Last Words

by Jackson Lear

  Rachel’s made a friend, a girl who seems miserable all the time. Rachel really needs to aim a little higher. I was able to joke around with Simon a bit, but he’s pissed off that he’s a senior journalist who’s had all of his BBC access denied by the locals. Whenever he complains to the Italians they remind him that he is an illegal immigrant and doesn’t belong here. Simon doesn’t have a legal leg to stand on. None of us do. We need to be grateful that there are walls and fences between us and the horde of undead. But I’ve seen those things run, climb, swim, and blow themselves up for a good cause, so these walls and fences don’t really mean shit in terms of keeping us alive, they’re just here to force us to behave.

  We sleep six to a room in bunk beds. It seriously feels like a locked-in school camp. All of the women are in one half of the compound, all of the men are in another half. I see Rachel each morning and we ask each other if we’re okay. We see each other before heading off for the night. Simon spends most of his day talking to everyone, getting their life stories. Always a journalist.

  It was election day yesterday in the States. It was the lowest turn out in over a century. Most people just wanted to avoid being out in the open. The police and military were in position to protect voters but it wasn’t enough. Over a hundred separate attacks were reported. Some zombies had suicide vests, others targeted car parks, train stations, and shopping malls. Lots of people died. Only the hardcore voters came out, and in equal numbers too. They still don’t know who won the election. There are plenty of reports of electoral fraud, rigging, and talks of going to the supreme court. On top of that, there’s a large discrepancy between the popular vote versus the electoral college numbers.

  By the way, it’s now taboo to use the phrase ‘die hard’. ‘Hardcore’ is more appropriate, I’m told. I wonder if Hardcore with a Vengeance is now the most torrented film on the interwebs.

  10 November

  There were gun shots last night. I’m going to assume that no one tried to escape, but rather the zombies are getting closer. We’re trapped behind a chain fence that I’m sure can be climbed with ease. The razor wire might be an issue if you’re worried about losing a lot of blood, but that’s only a concern if you’re a human trying to get out. If you’re a zombie trying to get in then a little razor wire won’t be a problem, because right in front of you will be a feast the likes you’ve only dreamed of; a thousand warm blooded bodies to bite and turn.

  More waiting. More care packages. I got so bored I hung around a few Germans and English guys talking about rugby. I know dick about rugby. By the time we get out of here I’m going to be an expert without every having seen a game. There are some people playing handball against a wall and it occurred to me that this is exactly what they would do in prison.

  11 November

  More gun shots last night. Lots of gun shots. There were helicopters in the middle of the night, search lights, and we all crawled to the windows to see if we were in trouble.

  Even when there aren’t gun shots I wake up flinching. The beds squeak. The doors creak. People snore and groan. People are restless when they can’t sleep so they toss and turn and wake the rest of us up.

  According to Simon, who’s done his research, the zombie outbreak in Italy and Sicily is far worse than reported, potentially by a factor of ten. According to my latest figures I had 6,000 infected. Simon is sure it’s upwards of 50,000. There are 5,000 of us locked away in here and the compound is full. A single zombie can infect us all. If it’s able to infect just a couple of people it won’t take long before everyone is ripping each other apart.

  Simon has also come to the rescue with information. It can take just a few minutes to convert a human to a zombie. The closer you are to death the sooner it takes to turn you into one of them. It’s all about the quantity of infected blood or saliva that enters your blood stream. In real terms, a simple scratch or a wound that requires a band aid won’t turn you into a zombie. You might get sick, like with the flu, but you probably won’t turn. You might die from your wound, though, as it is resistant to healing and will kill your immune system. By then the common cold will be strong enough to end you. If a creature mauls you to death you don’t stand a chance. Within a couple of minutes you’ll rise again. Some of them remember their names upon rising but that quickly fades. One backpacker here lost her husband. She was staggering backwards after the attack, looking at him as he started to move again. He seemed to remember his name. An hour later he had no recognition of her. She kept screaming his name and he ignored her like she didn’t exist. He just walked the other way. So, I guess, zombies aren’t out to kill everyone, they’re here to follow a plan. She followed him for six hours before someone shot him in the head.

  12 November

  Simon came to me this morning telling me not to go anywhere without seeing someone’s ID. He said people are being shipped out as part of a forced labour crew. We brought Rachel in on the conversation and she thought it would be a good idea to pretend to be sick. Simon cautioned her about that, saying that if someone thinks she’s sick then they’ll quarantine her for days to see if she’s been infected by a zombie. Simon is convinced that we don’t want to take that risk. So what? We either lie in bed with a doctor keeping his distance or be used as slave labour. What’s the problem in lying?

  We spent the day trying to contact the British embassy but we’re shit out of luck. They want to know how we got from Tunisia to Sicily. By boat. They wanted official details and they didn’t like that we’re potentially spreading the infection. They’ve taken the hard line that we must follow the rules at all costs and we should’ve stayed in Tunisia. That’s quite a stand. Simon isn’t surprised. Everyone is on lock down, in damage control, and the governments are trying to stop the spread of the infection. The problem is the infection is already in every country.

  The situation is Korea looked to be pretty good until last week. Then there was an outbreak from the North. Thousands of zombies hurried across the borders of China and South Korea. Some swam all the way to Japan. Mines went off, shots were fired, but enough made it through to fuck shit up. I’m told that 50,000 South Koreans died in the first night alone.

  13 November

  No, I won’t fucking calm down! I brought my bag to the shower like I always do. It is never more than a metre away from me. I closed the shower curtain over and when I was done someone had gone through my backpack and had helped themselves to whatever they wanted. They took my phone, toothbrushes, my toothpaste, my cans of food, a couple of t-shirts, my first-aid kit, a pen, and some paper. What the fuck? Why the hell would someone do this to me? I want to punch out any fucker who walks around wearing one of my t-shirts. I’m going to rip their fucking head off. Seriously. You fuckers have been in Sicily this whole time in a lap of luxury compared to the shit storm I’ve had to go through. I had to become a thief to survive, so you can bet your ass that I will beat the fuck out of whoever robbed me. And my fucking phone? That had all of my photos on it, all of my contacts, and is utterly useless to anyone else! It’s my fucking phone! Mine! God fucking damn it I want to find the bastard who robbed me and just strangle him until his eyes pop out of his head. It will be worth it just to find him.

  14 November

  I hate this place so, so much.

  16 November

  Rachel’s gone.

  I saw her at breakfast. We said hello. She told me the women in her quarter had a doctor’s appointment. I was in my room, waiting with my bag for anyone who looked guilty or shouldn’t be in my room. Justin came along to say that a bus just took twenty women away. My stomach dropped and I went to make sure Rachel wasn’t one of them. I went to her room and it was empty. Everyone who used to be in there is now gone. Their bags are gone, the beds were stripped. I asked around. The women saw Rachel being led off into another room. Those who went in that room haven’t been seen since. They did hear a bus, though. Justin saw it drive away.

  So Rachel is gone and I never said goodbye. I haven
’t heard anything from Ediz either. Or Katy. Or Sofia. Or anyone else who survived Madrid. Only Simon is still here and he’s apocalyptic with anger. They won’t let him talk to the embassy either.

  Rachel’s departure hasn’t quite sunk in yet. She’s pretty much been in my line of sight every moment for the last four months.

  18 November

  I have a doctor’s appointment today. They gave me a slip of paper at breakfast with my name scribbled on it to meet at 11 o’clock. Everyone else in my room has a similar piece of paper. Maybe they’ll take me to wherever they took Rachel. Either way I doubt I’ll see this place again. No idea where I’ll be sleeping either. They still won’t tell me where Rachel is. I’ll ask the doctor today. If I don’t like the answer I’m going to punch him in the fucking face.

  I can barely process what’s going on. Most people in here look so bored you’d think they were zombies anyway. They just sit and stare at the ground. We’ve all seen dead people. We’ve all seen zombies attacking us and trying to kill us. Some have held on for longer than others. I seem to be the one who has travelled the farthest to escape these things. So far it hasn’t been far enough.

  19 November

  I’ve arrived at some villa in the middle of nowhere. We’re slaves now. I didn’t take Simon’s advice about the ID thing. I lined up, waiting to see a doctor. Instead, it was some guy in a shirt checking my paperwork. He asked me to go through the door on his right. I went down a corridor and two soldiers opened another door for me. That led to the car park that first brought me into the internment camp. There was a bus waiting with ten guys on board. They threw my backpack into the storage area under the bus and told me to get on board. I did. I asked around and no one knew where we were going. After waiting for another hour six guys more came on board, then along came four Sicilians with pistols strapped to their chest. They looked like bare knuckle cage fighters. I look anorexic.

  One of them, in broken English, said: “We have found jobs for you. It will be better than this place.”

  Everyone glanced at each other. We were being abducted and we knew it. We also knew there was nothing we could do about it. Seventeen unarmed guys verses four brutish men with guns. Fully loaded that would’ve added up to forty eight bullets. That’s three a piece for anyone who tried to run.

  No one spoke up. No one picked a fight. No one said anything for the whole bus ride.

  It took the best part of ninety minutes. We’re far from the coast now, up a long and winding hill. The villa feels more like a farm with several buildings spread out. We were shown to long, empty rooms with mats on the ground like futons. We were told to dump our bags by our beds (I picked the second from the end, because the end was already taken by the guy in front of me). We were then given our jobs. I’m now a mechanic. Apparently my three hour’s worth of experience in Algeria was enough to qualify me.

  We were immediately put to work. I helped some of the guys dismantle a couple of vehicles and Frankenstein the barely working parts into something more serviceable. The garage is large, full of tractors, motorbikes, cars, and tools. The back room has large barrels with pipes running off it like they’re making homebrew wine. Best guess? They’re trying to make petrol. There were large rigs of batteries and solar panels on the roof. They’re trying to convert all of the machines, eventually, to solar or battery powered, but it’s not working as quickly as they’d like.

  The rest of the guys from the bus were sent into the field to help with the late harvest.

  I spent much of last night, once it was dark, talking to Jason, the guy at the end of the room. I imagine I’m the one he’s going to be speaking to for the rest of our stay here. We’re under no illusion that we’re anything but slaves. There are lots of Sicilians walking around with pistols and rifles. On the drive up here it was very clear that we won’t survive long in the heat and terrain, it’s just rock and dry grass. Jason tells me that isn’t his real name. He doesn’t want to give his real name because he doesn’t want to remember what’s happening to him right now. He wants to block it all out. As such, just about everything he tells me is made up. He says he’s seen stuff that none of us would even believe. I didn’t press for details but he just kept repeating, “Stuff,” with a heavy tone, as though I’m telepathic and understand what he’s talking about. I’ve seen a hundred zombies swimming after me. That was pretty fucked up. I’ve seen them speaking English in Algeria when they recognised what language I spoke. I don’t really care what stuff ‘Jason’ has seen.

  There are bars on the windows and the doors are locked at night. My mattress is uncomfortable. We hear people walking around at all hours, talking to each other in Italian. I have no idea what they’re saying. One guy amongst us speaks basic Italian and he said that so far they haven’t said anything interesting, just, “I need to take a piss,” and other nonsense like that.

  I can’t help but think of Rachel right now. Is she sitting up on a mattress like me, as a worker? I hope she’s safe. I hope she also knows that I’m okay. I’m not, but … you know. Take a teaspoon of cement and harden the fuck up, I guess.

  I’m also pretty sure that none of this would have happened to me if Cristina was still with us. I’ve been thinking about her a lot.

  20 November

  When we came back from ‘work’ today we found that all of our IDs, passports, and official paperwork have been taken. Our clothes remain. We’re officially kidnapped and held hostage. The Sicilians keep to the party line of: “You have jobs. You will work. When you are done you can go.”

  I wonder how much they paid for me. How easy was the bribe? “We want seventeen men who can’t speak Sicilian. Is seventeen thousand euro too much?” That’s all it takes. One little bribe and my future is taken out of my hands.

  Right now my only chance of being freed is through Simon. He might be able to find out where I am.

  21 November

  It has occurred to me that I might be here for years. They had me working the fields today, still working on a late harvest. They don’t want to use the tractors because they need diesel. We’ll be doing this through manual labour. I want to go back to being a mechanic. I guess I wasn’t good enough.

  They have no reason to let me go. They have no reason to alert the police or the embassy as to my whereabouts. All I could think about today was strangling someone with my bare hands. This isn’t how you treat another human being. Evan, one of my roommates, told one of the Sicilians that his family has money, they can pay to have him released. The Sicilian told him he has to work. Evan’s family own a chain of florists in Scotland. They have millions of pounds. Not good enough, get back to work.

  The thing that really pisses me off about this is that they’re going to get away with this. If these people are connected enough to get slaves working for them then they’re not going to be bothered by the consequences five or ten years down the line. And I’m not important enough to have someone sent to jail over my human rights being trampled.

  22 November

  I don’t know what’s happening to me, but after lights out I balled my eyes out. I know I’m miserable, I know I’m a prisoner, I know I’ve failed Rachel, but last night my mind was completely blank and I was crying.

  24 November

  Enzo is a psychotic arsehole. He spent four hours shouting at me today in Italian. I don’t speak Italian. Not a word. I carried on working while he shouted at me. What is the point in shouting at someone if they can’t understand you? I decided right then that if I ever get out of this place I’m going to find a way to get back at them. I’m going to file charges and prosecute them. I can figure out where I am on the map. There has to be a paper trail of bribes that will point the blame at Enzo. He won’t get away with this. I will burn him and all the others working here. There are trucks in the garage with license plates. I’ve memorised them. I spend all day reciting those letters and numbers back to myself. There are trucks that come by every day. I’ve memorised those as well. Someone kno
ws who the trucks are registered to. Even if it takes me twenty years of failed court attempts I will have my revenge. I will come back on a holiday, buy a rifle, and shoot Enzo in the face.

  29 November

  There’s nothing to write about. We’re woken up by an Italian shouting something at us which, according to Lucas, means: “Good morning, it’s a beautiful day, it’s time to live like kings.” I get up, I shower, I have breakfast, I check with Enzo who says either, “Field,” or, “There,” pointing to the garage. I work until someone shouts, “Mangiare.” We have half an hour to eat our fill, then we go back to work until the sun starts to set. When there’s no more light in the sky we go to dinner, eat pasta, bread, and sometimes we’re given coffee or canned fruit. Then we have time to wash our clothes and hang them out for the night. The rest of the time is ours. At some point the guards come along and tell us it’s light’s out. The batteries from the solar panels don’t last all night, but the lights in the main house stay on. I go to sleep. The only change to the day is when a truck comes up with goods and equipment, then I get to spend twenty minutes loading or unloading whatever is brought along.

  This afternoon I was cleaning up after lunch, washing all of the dishes, and I just drifted off while staring at a steak knife. It was just lying on the side of the sink. I could imagine a dozen things I could do with it. I could go on a murderous rampage and gut Enzo. I could stop whoever it is from snoring, permanently.