Last Words

by Jackson Lear

  Isn’t clearing the air a wonderful thing?

  So we’re all trying to get to different countries. Ediz wants to go back to Turkey, Cristina wants to get back to Italy, and Rachel and I want to go back to England. We got kicked out of the airport so who knows when any of that will happen.

  As I was going through my pack and laying it all out for everyone to see I found an old snowboarding pass from when I was nineteen from Canada. That wasn’t so bad, but it did give Cristina a chance to say: “See? You’ve been carrying that around and who knows what else you’ve got in there that you’re not even aware of.” I found a 256MB camera memory card and I have no idea how long that’s been in there for. If it was 256GB it might be a little more useful, but only megabytes? I found a couple of mangled tissues and an empty Panadol wrapper. Aside from that, the backpack had been adequately slimmed down.

  My wallet, however, was embarrassing. There were three condoms in there that expired a year ago. Two of the packs had been rubbed open and were dry. There’s an emergency £20 tucked away in case I need to take a taxi home from somewhere. There’s an old library card from my previous address, a return ticket for the Tube that’s still unused, a student ID that expired a year and a half ago - seriously, what the hell am I doing with that? - a key to my old flat that I swore to my roommates I didn’t have, which ended up costing me a couple of pounds to get a new one cut or risk losing our deposit, a receipt from a bar tab that I paid for and the lads were supposed to reimburse me for (they didn’t), and a mish-mash of currencies. There’s of course my usual ID, driver’s license, bank card, and gym membership that I probably should have cancelled months ago. The rest is absolutely unnecessary.

  Cristina was right. I have been carrying a lot of crap with me. Now it’s gone. Thankfully she was impressed with my printed maps (I have one of Gibraltar and the surrounding area, plus one of Seville). She also liked my list of phrases in other languages and the skills I’ve been brandishing about, like how to light a fire, how to perform first-aid. I have a kit. No one else does. That puts me firmly in the ‘essential’ category. No more human shield for me!

  Rachel had a good laugh at me when I pulled out my condoms. I kinda wish I had been able to do that in private, but no, we were all doing this at the same time so no one could sneak anything by the others. Drugs, I’m guessing, in case someone gets searched. Despite our desperate need to share everything we are still being as private as possible. They all had similar stuff to me, things that have been hiding there for years. Ediz swears that from now on he’s only going to pack two shirts, two trousers and two pairs of shorts.

  Rachel found an earring in her pack that she lost years ago. She also found her return ticket to England which should have been used yesterday. That’s sent her into a mild nervous panic. She’s hoping someone will still honour it and send her home. No one has talked about what happens when we all need to separate, because that situation will come up eventually. Obviously if Cristina can get to Italy then she should go, even if we can’t go with her. The same with Ediz. I’d rather not think about what will happen if there’s only one seat left on an England-bound flight and that it’ll be the last flight for a month. Maybe we’ll flip a coin.

  No, Rachel should go. She let me stay at her place for much longer than either of us expected. And I kinda have to do that stupid manly thing of women and children first. I abandoned her once, the day of the Atocha riot. I can’t really leave her behind again.

  Anyway, Cristina said the point of the exercise today was that we should be willing to open up our bags to anyone, especially anyone of authority, to allow us to move on quickly. The more crap we have, the longer it’ll take to search us. And as a final note, she suggested that we each go through someone else’s bag. I declined, so did Ediz, so did Rachel, since we’d all seen what we’re all carrying. There’s no need to go through someone else’s sweaty used clothes looking for contraband.

  It’s a weird thing, really. We’re actively living through a zombie outbreak. You would think that everyone in sight would be shagging like bunnies because it’s the end of the world, but no. We’re hot, sweaty, sleep deprived, and have been on full-blown stress mode for almost two weeks now. Showers are infrequent. The only music we have to set the mood is whatever was on our mp3 players. I’ve found that Slayer doesn’t help to explode knickers from a girl. Pink Floyd might. I have seven hours worth of a storm from inside a cathedral, but that’s to drown out a train ride or some arsehole snoring nearby.

  There’s certainly no space for romance since we’re in each other’s faces all the time. The only candlelit dinner is because the power’s off. The massages are because we’ve strained a muscle. There isn’t enough wine in the world to convince any of us that we aren’t frustrated, bored, sweaty, dehydrated, tired, in agony, and in desperate need for a spa. Rachel and Cristina both went to the bathroom and later threw out their razors, so I’m guessing now is the last time to seduce them before it’s bush central. But, honestly, I’m so exhausted I probably couldn’t get it up if they were both willing to go through with a threesome.

  I see a lot of post-traumatic stress on everyone’s faces. Having said that, it wouldn’t be post-traumatic, since we’re still in the traumatic environment. It’s just ‘stress’. They can probably see it on my own. It’s hard to sleep and not just because of the heat. I wake up at the slightest creek thinking that the police or army are here for me. I’m less concerned about the zombies wandering around. No idea why. It just doesn’t seem real. In the tunnel I saw someone die right in front of me and I keep thinking I should’ve helped them. There was a gurgling sound from the blood. I can still hear it and the shouting, “Hey! HEY!” when he realised what was happening to him. Then came more of a grunting kind of sound. It wasn’t from the zombie. The guy being attacked ran out of things to say and was simply shouting some kind of noise like a gasp. It was the shock of realising that something was trying to eat him alive.

  Whenever I drift off fully to sleep I wake up thinking that I’m supposed to help or that someone is pushing me to help - literally pushing me. Either I’m there as an unqualified medic or, yeah, a human shield. Either way I’m the next person in line to be attacked. It’s just the noise I can’t get away from.

  I’ve had conversations with friends about a bar room brawl, that I will jump in if someone needs me and I expect them to do the same. The worst that will happen is someone glassing you in the face. There was never a conversation about what to do if a zombie has you. Probably because we all know that it’s every man for himself.

  I wake up and immediately try to remember where my pack is. I curse myself for not having it closer. I’ve fallen asleep with it in another room far too many times. I leave it to go and have a shower. What if that’s when I need it the most?

  There’s something in me that seems to have been switched off as well, namely caring about things (otherwise known as emotions). I seem to be just in action mode, hearing about horrendous things and not caring about them, like the good old British way of doing things. Lalla seems to have suffered the opposite problem, caring about everything, which in an apocalypse is not a great approach.

  It’s around this time that I’m seriously missing the likes of Indiana Jones to save the day. Or better yet, The Doctor! He can whisk us all away in the TARDIS and solve the zombie epidemic all in one go.

  Just in case anyone finds this diary and I am incapable of saying it, please feed me a giant burger and chips with melted Danish blue cheese on both the burger and chips, no gerkins, no beetroot, no egg, just the buns, lettuce, burnt onion, patty, bacon, and Danish blue cheese. To go with that, I’ll start with a pint of lager, move on to a coke, and wrap it up with a cappuccino.

  And if anyone is feeling generous with that request, please also provide a foot rub.

  You wouldn’t believe how much waiting around there is during an apocalypse. Maybe I should buy a pair of knitting needles to while away the time. It certainly worked for
my gran.

  7 August

  The other day there was no transport of any kind, now they’re making up for lost time. There are trains everywhere, buses galore, and all the roads are now open. No planes though, it’s all inter-Spain. You could hear cheers and cries of joy all from over the city when the news was first announced. I’m not sure why, I assume most people live here. Maybe they’re just tired of all the tourists lounging around, clogging up their train stations and airports. I am sick of that as well. Stupid tourists. They’re everywhere I look.

  The government finally caved. Food was more of an issue. It really was a bone-headed idea to lock everyone in with only a handful of dead people disrupting the peace. I mean, there are something like fifty million people in this country and probably less than fifty zombies walking around. It hardly seems fair to punish everyone. But that is quite the typical knee-jerk reaction we’ve seen from governments as of late. The borders are still closed, though.

  We’re on a bus now, heading to Gibraltar. Lalla and Azeem are with us. In theory we should just be able to walk across the border. If not, maybe we can swim there.

  I think someone behind me just threw up from travel sickness.

  Part 2.

  Roads are closed. We’re turning back to Seville. We were only on the road for half an hour.

  8 August

  The Spanish President, Hernandez something, just came on TV and blew our minds. He admitted trying to silence the media regarding this ‘outbreak’ (he avoided all words relating to ‘dead’, ‘horror’, ‘zombie’ and ‘riots’). He tried to explain his actions as in keeping with the rest of Europe, that they thought they were dealing with a medical outbreak that spread like the flu with some unusual symptoms. The sick walked around in delirium, in a semi-catatonic state, stopping only once in a while to speak to people.

  The part that blew our minds was that he confirmed that these people were speaking in unison, not as some sort of cult or hoax, but were doing it all over the world. In the same voice. Literally the same voice. So somewhere in the world is a guy speaking telepathically and his voice is coming out of every zombie still standing. They’re trying to identify the owner of the voice.

  Let me just say how many fucking nightmares that’s going to give me. Someone might actually be telepathic. Someone might actually be able to speak through dead people. Someone is using their skills to say ‘surrender’.

  Fuck. I just …

  How the hell am I going to sleep tonight knowing that there is a telepathic madman out there commanding a horde of zombies?

  Is it the Devil? Everyone around me seems to think it is.

  Hernandez then gave us the official figures from around Europe. Despite my language barrier it’s still pretty easy to see a flag of a country next to a number of presumably walking deceased.

  Spain – 231

  France – 612

  Germany – 179

  Italy – 21

  Portugal – 232

  UK – 1,003

  Canada – 78

  US – 740

  What the hell has happened in England? Over a thousand? How could a country that’s been on full alert after terror attacks and student protests and economic meltdown protests have managed to lose over a thousand people? Is it the same for the other countries, only they’re not reporting the actual truth? How can Italy be doing so well compared to her neighbours? I’m calling bullshit on Italy right now, those figures can’t be right.

  Either way though, everything is significantly worse today than it was yesterday. Yesterday we had a chance at flying out of here. Now? No way. England is under quarantine. They’re not letting anyone in.

  The BBC said there was a curfew in major cities and cameras were being set up to catch any more of the infected. The military has been mobilised and is on almost every street corner.

  Oh, and get this … our delightful Prime Minister has effectively ended every military occupation that England is going through right now. Seeing that home is much more of an important issue than fighting in the Middle East and Eastern Africa he’s announced plans to immediately bring all the troops home so they can go on active duty to protect England from within. The flights began yesterday but the bulk of troops won’t start leaving their locations for another two months. We’re abandoning the countries we ripped apart. And he wants us to leave the European Union so they can take care of things on their own!

  America, meanwhile, is saying that their commitment in these regions is still strong. You know how you have to occupy a country to stamp out communism and terrorism? Well, you have to do the same for zombies.

  A thousand people in England. Jesus. How are they going to deal with a thousand rabid people with one voice? If they all have the same telepathic madman guiding them then there will be a plan. An objective. They’ll go after the Houses of Parliament. They’ll go after the Royal Family. They’ll throw themselves at military bases and power plants until everyone has run out of bullets. They’ll shut the country down and bring it to its knees. And then what? Turn us all? Lure us under the false promise of safety? Box us in and then let one zombie go crazy on us?

  11 August

  With flying to England something of an impossibility right now, we’re on our way to Gibraltar. Azeem and Lalla are still with us. We’re walking. That’s right, we’re walking two hundred kilometres to Gibraltar in the middle of the Spanish summer through something that feels like a desert. We’re not the only ones this crazy either. There are around fifty people in our group. A couple of cyclists zip by every now and then. Even the cheapest of bikes probably cost a thousand euro these days.

  I’ve walked by a sign that has various destinations in kilometres. I keep thinking it’s in miles and that we still have to go farther than that. God, that depresses me. Then I remember I’m not in England (you’d think all of this sunlight would be a reminder), then I perk up. Kilometres are shorter than miles! Then I remember that two hundred of anything is still really fucking far. It’s the entire width of Ireland.

  No buses are running. They’re out of petrol. Because of the whole country going into shut down, no one was delivering any petrol, or at least not enough of it. Everyone else has stocked up and is saving it for an emergency. The price has tripled since I arrived, now standing at €5 a litre.

  The trains aren’t much help either. Most are on a reduced schedule, despite a previous build up of activity. They’re saying that some of the tracks have been damaged or vandalised. There were images of zombies on the tracks smacking them with axes or clubs, trying to break them apart. Even if that happened in just one location it’s managed to shut everything else down because no one is willing to risk overlooking a missing section of track and cause a couple of hundred deaths, especially when there aren’t enough ambulances or hospital beds available. Any casualty would quickly become an abandoned fatality.

  So that leaves walking. We all chipped in to buy a tarp, some cord, and a couple of collapsible poles. We’re all walking whenever it is cool enough to do so. We stop at 10am and quickly set ourselves up in a camp, then hide under the tarp like it’s a tent. Then we sweat out the day until 4pm. It doesn’t get much cooler at night but at least we’re out of the harshest of the sun. We then walk again for as long as possible. Some people keep going when others stop, some need frequent breaks.

  As soon as we sit down I cook up a batch of rice. And by ‘cook’ I mean: pour a cup of rice and two cups of water into a pot, leave it in the sun for half an hour, and hope for the best. Rachel took the salt and pepper shakers from the apartment in Callao. Thank god she did because this mushy slush that can barely be considered rice needs all the flavouring it can get. I share what I have with the others and get to work making a second batch, because one cup of rice does not go far with six people. If any of the shops are open in Gibraltar I’ll try to pick up some curry paste.

  This is our second day. It’s the middle of the afternoon and most of my handwriting is smudged with sweat.
We were unable to sleep for the middle six hours yesterday because people kept talking around us, or walking by. Sometimes we’d hear trucks honking on their horn to make sure no one was walking onto the road. We did hear a slam on the brakes, quickly followed by a lot of gasps and shrieks. None of us were willing to see what happened. I’m guessing there is at least one less person in the world after that mishap.

  We then walked for a few hours, rested, walked some more, rested, and collapsed in agony at around 11pm. The six of us slept until dawn, then we got back to it. 200 kilometres from Seville to Gibraltar: it will take us at least four days to walk, probably five.

  There are a few non-Spanish people with us. Some are Spaniards trying to get home to their families, or just to get to somewhere else, but at least half of us are from elsewhere. I heard a Welsh accent this morning but didn’t say anything. I’m thinking now it might be a good idea to talk to more people to see if they can help me and Rachel. I have to remember to be more proactive. Someone in this pack can help me, I know it.

  Two hundred kilometres with a backpack. By foot. Kill me now.

  Part 2.

  Rachel just grabbed onto me and made me promise never to leave her alone. Someone in earshot has given her a bad feeling, but I don’t know who. A few days ago she and Cristina were wary of me after I helped to drag Lalla out of the bathroom. They’ve both had a couple of meltdowns since the walk began. Cristina has shouted at me a couple of times. Not sure why.

  Rachel has timing, I’ll give her that. I was just about to go off and find the Welsh guy when Rachel began blubbering. Half an hour later Cristina needed to pee so she brought Rachel and Lalla with her. I had to stand on guard, with my back turned and facing the sweltering sun with enough sweat dripping into my eyes to blind me. We all brought our backpacks. Cristina was using hers as a shield from the crowd of onlookers who weren’t all that interested in giving her some privacy.