Last Words

by Jackson Lear

  A dog just ran along in between all of the cars. It earned a smile from a couple of us, but not from Lalla.

  I bet that dog ends up showing more compassion and camaraderie than most of the people blazing their horns and shouting at everyone else stuck in traffic. I bet most people would prefer to be kept company by an unknown dog than an unknown person. At least with a dog you know it won’t try to cheat you out of money or food.

  Cristina is saying she misses her dog.

  I want Basil to be okay. I’ve missed him more than I’ve missed some of my friends. At least with them I know I’ll see them again regardless of how bad this gets. Even if they’re in some camp on the outskirts of London trying to rebuild civilisation, I’ll see them again. But Basil is an escape artist extraordinaire. If Clint is forced to leave the flat and can’t find him in time then Basil will be on his own. He might be locked inside or left out to fend for himself. If Clint is smart about it he’ll leave a window open so Basil can still climb in and out. But how much foresight will Clint have with my fucking cat? Even after a year he still has to ask me when bin day is.

  Lalla just said she’s allergic to dogs. Bravo, Lalla. Way to go. Maybe if Cristina has to choose between saving a dog’s life and saving yours, we’ll see who wins out.

  I had a dream the other night about Alana. She told me she loved me, like she was telling me for the first time. It brought along a surge of ‘I love you too’ that I haven’t been able to shake. Maybe staring out of this window will help me forget about her.

  Fuck! A guy got flattened on the road just in front of us. I wasn’t even looking at anything in particular. I heard a motorbike drive past my window. A guy got out of the driver’s seat to see what was going on up ahead and the bike hit him. The nearby drivers and passengers are all out of their cars, looking over the two guys. Some of the passengers have their hands over their mouths in shock. Others are looking away.

  Ediz is telling us not to look.

  Carlos senior just turned off the engine. We won’t be moving for a while.

  There’s no way to get an ambulance in through all of this. They’ll have to come along the other side of the motorway and walk through the traffic.

  According to the radio, the Atocha riots have spread to the rest of Madrid. Forty people are now dead, having been trampled or shot. People are burning cars and attacking the police, raiding shops and supermarkets.

  It’s no longer a traffic jam, it’s a road block. We’re twenty kilometres to Cordoba, which is about eighty kilometres from Seville. The army is checking every car. We’re all feeling pretty edgy here. Rachel just asked if we should leave the van and go on foot, over the motorway and away from the cars. No one knows. Are they looking for foreigners or for zombies? I hope their priorities are now looking for zombies.

  Rachel and I have been talking about getting our asses to Gibraltar. It’s still a British colony and since we’re both British citizens they should let us in. Azeem and Lalla want to head in that direction as well. They’re hoping to get a boat to Morocco. Cristina and Ediz have been rather quiet about what they should try and do.

  It’s as hot as an oven in the van and we’re all dripping sweat onto each other. The radio is the only thing keeping us company and everyone is fidgeting in the heat, fighting a losing battle against sweat rash, and trying to get away from the sun as it creeps in through the windows. No one wants to risk getting sunburned.

  Lalla just told us she needs a wee. We don’t know how long we’re going to be here for. We’ve seen lots of people getting out of their cars and pissing on the motorway, but Lalla sounds terrified even thinking about doing that in public.

  Cristina sighed and just agreed to help Lalla and keep her company. We checked all around the van to make sure no one was about to run them over. Lalla got out and squatted at the front of the van. Cristina stood watch while a couple of guys in a car next to us gawked, laughed, and honked their horn. Cristina didn’t even bother to glare at them. I guess Lalla is having trouble with public exhibition.

  It’s making me want to piss as well.

  Aside from that, we’ve been eating canned pineapple slices.

  It’s getting dark. That’s when the bad shit seems to happen. That’s when the dead catch up to us. How are we going to know where to run to during a traffic jam? If these things are sprinters and we’re pinned here on a motorway then they’re going to catch us with no problem. Even if we stay inside the van they’ll tip it on its side, smash the windows open, and rip our arms off.

  We haven’t turned on the engine in two hours.

  The radio said that a lot of other cities in Spain had to re-open after riots. People were too hungry and desperate to sit still with no trucks coming in. The President threatened to militarise the whole operation or something like that to force the trucks to move if they didn’t do it on their own.

  It’s quiet inside the van. Outside is a different story. People are blasting their horns and shouting at the unmoving traffic. We’ve been at a standstill for a couple of hours and people are still blasting their horns. Whhhhhhy? Is it because doing anything is better than doing nothing? Maybe they’re the type of morons who say, “Hey, at least I’m trying to get the traffic moving along.”

  I looked over at one honker and glared at him. He gave me the finger.

  I bet there are already tree-hugger activists trying to protect the formerly dead, fighting for their rights, saying that they can be saved and returned to normal, or that they are normal. ‘They’re just infected with a disease.’ At some point there has to be a limit. What happens if someone who is severely mentally handicapped has less function than the recently deceased? What happens if a non-human becomes more capable than even the lowest of humans? Would they still have some concept of bravery and honour? Believing in something greater? I can’t imagine even the smartest of dogs believe in something greater like an afterlife. Animals do pretty much five things: hunt, brawl, eat, sleep, mate. I doubt zombies are able to mate. They are more like scavengers than hunters. Do they even sleep? That pretty much leaves them brawling and eating.

  Huh, maybe we should round them up and use them to clear minefields.

  Carlos senior has a friend of a friend who lives near Gibraltar. He said it’s looking good. Maybe we can find a hotel or a hostel there. We’re certainly going to need one. Rachel offered Cristina, Ediz, Azeem, and Lalla the option to come with us to Gibraltar. They’re thinking about it.

  We’re still in the traffic jam.

  My headache is back. I’m out of water. And I can’t stop thinking about all the horrible ways of dying at the hands of a zombie, only to then return with the awareness that I’m dead but completely unable to stop chasing after my friends and ripping them apart as well.

  2 August

  The great exodus has begun. We made it to Seville, though Carlos senior suggested that we hitchhikers cross into town on foot, since he doesn’t want to be arrested for trafficking people. That caused a bit of a stink, since we are all in Spain legally and should be able to move from one city to another, but the fight was mostly between the two Carlos’. No one else was willing to weigh in all that much, since we just had a free ride out of Madrid as it was falling to riots and zombies.

  So we walked the final stretch into Seville, which took an hour and a half. Senior drew us a map and some directions in case we wanted to find his house.

  Guess what - Seville has phone reception. I called my folks, they’re fine. There are riots in London. They saw the news. The riots in Madrid were nothing compared to what’s been happening around Victoria Station. There are police at every Tube station, scanning people as they enter and exit. It’s just a quick temperature scanner but already people are refusing. It’s clashing against their rights, but the dumb ones start shouting and being abusive so the police arrest them. Mostly it sounds like the people being arrested are the ‘No one tells me what to do’ type.

  Could you imagine the stupidity of those people
? “Welcome to your first day on the job. Here’s a form so we can get your bank details, address, and emergency contact. Fill this in and pop on over to Janine so you can get a scan card that lets you into the building.”

  “No one tells me what to do.”

  “Riiiight. Do you actually want to work here?”

  “Of course. But no one tells me what to do.”

  “You have an entry level position. And with that attitude you’re always going to have an entry level position. Fill this in.”

  Jump forward to the end of the world.

  “Those things are still out there. Who’s going to take the first watch?”

  “Dave can.”

  “The fuck I will.”

  “I took first watch last night. It’s you’re turn.”

  “No one tells me what to do.”

  “Dave, cooperation is the key to survival.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have all elected Phil as the leader when no one wants to cooperate with him.”

  And that’s how Dave is left to fend for himself. One day he might even father a child and teach that little tyke the wisdom of being a douchebag. Both Dave and Dave junior will be glass-half-empty arseholes who complain that the world is always out to get them.

  Anyway. The PM has talked about installing automatic full body scanners all over England. That worked so well with the TSA, didn’t it? We’ll have perverts seeing people’s outlines as if they’re walking around without clothes on. The PM has assured us that these scanners are not capable of recording images, that they’re for people’s safety, and that they will reduce the need for a police presence, which is bullshit. The police will be required to protect the scanners because people will just smash them if they’re left unattended. And, what’s the point in having scanners if you can’t arrest someone immediately who is dead, almost dead, or about to kill someone? Somehow the PM forgot to mention that titbit. It’s like a burglar alarm at home. Yes, it will go off if there’s an intruder, but it still takes the police at least ten minutes to get there. By then the intruder has either killed you or run off with your laptop and all your phones.

  My folks wired me some money, enough for a couple of plane tickets. They did it without me asking. I have my own money, but I’m grateful they are still looking out for me. We had friends caught after one of the big Japanese earthquakes and the airlines hiked up the fares, six or seven times the normal cost, so my folks figured that, just because I have some money doesn’t mean I could afford a price-gouging ticket. There are also quarantine measures at the airports, where everyone who has been in an affected country must see a doctor. Everyone who has been in an infected city must be sectioned off. At least if I make it back to England I’ll be able to speak the same language.

  When I make it back. Not if.

  Azeem just called Carlos again to see what’s been happening. Carlos, now safe and secure at home, has been checking the news. The airport in Seville has become something of a refugee camp. When flights were permitted to resume a couple of days ago there wasn’t enough fuel for all the planes, so the airlines cancelled half the flights and raised the ticket prices on the remainder five-fold. Some people have been at the airport waiting for a flight for over a week.

  I’ve tried to make a friend out of Azeem. We’re all sticking together, which is good to see. Azeem seems to have a plan. He and Lalla will try to get back to Morocco, which is about a hundred kilometres away. It’s certainly closer than any of the rest of us. He said we can stay with him if we have to. He owns a nice house, he says. His brother lives there rent-free and only has to pay the bills and maintain the property, so Azeem will come in and declare that we all have a bed or a sofa to sleep on. Rachel isn’t so sure. It means we’ll be heading in the wrong direction if we want to be heading back to England, and getting back to England is something we desperately want to do. We’re done with Spain. Being trapped in your own flat is a lot nicer than being trapped in someone else’s, where you don’t speak the language and you are having to be ridiculously gracious for every meal you receive.

  I haven’t eaten properly in over a week. God I miss burgers, chips, and pizza. I just want to see a big, juicy steak. Medium-well done, the size of my plate, stuffed with cheese, and served with a side of herb fries. Forget the veggies. Next to that will be a tall glass of lager. Next to that will be a buxom wench who laughs at my stupid jokes. Next to her will be the buxom wench’s twin sister.

  We have water and supplies now. We got water from a fountain and found a store that was still open. It was tough being in there, though. I was staring at a pack of Maltesers for five minutes. All the while there was a voice in the back of my head saying, “You can’t afford that. You need to be very careful with your money.” So I went and stared at some toilet paper, trying to decide which of the 3-ply options will last the longest. I couldn’t even get the best value because I can’t carry around 24 rolls with me under my arm. My backpack is already stuffed to the brim. The six of us settled on splitting a 12 pack and carrying 2 rolls each. It was more expensive than the 24 pack but we just don’t have the space for 4 rolls each.

  I found an ATM ten minutes after leaving the store and am loaded up now with cash, but still … how the hell did something as simple as chocolate and toilet paper get the better of me like that?

  Ah. Azeem just told us that he lives in Rabat, a hundred and fifty kilometres south of the Mediterranean. Ediz and Cristina just shook their heads.

  I’m not sure where we’re sleeping tonight.

  Part 2.

  I love the Italians!

  We were all sitting in the shade of a bullring (nice building, actually), near the river, when Cristina heard a group of Italians talking. She ran over and started talking to them. They came over and said ciao, told us they are Italian teachers in Seville and they invited us to spend the night on their floor. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s indoors with air conditioning! Holy fuck is it hot in Seville. Do you have any idea what it’s like carrying a twenty one kilo backpack through the sweltering heat? It’s crippling. Rachel has an eighteen kilo backpack and she’s carrying a lot more weight around her stomach and thighs as well. We swapped packs for a while because the straps around my shoulders were a lot more comfortable than hers. That would have been funny trying to explain that to any police officer who stopped and searched us, given that I was now carrying a lot of bras and knickers.

  The Italians here are awesome. There are three of them in this house, while three more live down the road. I can’t actually remember who lives where. One of the Italians had invited her parents to visit. They’ve cooked as though they expected twenty people to show up, instead of just the eight Italians. So, there’s plenty of food even with fourteen people eating. It was some kind of ragù dish with meatballs (oh my god they were incredible!) and bread on the side. I’m going to kiss every Italian I see.

  Cristina started crying at one point. She blurted out that she missed her parents. She’s a lot more homesick now than she ever let on. Case in point, she quickly climbed back into her pyjama bottoms. She hasn’t done that since we’ve been on the road. She has always been mostly dressed when trying to sleep as though she’s aware that she may need to run for her life. I guess she feels safe here, surrounded by her kin.

  One of the Italian guys asked to be called Jack, since we couldn’t pronounce his name. His English is excellent. It’s making me feel a little insecure, actually, since here’s a guy who’s fluent in Italian, Spanish, and English. He was joking about Monty Python, asking if I have ever seen it. He said he fell in love with Spain after doing El Camino de Santiago. He said it’s a walk from the farthest tip of Spain all the way to Italy. It took him a couple of months and he really did walk as much as he could. Yikes.

  I took down Jack’s contact info. He made me promise to email him when this whole mess is over. I asked for their thoughts on the situation, whether these creatures have risen from the dead or if they’re suffering from a spectacular viru
s. Jack is certain they are still human. We got into a debate about vampires and zombies. Both are undead, one is mindful the other is mindless. Cristina piped in. She seems to think that if these things are actually dead then they’re a disease from Hell and Satan is somewhere on Earth. If the son of God can walk the Earth as Jesus, then a former angel of God can do the same. She got into a bit of a fight with Jack on that one and it spilled into Italian. I’m glad I kept my mouth shut because it sounded as though Jesus was able to convert many of his followers into mindless creatures and Satan has done the same. I know it’s not exactly like that, but Cristina was saying that Jesus and Satan have been able to do the same thing, only Satan turned his followers into mindless drones that kill everything that isn’t like them. Either way, zombies roaming the Earth does not prove that Satan exists. It only proves that there are zombies.

  Rachel just came in with a weary smile on her face. She dug her thumb into the front of her shorts and pulled them out a few inches. “I’ve lost ten kilos since you arrived!” I went into the bathroom and found the scales. I’ve lost five kilos. I don’t exactly have five kilos to lose! Those were essential kilos!

  The issue currently facing Rachel is that her clothes are too big. Now, being a guy, I don’t quite understand the problem there, you just put on a belt and go baggy. It’s a tried and true method of the fashionably challenged. Rachel doesn’t like that idea. She said she has to keep pulling up her knickers or else they would fall down to her ankles. I’m no scientist, but if she’s wearing shorts then they wouldn’t fall that far. I do appreciate that her bra strap slides down her arms and may be uncomfortable. She was talking about inadequate support. Apparently I should just trust her on this.