History of Mikkel Madsen

The world ended not with a bang, nor yet with a whimper. The world ended with a rash.

The Rash began as a discoloration of the skin, an itch, a mere blemish, and ended in agonizing pain, limbs maimed and twisted and deformed, madness, coma, and merciful death … for the lucky ones. For the unlucky ones, it ended in transformation to a ravening monster, so hideously deformed as to be unrecognizable as human, whether mentally or physically. It was contagious not just to human beings, but to every mammal with the strange exception of cats.

And no mammal that contracted the Rash ever recovered.

The Rash was contracted from the breath of the infected for a week or more before any symptoms showed, or from any bite, or even from a scratch inflicted by the appendages of the infected, no longer even identifiable as hands or feet.

There were those, both human and animal, that were immune to the Rash. And there were those who, though not immune, survived by chance or by swift action, escaping to islands or mountain fastnesses which could be defended against the infected. Iceland closed its borders very early and survived almost without infection; the Danish island of Bornholm closed its borders later and suffered great losses before the infected were destroyed, and even then small pockets of infection remained. In the other Nordic countries, Norway, Sweden, and Finland, villages survived here and there where they could be defended. Several brutally cold winters ravaged these survivors but at the same time the bitter cold kept the infected at bay while more defenses were built.

The world was lost to the Rash. Humanity was reduced from its teeming billions to little more than a hundred thousand in the Known World.

“Falling Stars”

Freja didn’t believe the falling stars meant anything to her newborn twin sons, but the Icelandic midwife, Kristín Birtudóttir, insisted that for luck, the babes should be shown to the stars the night of their birth. It was easier to consent than to argue, so here Freja was sitting on a fallen tree in the darkness, holding the twins.

Kristín was full of such beliefs about fate. The previous day, she’d gone around closing every door and window in the house, muttering prayers under her breath. Her efforts were meant to prevent the birth, and perhaps they’d succeeded. “At least they weren’t born yesterday. Wednesday’s child is full of woe,” she’d said. “Thursday’s child has far to go. I do wish they could have held off another day, since Friday’s child is loving and giving.”

Freja had shrugged. “They have far to go? Well, don’t we all?” But then Kristín had wanted her to take the babies out, and she hadn’t had the energy to argue further. If Morten had been there — but he’d put off chores for too long waiting for the birth. Once assured she and the children were safe and healthy, he’d rushed off to take care of things and was still working late into the night.

Two stars fell together.

“Look at him,” Kristín said. “He’s looking right up at the stars. A wanderer, that one.”

Though Freja rolled her eyes at the midwife’s words, she looked down at the twins with a smile. They were wrapped up warmly, for even in August, the night air was too chilly for such young babies. The one on the right — that was Michael — was asleep. The other was Mikkel (imaginatively named by Morten; Freja would have called him Henrik after her father), and Mikkel was indeed staring up with wide and wondering eyes.

But she meant for her children to stay in the safety of the farm forever. The world outside was so terrifying. Even Rønne wasn’t safe, for all its walls and guards. Just a few years ago, the Rash had made it through the defenses, and they’d had to burn down half the city to stop it.

Freja hugged the babies to her and watched a star fall.

“Mikkel at Sea”

Voices in the corridor.

Mikkel Madsen froze, listening. Was that Captain Ása Harðardóttir? He glanced around her small cabin: was there a hiding place? No, not for a man of his size.

What was she doing back at her cabin anyway? She should be just beginning her shift, giving him hours to search for the evidence General Trond wanted. He had no business here in her cabin, and if he was caught …

He whirled from her desk, yanked the covers off her bunk, folded the top sheet in half, and began to tuck it in. The cabin door opened behind him, and Captain Ása asked in a frozen tone, “What are you doing in my cabin, Madsen?”

Mikkel turned, making no effort to hide his guilty expression. “Oh, I, uh —”

She pushed past him to examine her bunk. “You — you dared? You shortsheeted my bed? You worthless little worm! I hired you as a favor because you needed a job, and this is how you repay me!”

Mikkel retreated towards the door.

“Well, you’re going to work because you’re on my ship so I’m stuck with you for two more weeks. Do you know how many heads there are on this ship? You’re going to find out, because from now on, your job is to clean each and every one of them each and every day! And my purser — my new purser, that is — will inspect each and every one of them, and they’d better be scrubbed!”

“Yes, ma’am, yes, ma’am, yes, I’ll do that.” Mikkel backed out the door, half-bowing as he went. He hadn’t found everything he was supposed to, but he’d gotten a good look at some of her papers. Trond would have to be satisfied with that.

There were, in fact, twenty-three heads on the ship.