“Jeez,” Iver says. “Shouldn’t you put bandages on those?”
He shakes his big head. “Agnete already gave me some ointment. Nice lady, that Agnete. She reminds me of my own mother. She died just last year. Cancer.”
“I’m sorry,” Iver says.
“Well, I’m not,” Leif says, nodding towards the boarded-up window. “I’m actually thankful that she doesn’t get to witness this.”
“Yeah, I get that,” Iver says. “You’ve got any other family left?”
“Only Linda.”
Iver raises his eyebrows. “You guys are related?”
Leif nods. “She’s my niece.” His smile falters. “She came to me all broken and crying. Poor girl. She lost everyone, you know. Her husband. Her stepdaughter.”
“I’m sorry for her,” Iver says.
“Yeah, me too. But she’s a fighter. She was determined to survive. It was her plan coming here, you know. I hadn’t given it a thought, going away on my boat. This thing wasn’t even looking that bad when she came to me; it’s like she knew it was going to really hit the fan. She’s clever, my Linda is.”
Iver nods. “I can tell. Well, I guess I’ll go to bed too.”
“Sounds like a good idea,” Leif says, yawning. “I’ll turn this off in a minute, get some shut eye myself. Got another hard day tomorrow.”
“You should probably let someone else do the rest of the floor down there.”
“Oh, the floor is already done. No more hammering needed.”
“Well, that’s good.”
Iver notices the blanket and realizes that Leif will be sleeping on the couch. On the other couch is another pillow and blanket, which must be meant for Linda.
The thought makes Iver move restlessly on the spot. Something is nagging him, but he can’t quite place what it is.
“Well, goodnight,” he tells Leif and leaves the living room. Leif doesn’t answer—he’s already lost in Friends again.
Walking towards the stairs, Iver notices the banging from the basement again. And suddenly he realizes what’s gnawing at him: Leif just told him he already finished breaking up the concrete floor down there.
Iver crouches down in the middle of the kitchen and puts his ear closer to the floor. The sound is a little louder now. And faster.
What’s he doing down there?
Iver decides to check it out. He goes through the hallway to the back of the house, where Agnete has a laundry room which is also where the stairs for the basement are.
He opens the door and makes it three steps into the room before he sees Chris. He’s halfway hidden behind a rack of clothes hanging to dry.
Chris is facing the washing machine. Iver can only see the upper part of his body and the lower part of his legs, which—to Iver’s immense surprise—are bare, his jeans forming a pile around his ankles. Another pair of legs—slimmer and hairless and still wearing socks—are wrapped around Chris’s waist, which goes back and forth, producing a low banging with every thrust as the washer hits the wall.
Iver is too dumbstruck to do anything except stare.
Chris gives off a hoarse moan, and someone else moans too. Iver manages to take a stumbling step backwards, hoping to leave the room without being seen. But he walks right into the door, making a noise.
Chris turns his head, looks at him and stops thrusting. His face is all red and sweaty, his eyes dreamy. “What are you looking at, you fucking faggot?” he groans in an out-of-breath voice.
Iver is too stunned to answer. He just gapes and shakes his head. Then Linda’s head comes into view as she leans forward.
She looks at Iver briefly, then leans back again and sighs: “Didn’t you lock the fucking door?”
“I thought I did,” Chris tells her.
“Well, get him the hell out of here.”
“Go!” Chris roars.
Iver scrambles out of the room and slams the door. He runs upstairs and goes to his room. He sits down on the bed, then gets back up. Sits down again, then gets up a second time and begins pacing the room.
So many feelings are hurricaning around inside him, he can barely identify them. Shame, disgust, fear and shock.
When he’s finally able to sit back down and stay seated, one clear thought shoots through his head: Well, I guess Charlotte was right …
TWENTY-EIGHT
The sun has crept to the horizon and just dipped below it.
They’ve been taking turns driving the jet ski, switching places every half hour or so. Though the warmth of the day has slipped away, Dan’s clothes have dried up by now, and he isn’t freezing—except for his hands.
They reached Danish shores an hour ago and have been going inland since then. In most places, the channel is narrow enough that Dan can see land on both sides. Now and then a lonely house or perhaps a tiny village glides by. He hasn’t seen any people yet—living or dead—which he takes to be a good sign.
“I was sure it would be swarming with them here,” Liv says in his ear, like she read his thoughts. “I mean, we’re basically headed right for ground zero.”
“I know,” Dan mutters. “I thought so too. But come to think of it, wouldn’t it make more sense for them to leave? Like, would they really just hang around when everyone living had either fled or become zombies?”
Liv thinks for a moment. “No, I guess you’re right. They seem to be always on the move towards the nearest prey.”
“Exactly.”
A moment of silence.
“We’re almost there,” Liv says, pointing ahead. “In a couple of minutes, there’ll be some sandy banks coming up on our right. I think that’s a good place to land.”
“Right. How far to Viborg from there?”
“Twenty miles or so. Maybe a little less.”
“Really?” Dan asks, glancing back. “I thought it was much farther.”
“Trust me, I’ve driven this way several times when I went jet skiing with my sister. I know this bay and the area around it.”
Dan can’t believe his luck in not only finding a ride to Denmark, but also one who knows how to get to where he’s going and knows the
