by Jackson Lear
It did hit home just then. I was okay thinking it was happening all around the world, but with my folks freaking out about this it’s time to shut up and do what the government wants.
In Edinburgh the police and military are going building to building to create a green zone. Snipers are keeping an eye out, helicopters are everywhere. They’re asking for complete cooperation and telling everyone via the TV what needs to be done during the medical test, which is simple enough: they check your temperature, your pupils, prick your finger for blood and have a small paper test which is supposed to change colour. I don’t know if any of that is going to help but maybe it’s just to give everyone some peace of mind. Simply the act of doing something, even if it’s useless, can do wonders for morale. It could also be a world wide attempt at DNA printing everyone so that they can identify a hundred million corpses later on.
If there’s ever a time to fake your own deaths and start over, now’s it. That might give me the chance to come back as someone a little more exotic. Even change my name. Andy, maybe. Perhaps I was a chef, travelling around Europe in preparation of creating a cookbook and a TV show. My co-host was Camille, my French girlfriend with an adorable accent, a biting wit, and an ex-boyfriend who had been blackmailing her. Thankfully he had something of an extensive gun collection. After Nice fell we broke into his garage, looted everything he had, she said a few words of compassion over his fallen corpse, then we torched the place and made a run for it. We bulldozed our way through a dozen zombies, picking up stranded victims while Camille blasted everything in sight with a 12-gauge shotgun. By the time we got to Calais we lost half our team. The hardest thing I ever had to do was bury Camille. I was going to spend the rest of my life with her as I had finally found my match. But now she’s gone. The rest of us broke through the Chunnel and walked from France to England through the darkness, expecting zombies and barricades with every step. The darkness was a perpetual neighbour, the type that never lets you get a peaceful night’s rest. We blasted our way through the barricades until the lights from the guns blinded us.
“Halt!” they cried.
We threw our hands into the air. “I’m English!” I shouted.
“Stay right there!” they shouted. They weren’t going to let us through. They were going to leave us to die in that tunnel, in the darkness, with nothing to eat.
Then a lone voice called out from beside me. “Dad?”
And at last the sergeant in charge faltered. “Mary?”
That’s how we got out. Not through general human compassion but through a direct connection. Someone had to put their balls on the line because they knew someone.
Part 4.
Everyone around here is more or less miserable, except for Sofia, since her parents are ‘safe’. Louise doesn’t like being here any more. There isn’t much to do. Everyone is worried about getting food. We’re all concerned about parents, friends, and family who are either in trouble from zombies or in trouble from trigger happy nutjobs who have been waiting their whole lives for a moment to wreak havoc and get away with it. There’s already been mass shootings in the States. Someone went through a mall and killed eighteen people. Someone else shot up their campus in Iowa. Maybe the shootings are unrelated to the zombie outbreak. Or, maybe that was the trigger – they have to kill everyone who was an asshole to them before they get turned into a zombie.
Everyone here is awake at all hours, watching the TV for updates, being online for emails and more updates, relaying all of this information to everyone else in various languages. On top of that, the heat is trying to kill us. There are thirteen people here in an apocalyptic situation (potentially apocalyptic, at the very least) and no one has resorted to the B-Grade schtick of ‘We seem to be safe for a while, can you help me take my bra off?’ So let Hollywood stand up and pay attention. Sex during a zombie outbreak? Doesn’t happen.
This is day three of almost no sleep, working through hangovers, and over doing it with a lot of coffee. It’s getting boring. Rachel snapped at me a little earlier and then apologised, saying it was a mixture of the sleep, stress, and heat. I’m impressed she made it this far while still keeping her temper in check. God knows I’ve sworn my arse off since getting here.
I’m grateful to still be here. It’s better having a friend to lean on than being holed up in an actual hostel with sweet fuck all to do and no one to talk to. Jesus, what would I be doing now if I had actually made it down to Seville or Granada?
I bought a solar charger today that might keep my tablet running for a while longer. If in doubt I still have my thick ol’ notebook to write in. That’s the one I’ve mostly been writing in because it’s nice to sit on a train with a notebook instead of staring into a computer screen. It also means that I’m a lot more focussed and not playing games or surfing the Internet.
There’s no printer here. There is at the local Internet café and at the university. My mission tomorrow is to print out a tonne of survival cheat sheets, maps, how to cook food, how to find food, how to learn Morse code, how to say basic phrases in other languages. I’m going to keep those on me in a plastic sleeve at all times. And I’ll see if I can pick up an SAS Survival Handbook. We used to have one in the bathroom back home. It was great taking a dump while reading up on how to make a bow and arrow. Kinda wished I had paid more attention to that.
I’ve asked Rachel to torrent every zombie film known to man. What would normally have 20 seeds now has it in the thousands. It seems like I’m not the only one who’s getting in on this. The problem is there are hundreds of zombie films listed. Fuck it, let’s try and get them all. It’ll be a lottery of what finishes first. I don’t do many things well, but I can cram like no one else.
Part 5.
Mum called. She and Dad are still fine but it’s now dark. Everyone has moved forward a few hundred metres but they’ve stopped again. Mum was asleep in the car and Dad was dozing at the wheel with the engine was off. He kept waking up to see if the cars in front had moved forward. It’s going to be a long and awful night for them. I wish they stayed home but Mum was afraid. She kept telling me she loved me as though she’s never going to see me again. They had to turn off the radio because it became too depressing. Even the announcers were aware of it so they decided to only do updates on the hour.
You would think that some of the American networks would ease back on the fear mongering, but no. Just about every video has a, ‘Is This The Apocalypse?’ written in bold yellow. Apparently there are experts to weigh in. I wonder if their credentials are any better than mine.
It doesn’t take long before the discussion turns to: ‘How will this affect the election?’ Well, Jim, if the military didn’t have a blank cheque written for them every year then this will certainly guarantee it. It’s good thing I’m twenty three and not sixty three because why would they pay my pension when the money could go to better things like a new anti-personnel vehicle?
I suppose this kind of crass news presentation does actually have a comforting appeal to it. If they’re playing their usual brainless strategy of getting as many ratings as possible then everything is running as normal. It’s when they start to go with ‘Everything Is Okay’ … that’s when we need to worry.
I asked Ediz about the zombie situation. He patted his wallet and said, “Way ahead of you, buddy.” I didn’t quite follow. “I wrote a note in case I get bitten. It has the address of who to take me to.”
“Your parents?”
“Nah, the guy who used to beat me up in high school.”
I need to steal every joke he has.
21 July
I’m over staying my welcome. We’re all crammed in this one apartment with no real privacy and no idea of when any of us can leave the city. I arrived nine days ago and hoped to stay for a week at most. Realistically I was going to stay for five days. Even though it’s the start of a zombie outbreak and Rachel is being really cool about me staying here, everyone is in a mood with each other. We’re boxed in here lik
e it’s a perpetual traffic jam, sitting around, waiting for the news that our homes have been overrun with the dead. No one in the apartment works. Most are students who study Spanish for a couple of hours a day then they come home, so usually there are nine people in the one apartment at any given time. There’s always someone in the bathroom or kitchen. There’s three people always trying to use the stove so you have to become a master of a one-pot meal or you cook in bulk at weird hours of the day and store everything in a fridge that can’t possibly hold any more food.
Speaking of which! Katy found a weird smell coming from the fridge so she roped Derek into clearing it out with her and ditching anything that had expired. They lined everything up on the small table as a showcase of their cleaning efforts. There were containers of mayonnaise and cheese that had expired two years ago. Food with names on it from people no one here have heard of. Some kind of pasta and pesto combination that made us gag. Raw chicken that had gone grey. And despite packing the table with crap that has to be thrown out, there’s still no space in the fridge.
You can hear every conversation through the walls. Some nutjobs here are morning people, most are night owls, so there’s only about a three hour gap in the day when everyone is asleep. The moment the first person is up they’re banging something or running a shower and leaving doors open that slam shut in the breeze.
Right outside our window there’s a big crane jackhammer thing that’s knocking down a building across the road from us. That starts at seven in the morning with a ka-kunk, ka-kunk, ka-buuuuuuuh, ku-ku-ku, ka-kunk, and on it goes. It never fucking stops! If the window is open you get a dust storm slapping you in the face. If it’s closed you start melting from the heat.
Rush hour traffic seems to last all day. They love honking here. It’s like they beep their horns instead of using indicators. Beep! “Everyone get out of my way, I’m about to change lanes!” Beep! “I gave you plenty of warning, buddy!” Beep! “Get off the road, I have places to be!”
Cristina finally snapped at the French kids. So far they’ve demonstrated zero life skills. They burn the most basic of foods, they don’t clean up after themselves, they don’t know how much they’ve drunk. I don’t know if Cristina is bracing herself for what’s about to come – that we’re all going to have to run for it one day and survive on our own – but already we’ve had whispered conversations about what we would actually do. If Cristina has to mother three French kids who can’t take care of themselves then there’s a chance that she’s mentally divorcing herself from them. How the hell those three are going to survive on their own is a mystery. I can barely remember what I was capable of when I was sixteen. I couldn’t drive, I wouldn’t ask for help if I was lost, and I was stuck pining over some girl who knew I existed but didn’t actually care if she ever saw me again.
Michael has twisted his ankle. He was out for a run (which is a terrible idea if people are all on edge about seeing sprinting zombies) and came back hobbling. Apparently he didn’t see a step and took a tumble. He says he’s been trying to get back into shape. I bet he’s going to regret that run if the zombies come today.
There are only two topics of conversation here. The first is how fucking tired we all are, how little we slept, and that we’re blaming it on the heat. The second topic is the obvious. Shops are closing early, the police are everywhere, the CDC have arrived in St. Petersberg, and the news for some reason hasn’t been reporting on the infected and quarantined Russian soldiers which is suspicious.
There is petrol rationing now. Trucks need special permits to travel and need to be checked before entering the city.
We’re all on a constant rotation of water bottles in the freezer. Finish one, fill it up, put it in the freezer. Take one from the freezer, put it against your neck, scull it, fill it up, put it in the freezer.
I finished 28 Days Later. Lessons learned: avoid going through tunnels. Mountain bikes are a good mode of transport. Entire cities might burn out of control if no one is there to put out the fire.
Rachel just came in in tears. She’s been trying to call her mum in London with no luck. She’s refreshing the news page every thirty seconds waiting for an update. The last update was four hours ago. She’s convinced that something has happened since then. She’s packed her bag and has her shoelaces loosened and open by her door in case she has to leave in a hurry.
I’ve been sitting here with nothing to do. The only thing on a constant loop in my mind is: what happens, if by the end of the day, the entire city has turned into the undead and you’re left here, locked behind a door, being as quiet as possible like in a submarine movie, hoping that none of them can hear or smell you? I’d have to creep to the bathroom and kitchen in my socks, but I wouldn’t be able to use the bathroom because they might hear me, so I’d have to find someway of getting rid of urine and shit without drawing any attention to me. And then the day will come when I open the fridge and it is completely empty. I will have to make a break for it. I’ll try busting into the other apartments, but how will I know if they’re occupied by others like me? They’ll be moving around as quietly as possible as well, maybe carrying a knife with them at all times in case someone like me comes along.
I won’t ever know how many zombies are lining the streets. I won’t know where they are if they’re just slumping around. They might be one street over, wandering about with no purpose, just waiting for that one tell tale sound that screams: HUMAN! It might be something as simple as me crunching over broken glass, having to climb over two cars that have crashed into each other, or something out of my control like plastic cup rattling over the pavement as the wind sends it my way.
The military will have blockades on every road heading out of the city. They’ll have snipers and machine guns ready to mow down the wandering undead. I’ll have to put my faith in some sniper to not shoot me. And I’ll have to put my faith in some colonel issuing orders based on info that are for his eyes only. From what I’ve heard, snipers aren’t exactly the most compassionate of people, they’re just in a competition with each other to see who can get the most kill shots. So, do I stay in the city and outwit a million zombies or do I take my chances with a high-school dropout that’s picked me up in his scope from a mile away?
“Huh, the zombies are learning to walk around with their hands in the air.”
BANG!
“Damn dude, nice shot!”
“Cheers.”
I have a headache that won’t seem to leave me alone.
Part 2.
I tried calling my folks but there was no answer. I sent them a message and I won’t call until they respond. The problem with thirteen people here is that everyone has their phone on loud and there are multiple calls every day so everyone jumps at their phone as soon as they hear the same annoying ringtone. I just wish they would change it to something different.
Part 3.
I was sitting in the kitchen having a late night snack with Ediz when the French girl came in. She was wearing one of the guy’s t-shirts and it came down past her hips, but she wasn’t wearing anything else. Literally, nothing else. She started rummaging through the fridge and the cupboards, looking for a snack. Ediz and I were gawking at her the whole time. We invited her down to join us at the table. Her t-shirt was loose enough for us to see down her top and after a while she forgot to keep her legs crossed. I know it’s weird because we’ve seen her in all her glory up on the roof, but there seems to be something different about sneaking in a glance when a girl is dressed and seeing something awesome, compared to seeing a girl sunbathing while nude. Or maybe guys are just weird. Thankfully, none of the other people in the apartment came to interrupt us or else we would have looked like dirty old pervs.
22 July
It’s the French girl’s birthday today. She’s seventeen. Yep, I feel dirty and old for having stared at her for so long. Her skin has improved and she’s celebrating with a couple of drinks. She’s weary about going up to the roof and I don’t blame her.
None of us are getting much sleep still. There are twenty phone calls a day so at best we might get an hour of uninterrupted sleep. The coffee is on a constant rotation.
The heat, though. What the Jesus titty fucking Christ is up with the heat? How did anyone even think to settle in the middle of the desert? Was it to escape invaders? Perhaps the Moors conquered the south of Spain and decided that going farther into the desert was just too much hassle. So obviously the locals set up camp right here hundreds of years ago and stuck their tongues out at the aggressors and built a city here because no one in their right mind would come along and tell them to move! I’m English! I’m not built for this! My people have not left our fields and drizzle for thousands of years! It’s where I belong, not sitting in ball soup every hour of the day. I should’ve come here in the spring before this misery kicked in.
The situation, shall we say, is reported to be getting better. They still don’t have a cure (they’re dead and they came back to life. They’re not going to magically be cured of the deadness no matter how much money people throw at funding research) and there’s no vaccine (though they are ‘looking into it’), but they have isolated and quarantined certain areas around the world. So far everything is working out. The confirmed death toll: 3,450 (world wide). The confirmed number of resurrected: 4,200.