Last Words

by Jackson Lear

  Huh, tomorrow morning. I can’t even imagine being home tomorrow morning. I don’t even know if I’ll be home in a week. I should have gone back to work three days ago. And yet here I am, on a completely different continent than the one I started on yesterday, having just spent the last two weeks living under a tarp in a park working for one meal a day.

  Mel said she thought the whole world was going mad because no one here has seen a single zombie in the street. Then again, this is a small town so it would be a little strange to see one wandering about. The locals are unsurpisingly suspicious of us, as though we are the zombies they’ve been warned about. Perhaps they think the end of the world is actually upon us because Europeans have fled to Africa for safety.

  England is closed until further notice. Cristina has offered to take us to Italy so until we get a better offer we’re going with her. Azeem is trying to secure us a boat but we don’t have any money. There are fishing boats but they can’t make the seven hundred mile trip. Taking a plane is also not a good idea because we’d have to do it illegally. I imagine the various governments have now established a ‘shoot down all illegal aircraft’ policy.

  Part 3.

  We all went to the ATM and withdrew money, enough to pay back Mel. She took the cash and splurged on a lot of food. So we paid her again. Now we can eat with a healthy conscience. And holy crap did we gorge ourselves. So fat. So full. I love food. I wish I had more of it. We all shared, eating couscous, strips of fish, nuts, dates and cheese. It was simple food and lots of it because cooking for twenty people in one small apartment isn’t realistic. In the store I grabbed a box of chocolates and a pack of coffee. I don’t care if I have to drink it cold. I don’t care if I have to eat the granules out of the pack with a wet finger. I’m going to have coffee with me at all times. I ate half of the chocolates in one sitting. Oh god it was good.

  We’ve all been talking about the craziness in the world. I want to know why the US took this opportunity to invade Haiti when there are so many more worthwhile countries to go after. Haiti has little strategic or economic value. The only thing that makes sense is that Patient Zero comes from Haiti and they might still be there. The problem is they were bombing a lot of the country. They weren’t trying to isolate someone and check their blood for a cure, they were bombing the fuck out of everything in sight. In the politest wording, they’ve been cleansing the area. The US did something like that in Panama before building the canal, but that was getting rid of mosquitoes to combat malaria.

  The insane theory is that The One Voice is in Haiti and he’s controlling all of the zombies from there. Could it be that the US has declared war on Satan and are about to nuke him?

  We found an underground news source. God bless the Internet. Somewhere there are buildings running on generators or solar panels with servers in the basement contacting the rest of the world. Vigilante groups have sprung up, taking on the zombie scourge. I imagine half of America is rubbing their hands in glee right now, finally able to use their assault rifles and cache of weapons.

  You know all of those ships in millionaire’s row in Monaco? They’re gone. And in Hong Kong? Gone. Most of the marinas and docks are empty. Anyone who’s got a boat large enough to survive this thing is out in the ocean, waiting it out. Just sitting there. Waiting. At least the billionaires on their mega yachts have plenty of entertainment. I wonder what their staff feel, knowing that their friends and families on land are at risk of being quarantined, all the while they’re safe and serving Mr Russian Billionaire his cocktail and watching their resources dwindle. Mr Oligarch will be there, stroking his white cat, watching the world crumble on the news. Then, when the very last zombie has died screaming in a hail of US-led bullets, he can coast back to land and make a fortune rebuilding every city in sight.

  I imagine most of the economies will take a near unrecoverable pounding from this outbreak, but the rich will have resources and contacts and will be able to swoop in with government assistance and buy up half of the world, sit back and run a privatised dictatorship.

  But what the hell do I know? I’m just a poor sap living out of someone’s lounge in Morocco. It’s not like I can do anything about the billions of other people. I can barely control my own life. I’ve spent the last month and a half going with the crowd and relying on other people’s generosity.

  You know what’s awful? I’d probably tell a group of strangers to piss off if they came begging me for help. And hell no, I would not let them stay at my place, go through my fridge, my books and magazines. I’m sure they’re lovely people but I am not an easily trusting person. Maybe it’s the tiredness and stress of the situation. I’m having a hard time caring about other people’s feelings right now.

  Knowing my luck, I’ll be saved by some Russian billionaire who stayed with the plebs on land and have to eat my words. If he gets me back to London and Basil then I don’t really care who I have to thank and kiss.

  In other news, I got to shave for the first time since leaving Seville. I looked like a hobo. I definitely have a tan line around my face where my beard used to be. I look ridiculous. I tried going with the Tony Stark exploded goatee thing. I ended up cutting a notch a little too deep and it was too far gone to be saved. So I went for the Tom Selleck moustache instead. Rachel took one look at me and told me ‘no’. I came back a minute later with the Hitler. She asked if I wanted to be stabbed. I’m now clean shaven.

  I sent a message to everyone I know to say I’m still alive and was trying to get to Gibraltar. I bet someone I know will pull a few strings that will allow me and Rachel to cross the border and be on the first plane home, only I won’t be there any more because I’m in Africa.

  Cristina has promised that when we get to Sicily we can stay with her family for as long as necessary. She keeps talking about them owning a nice villa with a large vegetable garden, so large that they give food to their neighbours because they can’t possibly eat it all. It’s summer so that food is going to be fresh and delicious.

  Part 4.

  One of the neighbours is shouting at Mel. It sounds like Mel is trying to plead with the guy. What are the chances that the police are about to come and arrest a whole bunch of illegal immigrants hiding in Mel’s apartment? We’ve only been here for two hours.

  Part 5.

  Mel has taken Ediz and Cristina out to haggle for a boat. Either we’re buying a boat or chartering one to drop us off in Italy. I … really don’t know how that’s going to go. It’s not like renting a car at the airport where these things are common, this is like renting a car with no documentation while being completely obvious that we are in this country illegally.

  Part 6.

  Mel, Ediz, and Cristina came back. There was no boat available. It’s too far to Italy. We would need a serious vessel to get there and the journey would take several days. I can’t believe I said this out loud, but I suggested we hire or steal a plane. Rachel thought it was a pretty good idea. Cristina agreed. None of us can fly. I mean, we’ve all seen Indiana Jones do it so how hard can it be? Admittedly he had some trouble with landing, and the plane was already flying when he climbed into the cockpit, and, yes, they did crash moments after he got behind the controls, so … yeah, let’s not steal a plane.

  They did come back with something unsettling. There’s a video from the US. The President came on TV and authorised the use of deadly force in Haiti. There’s a coup going on and for some reason the US decided to bomb the fuck out of the place. Why? Ediz says it’s related to our situation, that there are dead people walking around saying the same thing. I can understand zombies taking over the world. I can’t understand zombies staging a coup.

  We’re going to wait out the night and see if we can travel tomorrow, legally or not.

  Of course, before we all went to bed (which at this point is on the floor in Mel’s apartment) the four of us had THE TALK. It’s the general consensus that none of us want to turn into one of them, so who is willing to kill who if it comes to tha
t? I told them under no circumstance was anyone to kill me or try to kill me. My philosophy has always been to hope for the best and live another day. I’ve never been the suicide type. I’m honestly terrified of the idea. It may be bad today and it may be worse tomorrow, but what if I’m still alive in ten years, a changed and better person because I made it through that awful time?

  Rachel, though, said: “If we’re stuck with no way out I’m going to end it my way, not theirs. I don’t want to be responsible for biting anyone and ruining the lives of everyone who knew me.”

  Yaaaaaaaay.

  Please don’t do it until you know for sure. Please. You might be five seconds away from a lucky break that spares your life. You being alive might actually help me be alive. Hell, just having someone else there might be all it takes to keep me going in this fucked up world.

  So we asked for details. The girls didn’t want any mess or any pain. Neither do I for that matter, but a bullet would be better if something is actively breaking down your door compared to taking pills and waiting fifteen minutes for them to take effect. Turns out they’ve been thinking about this for a while. If we’re in lock-down the girls are going to tape a bag over their head and suffocate themselves.

  I understand that Cristina’s a little hysterical and I see her clutching onto her necklace quite often, but she said that now was the time for me to accept that God is real. I hated doing this, but I asked if, on her death bed, she would convert to Islam. She gave me that look where she was about to freak out at me. Thankfully Ediz was there to calm her down so I asked if she was going to die a Catholic because she lived as a Catholic. She said yes. I asked if there was any way she would convert to Islam on her death bed and she said no. So I told her I was going to die an atheist because I lived as an atheist and there was no power anywhere in the universe that was going to make me convert to Islam, Catholicism, Judaism or Taoism moments before I died. I don’t have a soul hiding inside me waiting to be saved. Nor have I been telling the world that I didn’t believe in God when I really did, all because I was pissed off at Him.

  She asked how I could explain the walking dead. Clearly, someone can explain the walking dead and in all likelihood that person is in Haiti. I’m also willing to bet that the White House and Pentagon are throwing all of their resources into finding out what’s making the dead come back to life, so someone there can explain this mess as well. As for me, I can’t explain shit.

  The conversation petered out after that.

  Why the fuck am I in Africa?

  4 September

  My head is killing me. Rachel woke up in the middle of the night hacking her guts up, coughing like she had just smoked a life time’s worth of cigarettes. She’s spent the last hour blowing her nose. So that’s going to be fun, knowing that we’re all about to catch her cold with no access to pain killers. But seriously, my head is in so much agony that the light through the window is nearly blinding me.

  The girls are going out to find a boat. Twelve people got on the bus with Azeem, including Lalla. They’re going to try their luck in Casablanca.

  Part 2.

  I can’t see out of one eye.

  5 September

  I’m working through a migraine. Last night the other three had to have another TALK. What do we do if one of us (me) can’t be moved and our window of opportunity to get out slips away? They agreed to carry me.

  My brain is trying to push in every direction against my skull and I need to lie down with chicken soup and only leave my bed to go to the bathroom. But I can’t because I have no chicken soup and all I have to lie on is Mel’s sofa. My legs hang off the end.

  Rachel keeps apologising for being sick. She has some weird stomach thing. She keeps burping despite not eating much and she apologises for her farts. They smell like rotten eggs. She spent most of today just lying on cushions. We barely talked.

  Mel’s probably wondering what will happen if two illegal immigrants die on her floor.

  6 September

  Mel’s neighbours broke in, grabbed us, and literally dragged us all out of the building and threw us onto the street. They were shouting at us all like we should understand what they was saying. They seemed to become even more irate when, clearly, none of us knew what any of them were talking about, like why the hell were we in their country if we didn’t speak their language?

  Were they about to beat us to death? It certainly looked like it. Were they about to kill us? If we had stayed then we would have found out. They shouted loud enough for the whole street to come out and watch. As we were leaving some of the douchier of douchebags followed us with their chests blaring, still shouting, making sure that we weren’t going to come back. Some picked up pebbles from the ground and hurled them at us.

  As we were walking away I couldn’t help but get that picture from Schindler’s List out of my head, the one where the little girl is shouting, “Goodbye Jews!” We really were thrown out on the street like trash, for no other reason than because we were there seeking refuge.

  We’re now at the dock, waiting.

  My head is a little better. I haven’t had a migraine this bad in years. Rachel is still sick.

  At this point I can’t man up. I’m going to time out and be a wuss bag. I hereby promote Cristina to honorary man. Bet she’ll be thrilled.

  Part 2.

  Boat. Liberated. We have done so.

  We didn’t steal it, no. But uh, we now have a boat.

  And somehow it’s my fault.

  We were at the dock. There were twenty empty, shitty boats in front of us, bobbing against the tide. Maybe ‘boat’ is an exaggeration. ‘Raft with a motor’ might be more apt, but for all intents and purposes we’re calling this thing a boat. We’re also calling it Phil because some smartarse thought that by giving it a name it will force the gods of luck to watch out for us when we need it the most. ‘Death Trap One’ would have been my next choice.

  Back at the dock, and behind us, was a beaten down four wheel drive. I was pretty sure one of those boats ran on diesel and the four wheel drive had something in its tank. So I made a stupid suggestion. After an hour of sucking out diesel from every car and bus we could find, and another hour of trying to hot wire Phil … here we are. It’s Rachel, Cristina, Ediz, and myself, and fuuuuuuuck this was a bad idea. It’s barely a fishing boat but it was the only one we could get started. If someone catches us we’re dead. If a wave comes along and topples us, we’re dead. There’s no way we can get to Italy from here. It’s all open, there’s no cover, no shelter from the sun or the spray, and whenever we need to relieve ourselves we have to piss in a container. Did I mention spray and wind? ‘Why is the container this empty?’ you might ask. It’s because the wind caused us to mostly piss in the boat.

  We’re each taking turns at the motor. We’re sticking to the coast for as long as possible because if we run out of diesel we need to get to the shore quickly. The theory is that we skim along the edge of the map until we get to Tunisia. Then, when the whole country drops to the south we head dead east and stumble onto Sicily. It’s a hundred miles from Tunisia to Sicily, but it’s several hundred more to get to that point from here. We’re going to need to run aground several times, steal or buy diesel, and keep going with whatever food we have in our packs.

  I doubt we’re even doing five miles an hour. If we were doing five then … wait. Maths conversion time. Cristina knows kilometres, I know miles. We are a thousand miles away. It doesn’t take a genius to work out that it is going to take us 200 hours of constant travel to reach Italy. That’s eight days. Eight days out here with nothing to drink or eat. Eight days dealing with a sunburn. With Phil’s engine puttering all night none of us will be sleeping. We’re going to kill each other long before we get to Sicily.

  And you know what’s fucked up? All of Morocco has electricity. We didn’t have much of that in Spain, but here? Fuck it, let the people have power!

  At this point I think I would be willing to suck a sweaty man’s
dick for an aspirin. He can fuck me as well if that meant I could get on a plane back to London.

  7 September

  We had to stop for most of the night. We found a dock much like the one we liberated the boat from. Instead of going to all of the cars and buses we decided to bust open as many boats as possible and drain them of their diesel. That took a while and the girls were on look out while we were all trying to do this in the dark, but we filled the tank and had two small barrels that would each hold a few litres, then we tried to get going. We managed to bump against a rock or scrape over something and it nearly threw us into the water. We were only a mile away from the dock and decided it was best to not kill ourselves by crashing into rocks. So we beached the boat and tried to sleep. There was one of us on alert the whole time. I had two hours to myself, staring into the dark, thinking shit over. What the hell was I on alert for? Zombies or humans? I couldn’t see a damn thing.

  To combat the sun we’re wearing long clothes and we’ve wrapped t-shirts around our heads. It’s not enough. I feel my skin blistering and I’m still not completely over my migraine. We’re going to run out of fresh water today. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but we all agreed to save our urine and drink it in an emergency. I can’t believe I’m also saying this, but it was my suggestion.

  Rachel’s cold is steady. She has nothing to blow her nose with and she’s staring at the water like she wants to die. Cristina hums to herself every now and then. Ediz keeps saying we should’ve tried stopping at the place we’ve just passed, without saying, “We should stop at the next place.” He says, “We should’ve stopped back there.” Me? I’m manning up. I guess. Refusing to let mother nature kill me.