there. We are five people here. Four of us are young. Who do you think should make it?”

“That’s … that’s not up to me to decide,” Iver says.

“But it is. You can stack the deck in our favor. If you convince that old prick to come over here and join us—great! That increases our odds dramatically, and his too. If you get a gun or a bag of ammo, then that’s also a big help. But if you do nothing, then more and more windows will start to crack, and once we run out of ways of barricading them, you’ll wake up one night to find one of those fucking things out there chewing on your face. Or even worse, on the face of that little boy up there.”

Iver feels his chest tighten. He’s well aware that Chris is manipulating him, but the mere thought of the boy dying is so horrible, he can’t bear to think about it. Besides, he can’t really see the flaw in Chris’s logic, either. Even though he’s a cold-hearted bastard, he’s probably right that help won’t come from the outside any time soon, and they need to secure their own survival.

“If I bring back a gun,” Iver says, “who will use it? Charlotte?”

Chris shakes his head. “She’s never fired a gun.” He takes one last drag on the cigarette, then puts it out against the sole of his shoe while looking Iver squarely in the eye. “But I can teach you to do it. If you have the nerve?”

THIRTY-ONE

Nasira is ready.

As ready as she’s ever been.

Ready to see her mom and dad again, along with all the other family members she’s lost back in Iraq.

Hopefully she won’t see Ali for many years to come.

She’ll miss him, of course, but that’s okay. She knows he’s safe with the people now taking care of him.

Nasira keeps walking down the hill even as she can hear the helicopter lift off behind her. She walks against the setting sun dipping towards the ocean. She listens to the seagulls crying. She feels her breath going in and out.

She feels the infection, too. It’s more present now. Filling every corner of her body.

Except it’s not an infection, not really. It just appears that way. Just like the waves on the ocean seem to be separate things when really, they’re all just water.

This thing which is slowly taking over her body is something else entirely. It’s evil. Nasira can feel it push against her spirit. Trying to exterminate her.

She’s still not spiking a fever, and she could probably keep it off for a few more hours.

But there’s no point anymore.

It’s time.

She won’t let the thing take her over. Won’t let it use her body after she’s left it.

She reaches the point where the hill is suddenly cut off by a steep fall. She walks close to the edge at peers down. Far, far below the waves are crashing against the cliffs.

Nasira looks around and sees a rock protruding from the ground. She goes to sit down. Folds her legs. Turns her face against the sun and closes her eyes.

She wants to feel it just a little longer. Wants to take in the beauty of this world for another minute or so.

So she sits there, doing nothing but feeling and breathing and living and dying.

The sound of the helicopter grows distant and then dissipates, leaving her with the sound of the evening breeze and the waves below.

She feels grateful that she got to live a life in this world, flawed as it may be. And she feels even more grateful that by the end of it, she got to know God intimately. That He revealed Himself to her when she needed Him the most. Assuring her there was no reason for fear or grief or regret.

Only love.

Only love.

Nasira gets to her feet. She’s smiling as she begins walking, eyes still closed, towards the edge.

THIRTY-TWO

As soon as the daylight turns to twilight, Iver gets up and gets ready.

He brings the shovel as his first-choice weapon and one of the table legs as his backup, sticking up from the backpack like a baseball bat.

Agnete agreed reluctantly to let him take the table leg, as she realized the table would probably never be used to serve dinner at again.

“All right,” Chris coaches him in the kitchen. “Remember the plan. You jump out as soon as I draw them away. When you come back, you call me a couple of minutes in advance, and we’ll do the same to let you back inside.”

“Got it,” Iver says, focusing on his breathing.

“You’ve got your phone?”

He pats his pocket. “Right here.”

“It’s fully charged?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And what is your primary objective?”

“To convince Fred to come over here.”

“And if that fails?”

“Then I’ll try to bring back weapons and ammo instead.”

“Perfect,” Chris says. “You ready?”

“As ready as I’m going to be.”

Chris nods. “You tell me when.” Then he walks into the living room. Iver can see him take up position by the terrace door. He looks back out at Iver.

“Okay,” Iver says. “Go.”

Chris pulls the curtain aside, revealing the horde of zombies outside. He taps the glass with his fingers, immediately causing the undead to get riled up and begin pushing up against the glass.

Iver climbs up onto the kitchen table and places his face close to the glass in order to look outside. He sees a couple of zombies disappear around the corner of the house, drawn by the raucous from the other side.

Then he pulls the hasp, swings open the window and climbs out. He looks back briefly to make sure Agnete closes the window behind him.

Then Iver runs out to the gravel road. His head is on ball bearings as he begins jogging towards Fred’s house, his eyes wide and scanning every direction. From the town farther down the road he can make out figures in the dusk, waddling around between the houses. And in the horizon, from the direction of the ocean, still more are coming, swarming the island like a Biblical plague of locusts.

He clutches the shovel and keeps running, focusing on the task at hand. If he lets his mind think too much about the fact that he’s running around out in the open in the middle of an island with probably several hundred zombies roaming free, he’ll just panic.

Fred’s house comes up ahead, a single lamp burning by the front door, but all the windows are dark. The old guy might have gone to bed. Or maybe he’s just trying not to draw attention to his house. Iver can make out the zombies crowding the garden, though, so turning the lights off apparently isn’t enough to trick them. They seem to be able to sense living people from very far away.

There are also quite a few dead zombies on Fred’s lawn—probably ones Fred has shot from inside the house.

Iver looks back to make sure no one is following him. When he looks ahead again, a figure comes waddling out in front of him from behind a bush by the roadside.

Iver yelps and runs around the dead woman grabbing for him. He’s way too fast, though, and makes it past her fairly easily. Still, the way she appeared out of nothing scares the crap out of him, and he becomes even more aware of his surroundings as he jogs on, quickly widening the gap to the old lady.

A few moments later he hears a groan from the other side of the road, and as he peers out into the murky landscape, he can make out three silhouettes coming for him. He speeds up and passes them by.

I’m good, he tells himself. I’m good. As long as I keep running, they can’t catch up with me, and I’m good.

Which means, of course, if he makes a stupid mistake like falling or twisting his ankle, he’ll lose his advantage—and maybe his life as well.

I won’t fall. I’ll be careful. And I’ll be good. Just need to keep focusing.

He reaches Fred’s house, and the zombies groping the windows begin turning around one at a time as they sense him coming closer. The last thing Iver wants is to stop moving, but he forces himself to do so anyway. He stands right outside Fred’s driveway, holding the shovel ready, peering all around, while particularly keeping an eye on the oncoming group of zombies from Fred’s house. There are ten or twelve of them.

As soon as they’re close enough that he can smell the sweet, salty and rotten reek coming off of them, he begins moving again, walking quickly farther down road.

“That’s it,” he whispers, still making sure that every direction is clear. “You follow me now …”

He leads them maybe fifty yards down road. Then he steps out onto the roadside, and as soon as they follow his lead, he runs to the other side of the road and heads back towards Fred’s place, leaving the group of zombies behind.

He reaches Fred’s house once more, his breath coming faster now, sweat beading his forehead and upper lip.

He stops for a moment in the driveway, holding his breath and listening. He can’t hear any groans or footsteps nearby. He’s bought himself maybe three minutes before the group will make it back here. Which means he needs to hurry.

As he heads for the front door, the driveway is suddenly lit up by a strong searchlight from atop the garage door, effectively blinding him.

Iver stops and shields his eyes. At first, he figures the light has been automatically triggered by a sensor picking up his movements. But then the garage door begins rolling up, revealing a black Peugeot and, in front of it, Fred pointing at him with his shotgun.

“What did I just tell you? Get the hell off my property, you scavengers!”

“Don’t shoot!” Iver says, holding up his hands, dropping the shovel. “I just came to talk!”

Fred looks at him intently. “Who the hell are you?”

“My name’s Iver. I’m staying at Agnete’s place. We met earlier today.”

“Oh, it’s you,” Fred growls. “Well, it makes no real difference who you are; you’re still not welcome here!”

“Listen,” Iver says, looking to the sides, shielding his eyes. “Could you please turn off the light? I can’t see anything around me.”

“If you’re uncomfortable with the light, I suggest you get the hell out of here. Those dead fuckers will show up any moment now.”

“I’m not armed,” Iver tries. “I just want to come in and talk for a minute.”

“We’ve got nothing to talk about,” Fred says, taking a few steps out of the garage. “You’ve got nothing I want, and I’ve got nothing you can have. So scram!”

Iver darts another glance around, but his surroundings have turned to a black mush, which could contain everything or nothing. He listens but can’t hear anything.

“Please,” Iver says, trying one last time. “We’re stronger if we stick together. We can help each other …”

Iver stops talking as he seems to hear a noise coming from the right. He looks at the spot right beside the garage, but he can’t make out anything out there. Maybe it was just his imagination.

He looks back at Fred pleadingly. “Look, we’ve got a weapon, too, and if we join forces …”

Once again, Iver cuts himself off as he notices a movement from up ahead, just above the spotlight. A dark shadow moves across the garage roof. The light cast up from below reveals the face of a teenage girl as she leans forward to look down at Fred.

The girl then looks at Iver and places a finger over her lips in an unmistakable shushing gesture.

Iver is so surprised to see her that he doesn’t know what to do.

Fred seems to think he’s simply looking up at the light: “You listen to me, boy. I’ve taken care of myself my entire life. I’m not about to stop doing that now, especially not by shagging up with a bunch of goddamn kids. Now, I’m not telling you again—”

Fred’s final warning is cut off as the girl jumps down from the garage. She apparently aims to grab the weapon from Fred’s hands. She misses, though, instead connecting with Fred’s shoulder and knocking him to ground while landing on her back next to him, audibly punching the air from her lungs.

Fred gives a roar of pain and surprise as he makes it back to his knees with surprising speed for an old guy, scrambling for the gun.

A yell of attack as a guy comes rushing in from the right—from where Iver heard the noise just a minute ago. Iver just gets a brief glimpse of a buff dude wearing a tight T-shirt clutching his well-trained body. He goes for the shotgun, stretching out his tattoo-covered arms and throwing himself at it.

But Fred gets to if first. He picks it up by the barrel, pulls back out of reach of the guy, flips the shotgun over and fires it before the guy can make another attempt.

The shot rings out into the night—not quite as deafening as the shots Chris fired inside Agnete’s living room, but still ear-piercing.

The guy’s head is flung back and for a moment Iver gets a clear view of his face. Or rather, the place where his face used to be. Then he collapses onto the concrete, his arms and legs giving off a couple of spasms before lying still.

Iver picks up the shovel.

The girl—who has just managed to get back up, heaving for her breath—now begins wailing at the sight of the dead guy.

“Nooooooo! Lasse! Noooooo!” She turns to Fred, her face a mask of rage. “You piece of shit! You killed him!” She launches herself at Fred like an animal.

Fred has gotten back up and is prepared for her. Iver is sure he’ll shoot her too. Instead, he flips the shotgun back around, connecting the butt end with the girl’s jaw, sending her back down for the count.

A dead man comes waddling out of the darkness and enters the scene, headed for Fred and the girl.

Iver is about to cry out in warning as a hand grabs his shoulder. He instinctively thrusts himself forward, a set of teeth clapping right next to his ear, missing it by mere inches. He wheels around, swinging the shovel blindly. The blade hits the zombie’s skull, knocking it over.

Another figure comes out of the dark before the first one can get back up.

Iver turns around and sees Fred take aim and fire the shotgun a second time, removing the top of the head of the oncoming zombie, and it collapses atop the dead guy.

Two more come into view.

Fred goes for his pocket and pulls out two new cartridges, then seems to realize there’s no time, and instead heads for the garage.

Iver has no other choice than follow him. One side is blocked by the house, and the others are completely obscured. Running out into the darkness will likely mean running straight into the arms of a dead person.

Fred goes for a switch on the wall, flipping it, and the door starts coming down.

Iver bolts for safety, jumping over the corpses, swinging the shovel at a dead woman trying to cut him off. He strikes her on the throat with a crushing blow, sending her stumbling backwards, but only causing her a minor inconvenience, as she immediately comes at him again. Iver dodges her and is about to run into the garage when he sees Fred pointing the shotgun at him.

“You stop right there! Get the hell back!”

Iver looks back and sees at least a dozen zombies coming into the driveway from every direction, closing him in.

“I can’t!” he cries out at Fred. “There’s nowhere to go!”

“Not my fucking problem!” Fred roars as the door comes down from above, cutting him from view.

Iver spins around and takes a swing at the closest dead person, knocking him over. In an instant, he realizes he’s done for. He’s pinned between the house and the soon-closed garage. There are too many zombies for him to outmaneuver them and make it to safety. And he can’t take out all of them with a shovel.

Then Fred cries out from behind: “You get out of here!”

Iver turns around again to see the girl who’s crawled for safety, sitting on her hands and knees below the garage door. It presses down on her back from above, but as it meets resistance, it stops, still four feet from the ground. Iver can see Fred struggle with the girl from the inside, trying to push her out, but she claws back, fighting to get in.

Iver doesn’t waste a second. He drops the shovel and throws himself down half a second before the closest zombie can grab him. He rolls under the door and into the garage, the table leg falling from his bag. He grabs it and gets to his feet.

Almost immediately, the zombie he just narrowly escaped—a young boy—comes crawling under the door.

Iver takes a running swing at his head hard enough to send painful shockwaves up through the table leg and into Iver’s hands and arms. The skull cracks open and the boy falls to the ground. Iver uses the table leg to try and shove him out as the next zombie comes crawling under the door.

Fred is still struggling with the girl. She has grabbed onto the shotgun and refuses to let go, her face screwed up into a determined sneer, despite Fred roaring at her and punching her arm.

Then she screams out in pain as someone begins attacking her legs, dragging her backwards. Fred is pulled along, his hands slipping outside for just a moment.

Then he rips the shotgun free and backs away. The girl is dragged out of the garage, her nails clawing at the concrete as she screams. Fred takes aim and fires the gun at the zombie who has made it under the door and is getting to its feet. He only hits it in the shoulder, though, sending to the ground, but it immediately begins getting back up.

“It’s too late!” Iver hears himself cry out. “We need to get inside the house!”

Fred looks down at the zombies squeezing under the door, then obviously decides Iver is right and turns on his heel and runs for the door leading into the house.

Iver beats him to it, bursting into Fred’s scullery and holding the door open for him. As soon as Fred is inside, Iver slams the door and turns the key.

From outside, the girl is still screaming. But only for a couple of seconds. Then eager hands begin groping at the door.

Iver steps back and looks at Fred.

The old guy is standing there, panting and resting one hand on his knee, the other holding the shotgun. He stares from the door to Iver, his upper lip curling into a snarl.

“Now look what you’ve done, you little shit! I just lost access to my car!”

Fred looks livid, and for a moment, Iver prepares himself to fight, as he’s sure Fred will take a swing at him—or maybe even turn the gun on him.

Instead, he turns around and goes into the hallway.

Iver just stands there for a long moment, shaking all over, listening to the zombies moaning outside the door.

Then he follows Fred.

THIRTY-THREE

William buckles up and makes sure the belt is tight. Then he takes the pieces of napkin he has kept in his pocket, squeezes them up into little balls and stuffs them in his ears.

Might as well try and get some sleep.

He leans up against the wall as the helicopter gets ready to take off. The roar of the engine, the slowly rising whoop-whoop of the rotors gaining speed, even the vibrations against his back is soothing.

Outside, the evening is growing darker, the sun is painting the sky and the ocean red.

A wet snout nudges his knee.

William opens his eyes and looks at Ozzy. The dog is staring up at him, giving him a very meaningful look.

“Don’t you start,” William mutters. “We’re not doing it. We’re not getting ourselves killed for that little prick.”

Ozzy slants his head to the side, as though trying to understand.

“Look, he already caused us too much trouble. If it hadn’t been for him, we would still be safe and sound at Holger’s place.”

William realizes he’s talking out loud and glances around to see if anybody else has noticed. They haven’t; they’re all either sitting with eyes closed or looking out the windows. Besides, no one can hear him over the roar of the rotors, which have almost reached full speed now and are ready to lift them off the ground.

William ignores Ozzy and looks around at the rest of the group. They are only five people left now, counting William.

Sebastian, Lærke, Josefine and Ali.

Five people making it out alive. Not bad. There are probably more, of course. Maybe hundreds. Maybe even thousands.

All are fleeing in different directions, hoping to reach safety somewhere, hoping to find a somewhat normal life until this thing is sorted out.

Will it ever, though? You don’t really believe that. The authorities won’t be able to stop it. And there won’t be a cure. Dan was right about that.

Ozzy nudges his knee again.

“Stop that!” William exclaims, pulling his leg away.

Josefine, who’s sitting opposite him, holding Ali, opens her eyes and looks over at him and mouths: “What?”

William shakes his head: “Nothing.”

Just my stupid dog trying to tell me something …

William doesn’t want to think about it. He doesn’t want to think about Dan walking back to Denmark on foot, alone. It’s his damn choice. And William has made his own.

“I’m not going with him,” he tells Ozzy. “I’m not.”

Ozzy just keeps looking at William like he’s trying hard to make him understand something important.

“I’m not doing it,” William says again, turning his face away and looking out the window.

“You guys ready?” Sebastian calls out from the pilot’s seat. “Let’s get out of here. Next stop, Faroe Islands!”

Ready, William thinks to himself. And he wants to call it out. But the word that comes from his mouth is slightly different: “Wait!”

THIRTY-FOUR

Iver walks through Fred’s house, which isn’t nearly as neat and tidy as Agnete’s was. In fact, it bears clear signs of an old guy living alone.

He reaches the living room and finds Fred sitting in his armchair, the shotgun resting across his lap. He takes off the cap, drops it to the floor and rubs his bare scalp, giving off a deep sigh. “For God’s sake, what a mess.”

The curtains are drawn on all the windows, but Iver can hear the zombies outside.

“I’m sorry,” he says, stepping closer. “I obviously didn’t mean for anything like that to happen. I just came over here to talk.”

Fred scowls at him, saying nothing, then looks away, muttering: “You’re lucky I don’t throw you out the window.”

“I didn’t attack you,” Iver says, pointing back. “They did. They caused all this.”

“You were the one who got me to open the garage door in the first place.”

“You didn’t need to do that.”

“If I hadn’t, you would have broken a window to get in here.”

“Of course I wouldn’t,” Iver says, feeling oddly offended. “Like I said, I just came to talk, not put anybody in danger.”

“I don’t care what you came for,” Fred says, leaning forward. “I want you out of here!”

“Well, that’s not possible right now,” Iver says, nodding towards the windows. “Unless you’re going to force me to leave?”

The question hovers between them in the dimly lit room for several seconds.

Iver is still holding the table leg, hanging by his side. There are only a few steps from him to Fred’s chair. He’s not sure he can close the distance before Fred can turn the gun on him and fire, but he doubts the old guy will do that. He’s just bluffing, and Iver is calling it.

Finally, Fred sighs again. “They came by here just ten minutes before you showed up. They drew a bunch of dead guys with them. They wanted to come in. They’d come from the mainland, they said, seeking refuge. Well, they didn’t find it here, I told them. They should try another house. Apparently, they decided to wait around instead, looking for the opportunity to surprise me.” Fred glances at Iver. “You gave them that opportunity.”

Iver throws out his hands. “I had no way of knowing.”

Fred gets up from the armchair with a groan. He shuffles to a liquor cabinet, looking suddenly a lot older as he takes out a glass and a bottle. “You drink?” he asks, not looking at Iver.

“No, thank you.”

“Of course you don’t,” Fred mutters. “Young people nowadays. You think you’re so damn important.”

Iver pretends not to hear. He puts the table leg on Fred’s dining table and sits down on a chair. The muscles in his legs are happy to get a break after running around outside.

Fred shuffles over and slumps back down into the chair. He pours himself a drink while murmuring: “I’m almost glad you’re not here to see this, Grethe. Things are really turning to shit. We’ll probably all be dead soon. At least that means I’ll get to see you again.”

Iver recalls Agnete telling them something about Fred having recently lost his wife, and he feels an unexpected stab of sympathy for the old guy.

He takes out his phone and is about to call up Chris, when Fred asks: “Whaddya doing?”

“I’m calling the others to let them know what happened.”

“No,” Fred says, shaking his head slowly. “You’re not calling anybody.” He comes over, puts his glass on the table, then holds out his hand. “Give me that.”

Iver frowns. “Why?”

“Because I don’t want you calling them and planning something stupid.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, them coming over here, maybe.”

“Look, that’s not happening. I just want to let them know—” Iver stops talking as he notices a scratch on the inside of Fred’s wrist. “How did you get that?”

“Get what?” Fred looks down. “Aw, that’s nothing, just a scratch.”

“Yeah, but from what? It’s fresh, which means it just happened.”

“I don’t know. Must have got it from that crazy bitch. She probably scratched me when she jumped on me.”

Iver looks at Fred thoughtfully, recalling him fighting to get the girl out from under the garage door. She could very well have clawed him there.

But there was also that moment when Fred’s arms went outside. It was only a second before he pulled them back in.

But a second was enough.

“Why are you eyeing me like that, boy?” Fred growls. “I told you, I’m fine. Now hand me that phone.”

“I didn’t say you weren’t fine,” Iver says calmly, handing Fred the phone.

Fred puts the phone in his pocket, eyeing him closely. “What did you say then?”

“Nothing. I just wanted to know how you got that scratch.”

“And I told you.”

Iver nods. “Can I go to the bathroom?”

Fred takes the glass from the table and is about to take a swig, then hesitates. “Why?”

Iver throws out his arms. “Do I really need to answer that?”

Fred chews on his tongue. Then he nods. “Fine, go. But don’t take too long.”

Iver gets up and leaves the living room. Just before he walks out into the kitchen, he glances back to see Fred slump down into the armchair. He looks very tired. Exhausted, actually. He seems to be muttering to his dead wife again.

Iver closes the door almost all the way, then he quickly goes to the windows. Even through the curtains, he can hear the dead people groping the glass. It sounds like there’s a lot of them. There’s no way he’s getting out this way.

Instead, he runs down the hallway to the bathroom. There’s only one window in here, but a couple of hands are groping it.

“Fuck,” Iver mutters, closing and locking the door. He goes to the mirror and looks at himself. “Think, goddamnit.”

The version of Iver looking back out at him seems ten years older than the one he saw in the mirror just yesterday. His face is pale and there are dark rims below his eyes. His hair is also all messed up.

He has no way of calling Chris. Even if he could find another phone, he doesn’t recall his number. And getting his own phone back from Fred would be near impossible.

Which means he needs to find a way out of here. Even if he could open one of the windows without Fred noticing, he would have no one to help him distract the zombies.

But is Fred really infected? Or is Iver just overreacting?

That scratch on the old guy’s wrist looked not-good at all. In fact, the more Iver thinks about it, the more he feels certain it wasn’t done by the girl. The way the skin had reddened and was swelling up just slightly around the scratch told him it might be infected.

If he is infected, how long will it take him to die? Iver asks his mirror image. Probably not long. Half an hour? Twenty minutes?

The people on the ferry turned within moments. But they were a lot more badly wounded than just a scratch, so it was likely a matter of minutes rather than seconds before Fred would die and wake back up. But maybe—

A sudden banging on the door makes Iver jump. “Jesus Christ, what?” he calls out.

“Let me in!” Fred growls from the other side. “Now!”

“I’m not done in he—”

“Open that damned door or I’ll shoot my way in!”

Iver flushes the toilet then goes to open the door. He’s barely turned the key when Fred comes bursting in, shoving him out of the way.

“Hey!”

Fred heads for the toilet, using the shotgun as a cane for support as he kneels down and vomits into the bowl. He spits and wipes his mouth in his sleeve. “Goddamnit. Knew I shouldn’t have finished that lamb.”

“You feeling sick?” Iver asks, standing there, noticing his heart beating right below his chin as he eyes Fred intently.

Fred glances sideways, as though he forgot Iver was there. His face is pink and sweat is beading on his forehead. “Just had some bad meat for supper, that’s all.”

Iver can smell the puke and something salty, too. It’s fever, he realizes. Fred is burning up.

“Say, you look a little hot—you need me to get you anything? A glass of water?”

Iver goes to leave, but Fred flips the shotgun on him. “You stay right here. I don’t want you out of my sight.”

Iver holds out his arms. “Why? What do you think I’d do?”

“You’d let those dead fuckers in here,” Fred says, burping. “You’d let them fucking have me just so you could get out of here and save your own ass. Don’t you think I’m not on to you, boy.”

“You’re crazy,” Iver says.

Fred burps again, then waves the gun. “Close that door. Lock it. Throw the key over here.”

Iver closes the door slowly. He puts his hand on the key and is about to turn it. But something makes him hesitate. A sudden feeling that if he locks that door, he’ll never get to leave the bathroom. From outside the window, he can hear the zombies groping the glass.

Fred begins to heave, but fights back the vomit. “What are you … waiting for? Throw that … damn key … over here!”

“I can’t lock it,” Iver hears himself say, rustling the key. “It’s jammed.”

“You’re lying!” Fred shouts, then turns his head to puke some more.

Iver decides to chance it.

He rips open the door.

Fred notices and—turning his head to vomit on the floor—shoots the gun still pointed in Iver’s direction.

The sound is like an atomic bomb going off, immediately eradicating Iver’s hearing, the hailstorm of bullets shattering the cupboard just over his head, causing pieces of wood to fly out like confetti.

Iver bolts out the door, ducking down even though it’s way too late to do so, slams the door behind him and runs down the hallway, headed back towards the kitchen. There are no obvious hiding places here, Iver realizes as he looks around, panting.

His ears are still ringing, but he picks up Fred roaring something from the hallway, and as Iver spins around, he sees the old guy come tumbling out of the bathroom, flailing the gun.

Iver runs into the living room, closes the door and tips over the nearest bookcase. It lands with a crash in front of the door, books flying everywhere.

Iver spins around and looks out over the room. Every window is guarded by at least three zombies, and there are no other doors.

The knob begins moving behind him, and Fred starts banging the door.

“Let me in, you little shit! Open that door or I’ll blast it open!”

Fuck!

Iver looks around the living room, trying desperately to summon one last clever idea as the seconds tick by and Fred is still shouting threats from behind the door, kicking it and causing the bookcase to wobble.

What do I do? What do I do?

THIRTY-FIVE

It’s been around twenty minutes since Dan heard the helicopter leave.

Now, the hilly landscape is silent except for a late bird singing now and then. The evening is growing darker around him, and his senses are getting more sensitive. His eyes keep scanning ahead and his ears are prickling for any sounds in the bushes.

So he picks up right away at the sound of running steps approaching quickly from behind, and he spins around, holding up the rod.

Out of dusk comes a big, furry beast which Dan takes to be a wolf, and he screams out.

Just as he’s about to run for his life, the animal gets close enough for him to recognize Ozzy.

The German shepherd runs up to him, sits down and begins barking. He’s looking at Dan, but Dan gets the feeling it’s not him he’s barking at.

He’s calling out, Dan realizes, still too stunned at the sight of Ozzy to say or do anything.

Within a few minutes, he can hear footsteps approaching. Then William appears, jogging along, panting. He’s wearing a backpack and holding the rifle. When he looks up and sees Dan, he stops and rests his hands on his knees, catching his breath.

“Good boy, Ozzy,” he pants.

Ozzy stops barking and begins instead to lick Dan’s hands eagerly.

“I … I thought you weren’t coming,” Dan says tentatively, afraid that William will tell him he’s not really coming, he just forgot to say or give him something. Maybe the extra backpack is for Dan. Maybe William will just throw it to him and run back to the helicopter.

But William sends him a look Dan can’t mistake. “I wasn’t. But I can’t let you have all the fun to yourself, can I?”

Dan breaks into a smile which feels wide enough to split his face in half. Then he drops the metal rod and throws himself at William, hugging him tightly.

“Hey, hey,” William says, patting him awkwardly on the shoulder. “Let’s turn down the bromance, okay?”

But Dan doesn’t let go, and after a few seconds, William hugs him back. Ozzy slinks around them and whimpers happily.

“All right,” William says, finally breaking up the embrace. “We’d better get going, don’t you think?”

“Thank you,” Dan says, picking the rod back up and discretely wiping away tears.

“Don’t mention it.”

They begin walking south, Ozzy running up ahead and scouting, constantly looking around and sniffing the air.

“He’ll pick up the scent of any dead assholes way before we can see or hear them,” William says. “He’s very good with his nose.”

“I’m glad to have him,” Dan says.

“Yeah, me too. Thank God this thing doesn’t seem to affect animals.”

They walk on a few minutes in silence.

“What made you come along after all?” Dan asks.

William shrugs. “You already talked me into stupid shit in the past. I figured I’d do you one last favor.”

Dan smiles. “No, really. Do you believe me? Do you believe we can turn it around?”

William doesn’t look at him right away. “Let’s just say I want to believe you.”

Dan nods. “That’s all I can ask for, I guess.”

It’s silly, really, but Dan can’t help but feel the night has gotten a little less dark now that William is walking next to him.

“So,” William says after another moment of silent walking. “What’s the game plan here? We’ve got no map. We’ve got no vehicle and no way of crossing the water. How do you plan on getting back to Denmark?”

“I don’t know,” Dan says honestly. “I figured for now I’d simply follow the coastline. That way at least we can be sure we’re headed south. And once we meet a city, we might be able to steal a boat.”

“Why not? We already stole a helicopter. You know how to sail a boat?”

“I tried it once, on a vacation.”

“What if there aren’t any boats? What if people already took all the boats to sail the hell away from here?”

“I don’t know,” Dan says again. “I guess we’ll just have to take it one step at a time. Don’t you?”

William looks down at his feet, as though taking the question literally, then he sends Dan a smile. “I guess that’s as good a plan as anything. You got the ring?”

“What?”

“Sorry, bad joke.”

“Oh.” Dan smiles. “Lord of the Rings, right?”

“Yeah. I love that movie.” William looks at Dan earnestly. “Don’t tell me you didn’t watch it.”

“I did.”

“Good. You liked it?”

Dan shrugs. “It was okay, I guess.”

“’Okay, you guess’? Jeez, dude, it’s only the greatest movie ever made!”

“I thought that was Godfather.”

“That one’s good, too.”

“I didn’t watch that one, though,” Dan admits.

William sighs deeply. “You’re hopeless. What did you watch, then?”

Dan shrugs. “I didn’t watch that many movies, really. I’m more into books.”

“I figured,” William says. “What’s your favorite book of all time, then?”

Dan thinks for a moment. “The Stand, I think.”

“What’s that one about?”

“The end of the world.”

“Oh. Very relevant. Zombies?”

“No, it was a flu. People just died. They didn’t come back.”

“That would actually be preferable. How’d it end?”

“Good, I guess.”

“They found a cure?”

“No, but … there was hope. They began building a new and better society. I remember feeling uplifted when I finished.”

William breathes deeply. “Guess that’s not a bad thing. To end with a little hope.”

Dan looks at him and smiles again. “I guess so too.”

THIRTY-SIX

Dennis opens the hatch carefully and peers up into the vegetable garden.

It’s dark now, except for the moonlight beaming down over everything, making the plants look silvery.

“Grrrraaaaahh …”

Dennis snaps his head around, almost dropping the hatch onto his own head. He stares at the couple on the other side of the fence. It’s a man in a police uniform and an Asian woman with most of her hair torn off. They’re groping the metal fence, trying to rip it open, to bite their way through, but it doesn’t work.

Dennis thought he was prepared to see them up close, but it’s still very different from when he was watching them on the monitor down in the bunker just a minute ago.

“Okay,” he tells himself. “You can do this.”

He peels his eyes off the dead couple and opens the hatch all the way so he can climb up. The smell of the tomatoes is almost strong enough to cancel out the smell of blood and flesh and infection from the dead people.

Dennis closes the hatch gently, then stands up straight and looks at the gun in his hand.

It’s a lot heavier than it looks to be in the movies. It’s also very cold.

It’s a Glock—it doesn’t say so anywhere on the gun itself, but Dennis is pretty sure of it. He spent twenty minutes Googling images of guns and he found a close match which told him the name and the specifics of the gun he’s now holding.

Then he found a video on YouTube teaching him how to put bullets into the gun. And how to fire it. The guy told him repeatedly not to keep the gun loaded before you actually needed to shoot it, and to never point it at anything you didn’t intend to kill or destroy.

Dennis glances over at the dead people and swallows dryly.

They’ve been there for most of the day. On the other side of the house are more of them, but these two seem to favor this side, where the vegetable garden is.

Dennis knows that a lot more will come.

It’s fine. They can’t get inside the house.

But still, he needs to practice, needs to learn. He needs to be able to kill them.

Things don’t seem to be going back to normal anytime soon. In fact, they keep saying on the television how the dead people are taking over country after country. They showed a time-lapse map over Europe for the last five days, and Dennis felt goose bumps crawl up his spine as he watched the animation swallow up all of the countries around Denmark. The news reporter said in a grave voice that if things went on like this, by tomorrow, most of Europe would be infected.

So, Dennis needs to prepare himself. He will probably have to fire a gun sooner or later. Either to protect himself or Mom.

Silas was right when he told him he had to grow a pair—Dennis isn’t exactly sure what “pair” refers to, but he gets the gist of it.

Dennis digs into his pocket and takes out the bullets. They shine in the moonlight. He takes his time loading them into the gun’s clip one at a time, ignoring the groans and moans from the dead couple and the rustling of the fence.

It was surprisingly easy to sneak out. Mom didn’t even notice him leave the bunk room. If he’s lucky, she might not even hear the gunshot.

Dennis loads the gun and holds it like he practiced down in the bunker: arm straight, grip firm, barrel pointed down.

Then he takes a deep breath to steady himself and looks at the dead couple again.

Which one?

Dennis has no good way of deciding, so he simply whispers an “eenie-meenie-miney.”

He ends the last “moe” on the guy.

Okay. It’s going to be him.

Dennis steps a little closer to the fence. It’s not easy getting his feet to cooperate; just being here, in the middle of the night, outside the bunker, alone, right in front of two living dead people should be enough to make Dennis pee his pants.

He wants nothing more than to run back down to the bunker, put the gun back into the metal cupboard and crawl back to bed.

He could do it. He could call off the whole thing. Abort mission. Mom never had to find out what he’d been up to.

No, Dennis thinks to himself, clenching his jaw. No, I need to grow a pair.

People are coming to this place. People who he might or might not be able to trust. And if it turns out he can’t, he wants to be ready to defend himself and Mom.

So, he takes one more step forward, leaving only five feet between him and the fence.

The dead guy and the dead woman begin to tear at the fence more eagerly, moaning with hunger, trying desperately to squeeze through and get to him.

Dennis feels his legs begin to buckle and makes an effort to tighten the muscles in his thighs, keeping his stance firm.

He then raises his arm up to eye level, keeping it straight all the way, placing his other palm on his knuckles, which are white from clutching the handle of the gun.

“Breathe in, aim,” he recites, closing one eye. “Focus on the sight, let the target go blurry.”

Not having to look directly at the guy’s face actually makes it a tiny bit easier, Dennis finds, as he stares intently at the tiny bump at the end of the pistol.

“Breathe out, pull the trigger.”

Dennis breathes out, but his finger doesn’t follow through with the last part.

“Breathe out, pull the trigger,” Dennis whispers again.

Still, no reaction from his finger. It’s like it suddenly has its own will and refuses to carry out the order.

“Do it,” Dennis urges himself. “Pull the trigger. Pull it!”

Nothing happens. Except his arms start to shake. The guy moves a little back and forth, and Dennis has to move the gun along.

“Just do it,” he croaks. “You have to grow a pair. Do it. Pull the trigger, damnit!” Then, feeling a sudden rage, he cries out: “Pull the damn trigger, you imbecile!”

The gun kicks back hard as the shot blares out into the night. The recoil isn’t as hard as the rifle, but still hard enough that Dennis almost slaps himself in the face.

He lowers the gun and stares at the guy.

His right eye is gone, together with a big chunk of his temple. He opens and closes his mouth a couple of times, then collapses.

Dennis watches him go down.

“I did it … I did it …”

He can barely hear his own voice over the ringing in his ears. A mixture of wild excitement rushes up into his chest. To Dennis’s astonishment, the dread of seeing the guy he just shot is drowned out by the elation that he was actually able to do it.

Without thinking, he raises the gun again and takes aim at the woman.

“Breathe in, aim. Breathe out, pull the trigger.”

It’s a lot easier this time.

And he’s prepared for the recoil, too, so the gun only points to the sky briefly before snapping back down.

He only manages to take off the woman’s ear, though.

“Darn it,” Dennis mutters, taking aim again.

As he goes through the ritual a third time, he’s amazed to find that he feels hardly any resistance in his body. Driven by the rush of perhaps the biggest victory Dennis has ever had in his life, he feels something which must be confidence streaming through his blood, and he fires the gun again, this time hitting the woman squarely in the forehead, sending her onto her back where she stays absolutely still.

Dennis lowers the gun and looks at the two dead bodies on the other side of the fence. He lets out a trembling breath and realizes he’s shaking all over. It’s not fear, though; at least not all of it.

“Dennis!”

He spins around, almost raising the gun as a reflex but manages to stop himself in the last instant as he sees Mom looking up at him from the open hatch, her eyes big and wide, darting from him to the corpses.

“What in heaven’s name is going on?” She sees the gun in his hand, and her mouth slips open. “Was it … was it you? Did you just … fire that thing?”

“I did,” Dennis says, surprised to find how calm his voice sounds despite everything inside of him being in uproar. “I killed them, Mom.”

She climbs up all the way, not taking her eyes off of Dennis. “But … why?”

“I’m practicing. I need to learn to protect us.”

Mom shakes her head. “You don’t need to do that. I’ll make sure—”

“You can’t protect me forever, Mom.” Dennis is more than surprised at hearing himself interrupt Mom this way—and judging from Mom’s face, she’s just as surprised. “The world is turning to shit,” he goes on. “And I need to grow a pair if I’m going to make it.”

Mom’s face goes through a range of emotions before settling on suspicion. “That language … who told you all that?”

“No one,” Dennis says, shrugging. He can’t believe how easily the lie slipped out. He could just as easily have said “Silas,” but for some reason, he doesn’t want Mom to know. What happened between him and Silas out here in the vegetable garden seems like something oddly intimate. What was it Silas called it? A “rite of manhood.”

“You’re lying to me, Dennis,” Mom says, her eyes growing smaller as she steps closer. “Who have you been talking to?”

“No one,” Dennis says again, even more firmly. “I just watched a YouTube video on how to use this.”

He holds out the gun for Mom to see, making sure the barrel is pointed down and his finger is away from the trigger.

Mom reaches out to take the gun, but Dennis pulls it back instinctively before he can even think about it.

Mom’s hand stops in midair as she stares at him in stunned silence.

Slowly, her face changes. “Hand me the gun, Dennis,” she says softly.

“Why?” Dennis asks.

He can hardly recognize himself.

“Why?” Mom repeats, raising one eyebrow. “Because I say so.”

Dennis considers for a moment. His heart is pounding away in his throat, even harder than before.

“I’d rather hold on to it,” he says. “If that’s okay with you, Mom.” He quickly adds: “I’ll be careful, of course. I know how to handle it.”

He sounds like someone who’s been familiar with guns his whole life, when in truth he’s only just fired it for the first time and he’s barely had time to process anything. Yet he feels a strange sense of power connected to the gun.

He made those two awful dead people die for real.

He eliminated the threat.

Part of him expects Mom to react with fury. To scream at him. He’s even prepared for her to slap him.

But she simply says in a detached tone: “I don’t feel safe around guns.”

“Well, I do,” Dennis says. “And I think we’d both be safer if I kept it close to me.” With Mom still not looking convinced, Dennis goes on: “It’s about time I grow up, Mom. I’m not a little boy anymore. I’m a man now.”

Mom eyes him for the longest time. Dennis can literally feel the dew settle on his skin. He can hear the breeze rustle through the plants. He begins to feel a little cold.

Then, finally, Mom speaks: “YouTube, eh?”

Dennis smiles. “Yep.”

She nods once, not looking convinced at all. Then she says: “All right, you can keep it. But let me know the next time you go out in the middle of the night to practice.”

“I will, Mom. Sorry if I scared you.”

“Come on,” she waves at him. “Let’s go back inside.”

Dennis follows Mom down the ladder, and he makes sure to lock the hatch after them.

As they walk through the underground tunnel, Dennis feels the weight of the gun in his hand very acutely. It feels wonderful. It feels almost like a friend.

And he notices Mom doesn’t walk in front of him, but next to him. He realizes his stride is faster than usual, his steps longer. Mom doesn’t say anything, but Dennis can sense she needs to walk fast to keep up with him, and she’s looking at him out of the corner of her eye.

Dennis breathes deeply as he walks on.

The world might be turning to shit like Silas said. At the very least it’s changing. Turning into something new. And it probably won’t be the same ever again.

Neither will Dennis.

* * *

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A note on guns

Hey there, and thank you for reading. I’m thrilled you’ve stuck with the series for so long. It really means a lot to me!

I wanted to make a quick note about guns in the story, as I’ve gotten a few questions on the subject.

You might be wondering how come firearms in general have been mostly absent from the plotline so far. You might especially be nonplussed by this if you’re American.

The thing is, Dead Meat plays out in Denmark, and here guns are a lot less common. Personally, I’ve only ever seen one or two in my life.

I did a little research and found that less than 3 percent of Danes have a gun permit, and even less actually own a firearm. And outside of military or police, the only guns you’ll find here are basically plain old hunting rifles.

So, having every other person in the story run around firing an AK-47 and throwing hand grenades simply wouldn’t have been realistic.

But now, as people in the story begin catching on and want to defend themselves, I had to introduce a few guns. Since I know absolutely nothing about the subject, I reached out to an old friend of mine, who’s an avid hunter, and he was able to tell me all I needed to know about rifles, shotguns and ammo.

This is me thanking him.

And thank you, dear reader, once again for making it this far into the series. I sincerely hope you’ll follow me in the days still to come.

—Nick

Table of Contents

- CONTENT
- 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
- A note on guns