Handling The Undead

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Henning held up the box of Gato Negro and toasted the metal plaque in the sidewalk. A single withered rose lay on the spot where Prime Minister Olaf Palme had been gunned down sixteen years earlier. Henning crouched down and ran his finger over the raised inscription.

'Damn it,' he said. 'It's all going to hell, Olaf. Down, down and further down.'

His head was killing him, and it wasn't the wine. The people walking by on Sveavagen were staring into the ground too; some had their hands pressed against their temples.

Earlier in the evening it had simply felt like an approaching thunderstorm, but the electric tension in the air had gradually, imperceptibly, become more intense until it was now all but unbearable. Not a cloud in the _ht sky, though; no distant rumble, no hope of release. The invisible field of electricity could not be touched, but it was there; everyone could feel it.

It was like a blackout in reverse. Since around nine o'clock, no lamps could be switched off, no electrical appliances powered down. If you tried to pull out the plug there was an alarming crackling sound and sparks flew between the outlet and the plug, preventing the circuit from being broken.

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