Cris and Claudio give us directions and shake our hands as we throw our packs into the bed of the truck, there’s no hard feelings about him trying to rob us or us kidnapping him.
January 2nd
Near Mexico City.
Through pantomime and a crude map drawn on the dirt shoulder of the road, we convey to the old farmer that we wanted to bypass Mexico City. He didn’t seem worried about what’s going on, just living his life like he always has. We go over the directions a few times to make sure we know where to go. We have no map so are putting our faith and safety in the hands of this old farmer. Going through Mexico City would be a death sentence. Its ground zero for all that’s happened and last we heard it was totally overrun. A grey cloud of smoke hovers over where the city acting as a marker to avoid. Mexico City burns; the undead rule.
Ron has been doing most of the driving, Dave falls asleep easily and as embarrassing as it is to admit, I can’t drive a standard. This is no time to learn, we can’t risk a burnt clutch.
The road is rough so we take it slow, best to go easy on this old truck. Dave noticed it first, a few vehicles parked along the bend. After the Federaies burnt us, we keep an eye out for ambushes. Ron pulled over as we decided what to do. Being low on fuel, it’s too far to turn around and back track.
Dave and I pulled up and stopped. They look a little dustier then they did on the news but standing before us are members of the Black Bloc.
Dave whispered “Shit, anarchists.”
They live for chaos so they should love the state of the world now. Just relax. I reassured him, “we got it covered.” Kind of, I thought to myself.
Some of them were sitting in the shade of a big tree; others were milling about a truck that was hopelessly stuck in the ditch. They eyed us with idle curiosity, as we sat in the truck letting the dust settle. It’s more dramatic that way.
Taking a nervous breath we got out. I gave them a friendly but not too friendly smile.
“Looks like you’re stuck, you need some help? We can help, but if you start shit we’ll lop your heads right off!” I bluffed, tapping the machete on my hip.
Jean, who seemed to be the leader stepped up and said, “I like my head right where it is. Yes, we could use a hand.”
Dave whistled as a signal for Ron to come out of the scrub brush behind the group. He had circled around on foot waiting unnoticed. For a bunch of anarchists they don’t know shit about getting a truck unstuck. The job they’ve done so far has made it worse. The back wheels are buried half way up. It takes us about ten minutes to come up with a plan with the tools and manpower available to get the truck back on the road.
Slapping me on the back, Jean said, “We’ve been stuck for thirteen hours and a couple of Canadian boys fix things in minutes.” Jean is thin, has a long face with round wire frames glasses and moves his arms around a lot when he talks.
I’ll record part of Jean’s story here:
“Yeah I’m an anarchist. I’m not ashamed of it. The world is messed up, corporations controlling countries, keeping people down. I’m from Angers, France and came here to protest the G-20. The police wanted us to get violent, that way they would have an excuse for mass arrests. We were mostly peaceful. Smashing a MacDonald’s is good news footage but doesn’t really accomplish much. Maybe we got a little out of control. Not enough to give the police reason to shut us down, until they started firing gas at us. Not tear gas, I know what that smells like from a few years back in Toronto, this was different. It didn’t sting but if you got a good whiff, a good lungful, then you had to smash something. You lose control for a few minutes. I can only speak for myself, but this blinding rage swept over me. They shot a canister, it rolled to my feet. I picked it up to throw it back but took a lungful; it went right through the filters on my gas mask. The next twenty minutes were a blur. I know I did violent stuff, but it’s like a dream. No not a dream, a nightmare. When some of us turned on each other, scratching and biting, the police tried to arrest us all, but the crazy ones now outnumbered us, and outnumbered the cops. The crazy ones didn’t care if the police beat them with clubs; they took the clubs and swarmed the police. Whenever they fired into the crowd people went mad, frenzied. I got a group together. We were lucky enough to break out. Fighting through the wild ones, we lost many of our group, and then we broke through the cops. We didn’t stop until Sebastian ended up in the ditch.”
He didn’t know anything about the dead rising and didn’t know that this infection is has spread worldwide. Altogether there are fifteen of them from all over the world; they don’t have much in the way of food or supplies. They don’t seem so bad, for anarchists, and they don’t seem to be embracing the chaos like I’d suspect them to. They are pretty scared and more so now that we filled them in on what is happening (what little we know of it).
Too much city and schooling for them, mostly European or spoiled rich kids. They don’t know how to live in the bush. Ron and I show them how to make a quick lean to for shelter to get out of the sun but had to re do most of their structure. Don’t get me wrong, my friends and I aren’t mountain men but we grew up camping and when I was younger every summer I’d go with relative to pick berries near Lac la Biche. I can hold my own in the wilderness. Some people are useless when they get out of their element. For this group universities, coffee shops and city life is their element. Wilderness…not so much.
We have helped them all we can, we have to move on. Tomorrow we part ways but this doesn’t stop Ron from chatting up a cute raven-haired girl with a lip ring and a very tight Mickey Mouse t-shirt. I’m guessing she was wearing it an ironic way, either way she looks good. Ron offers to help her with the cooking. This from a guy who lives on his own but goes to his parent’s two or three times a week for dinner. No doubt he’ll manage to burn whatever they are making.
I noticed something a few hours ago and debated with myself whether to say something or not.
Jean should know who he trusts his life with. I take him aside; he seems like a good guy(anarchy ways aside), the group is good, scared kids mostly. They don’t need any more problems but…
“What’s with the cop?” I said
He turned to look at the group, I nonchalantly point with my machete at a man sitting against a tree drinking a bottle of water. Jean looked at me confused.
“His boots. They’re same ones the Mexican cops wear.”
It’s like a light bulb went off in the Jean’s head.
“Roberto? A cop? Merde.” before I could stop him Jean made a bee-line to the cop.
“Roberto you piece of shit!” as he kicked dust into Roberto’s face.
The police infiltrator’s eyes got wide with fear. Hearing the commotion, the others gathered around surrounding him before he could get to his feet.
“What the fuck, man? I thought you were cool and here you are setting us up the whole time,” Jean snarled.
Roberto protested his innocence but the crowd had closed in grabbing his arms forcing them behind his back.
I started it so I had say something, “The police robbed us at a check stop, they had the same boots.”
“The jig is up pig. They didn’t change their shoes in Quebec either,” Sneered someone from the crowd.
“That’s right! pig!” Jean yelled.
“Boots? What proof have you got other than this stranger stirring up trouble? We don’t know this guy,” Roberto pleaded.
I lift up my shirt showing the proof. The purple and yellow bruise matched up with the treads on his boots. It’s all the evidence needed.
Jean crouched down leaning in close grabbing Roberto’s face. “What the hell poison did you guys fire at the crowd? That wasn’t tear gas.”
“Do you think if I knew they were firing poison I’d join the rioters?”
“What was in the gas?”
Roberto confessed that the police didn’t know what it was, they were just told to fire it. Cases of it came a few days before the summit. He heard it came from the
FBI or the CIA somewhere from the states, some new more effective tear-gas. Being assigned to the undercover unit with aims to infiltrate the protestors he didn’t see the gas for himself. He only heard rumours about the gas and where it came from.
Is that what started this? If that’s the case then if you caught just a bit and got on that flight back home maybe the effects wouldn’t start until you safely landed. Protestors, news crew covering the story, even tourists would be taking home a nasty souvenir to share with friends and family. México had the first recorded cases, then slowly fanning out from the epicenter, a firestorm of chaos everywhere.
I probably didn’t do anything to help their group. To make it through this madness people should be united. Now they are going to argue about just what to do with Roberto, but then again they should know who is with them, who they are depending on.
Dave is convinced they are going to kill him, especially because his friends are responsible for this whole thing.
Ron doubts they have the guts to do it.
I don’t know. I know I don’t know what I’d do if I were Jean.
A hog-tied Roberto glared up at us as we prepared to leave. We said our goodbyes to Jean and the others. They were planning to make their way to Baja peninsula where one of their parents has a time share. I try to tell myself not to feel bad. People like Roberto unleashed this plague on the earth. These kind of people justify doing all sorts of wrongs because their jobs says they can. “Just following orders”, how often have we heard that when people in authority do wrong?
It’s nothing more than a shield for cowards to hide behind.
He can’t use that excuse now. A few days ago he would have tossed all these idealist kids in jail for a pay cheque. For all we know he could have been ordered to incited violence to get them arrested. It wouldn’t be the first time that tactic was used. Roberto may not have been the one to fire the gas into the crowds but it was people like him. Unlucky for him he’s the only one here.
Dave honked the horn for me to hurry up, as I stand there searching their eyes for a clue on how Jean and his friends are going to handle this latest problem.
Driving off, we left the Black Bloc behind, they had their own path to follow, their own trials and obstacles to overcome.
January ?
I haven’t written in a few days. My pen ran out. I’m not sure what day it is. They have blurred together. Too focused on staying alive and exhausted, frayed nerves to worry about whether it’s the fourth or fifth. Just last week, it would have been a minor thing. You want a pen, find a drawer full of them, companies gave them away for free. Not anymore. Making slow progress north, we are sticking mostly to the back roads. Not too much to write about just a few break downs of the Apache; patched up a radiator leak, a temporary fix that seems to be holding. Dave is on edge, always wanting to drive further, faster. He doesn’t think about getting fuel before we’re almost empty. He’s so focused on getting home he doesn’t stop when we find a safe spot to pull over for the night.
We passed an unsettling site today; an abandoned road block.
Unnerving because there were no bodies, no dropped weapons, no undead trapped in their cars, just some bullet casings on the road. No clue as to where everyone went. A lone shoe, a child’s doll, some luggage but no people. No sign of what happened or which direction they went. Just gone.
We surveyed the scene to figure out a way around, I took the risk of checking a glove compartment of a car we were siphoning gas from. Found this pen to continue writing. With all the abandoned cars gas hasn’t been much of a problem. I’m not sure how long gas will last in a tank sitting before it goes bad. Hopefully we will be home long before that happens. Like lions at a watering hole. They seem to gather around things we need, stores, gas stations. Maybe they turned around these areas. The risk is always the undead lurking about. There are often undead trapped in their seat belt, they call out and struggle to break free when they see us. We stay clear of those cars leaving them.
In the bed of a pickup truck, Dave made the useful find of a pair of binoculars. With a little effort we push an old Volkswagen beetle out of the way, clearing our path to drive on.
It’s slow going. The highways are clogged with abandoned cars, wrecks and pile-ups especially around towns or cities. We should cross the border tomorrow. I swear I’ll never go to México again.
January ?
Ciudad Juarez, Mexico.
The echoes of gun fire told us the Mexican-U.S. Border was close. Taking out the binoculars I could make out a strange scene. It looked like the Mexican police and drug cartel members were working together to keep the Americans from crossing into Mexico. From our hidden vantage point we watched as a group of Americans in a SUV crash into the blockade set up on the Mexican side of the border.
The police and cartel members opened fire, spraying the SUV until overkill would be an understatement. A door opened slowly, a body fell out onto the road. It was a girl, she laid still, blood pooling on the road. Someone shot her again for good measure. The officers approached the SUV, weapons ready. One of the officers pointed up the road where a mixture of cars and people charged through the opening made by the SUV. The crowd overwhelmed the Mexicans, who were busy inspecting the wrecked SUV. Just inside Mexico, two army trucks came to a halt. The soldiers jumped out. They headed for the border, firing from the hip as they went. They shot at anything in sight taking out their own men, as well as the American intruders. Bullets pinged and ricocheted off the vehicles, which drove over anything in their way.
Before this wave was totally put down, slaughtered really, another wave of cars tried to run the gauntlet. Slowed by the carnage and debris of those who tried to enter Mexico a few seconds ago, they were stopped at the border.
As the last engine sputtered and died there came a panicked crowd all on foot. Hundreds of people, most with nothing but the clothes on their backs stepped over the bodies and wrecks of those who tried to pass just seconds ago. The soldiers let this last group pass, eyes fixed towards the American side of the border. The Mexican police and drug cartel members took a step backward when they saw the hoard of zombies which chased the panic crowd into Mexico. There must have been thousands of undead; the sound of the fighting gave them new energy as they increased their pace. Packed in tight, a solid wall of rotten flesh hurried towards to the border. Two feet above their heads a black cloud hovered. Millions of flies attracted to the dead meat, swarmed above. With the gunfire stopped we could hear the faint hum of the flies. The quiet didn’t last long, the soldiers started firing in controlled bursts, continuing to take steps back. The zombies continued to advance. Even from where we were we could hear the moaning of the dead mixed with the constant buzzing of the flies. No matter how many shots were fired the undead came.
They were totally unfazed if the one next to it had its head taken off with a bullet. Staggering back a step if they were hit in the chest before regaining their footing and falling back in with the horde. Dragging themselves forward if their legs were shot out. The Mexicans were beginning to panic, firing wildly, and emptying whole clips into one or two people. As they panicked, fewer of the undead fell. Shots hit the bodies, slowing them down but not stopping the crowd. Many shots went harmlessly wide, missing the target completely. The commotion of the slaughter gave people further down the border, well away from the crossing, a chance to scale the fence and run into Mexico. Many with nothing at all or just a backpack or suitcase. From what I saw this entire group of thirty to forty made it as the Mexicans were still focused on the breech in the border crossing. I have no idea where they were heading.
Behind the crowd of zombies a red Mustang kicked up a cloud of dust. It picked up speed plowing into the shambling mob. Once it broke through, the Mustang weaved between the debris of the barricade and the bullet ridden SUV, taking out the legs of two police before continuing into Mexico. The police firing until it was well out of range. With their attention on the Mustang the police and cartel me
mbers were taken from behind by the undead that continued to rushed forward. More reinforcements came. A half-dozen armoured vehicles, Humvees with machine guns on top and pickup trucks formed a new barrier a few hundred yards behind the border, the soldiers holding the line ran back, the ones bravely giving covering fire were taken down by the zombies. Before all the soldiers were out of the line of fire, the troops behind the new barricade and the armoured vehicles opened up, mowing down everything in their path. Heads disintegrating into a pink mist when the larger caliber machine guns got a kill shot. The bodies piled up.
The extra firepower turned the tide. The numbers of undead dwindled. Those still walking were slowed by the quagmire of tangled corpses making them easy targets for marksmen. Undead with legs ripped off, drug themselves forward with their arms, boney fingers digging into the hot asphalt pulling themselves forward towards food. Others lay immobile, like turtles on their back, snapping at the air. A handful of soldiers and cartel members walked amongst the bodies firing shots to the head. The silence between shots was filled with the buzzing of the flies that hovered over the scene.
We weren’t going to cross at Juarez.
January?
Stunned by what we had witnessed and without knowing what to do next we retreaded a few miles outside of Juarez, set up camp. We were contemplating our next move when the red mustang approached.
“Howdy. Boy am I happy to see an American face,” Tex said with a grin sitting in his beat up sports car.
“We’re Canadian.”
“Close enough. Hell, you’re far from home.”
We told him our story about being in Cancun at the time of the outbreak.
“We were looking to cross into the states when we saw you crash through the border.”
He smiled, “That was some show huh?”
“Is it that bad up there that you come to Mexico to escape?”
Tomahawks & Zombies Page 4
